We Hold This Moose to be Self-Evident

"Who Ordered the Sausage?"

It was about this time that one of the uncles mentioned that Donnie seemed to be fully recovered and maybe needed to find a job and said he had heard that there was a logging boom going on in Alaska where a man could make his fortune, especially a man with his own camper. Mom said that, yeah, a man could but that there was a help wanted sign down at the local cafe. We all immediately loaded up into the Mule and went on down to the Cowboy Castle Cafe to see if perhaps Donny could be a good fit.

This seems like a good time to mention Donny's normal attire: this man wore t-shirts, sandals (Jesus sandals, not flip flops) and cut-offs almost exclusively. Even as a young boy, I had the feeling that those shorts might not be appropriate attire for a man attempting to become a waiter at a cafe frequented on a regular basis by every old rancher and his wife in this very Republican county. They were...well, they were SHORT. Sometimes the only thing standing between a seated person and a standing Donny was very frayed denim. More than once we had all noticed that parts of him couldn't quite be contained. And he was completely unaware of his near nakedness. The aunts and neighbor ladies were constantly trying to help him, but Mom would just say something about horses kept in the barn. Whatever that meant, he would blush faintly and turn away and then go back to whatever he had been doing.

At the Castle, Maggie, the owner and head waitress, was swamped. Joyce, the second waitress hadn't shown up, having gone to The BuckaRoo Bar after work the night before, and,

"is probably wondering where her pants are right now, the cheap slu...oh, Joannie, you've got the boys with you. And who's this young man? Your little brother?"

Upon being told the nature of our visit, Maggie looked Donnie over doubtfully and frankly and handed him an apron. He, ever eager to help and not be a burden, immediately began making himself useful. He grabbed a bar towel and started cleaning tables, he put on the short apron with a ticket book in the pocket and began taking drink orders, he even helped young Mrs Simmons, old Judge Simmons' latest wife, with her coat. Maggie seemed impressed and gave us root beer floats while we watched as Donny, the most gregarious man in town, put his foot up on the bench seat and asked old Judge Simmons if he wanted the blue plate special or a menu. Without putting his foot down, he turned towards young Mrs Simmons to take her order. It was that turn of his body that caused the poor overtaxed denim to silently give out and since that apron only came down to about the end of his shorts, there, dangling in front of Mrs. Simmons, was Donny. A whole lot of Donny.