Billie Holiday

There was a restaurant in LA where I used to eat breakfast.  I'd get the corner table and, if I didn't have a business meeting, I'd spread out the morning newspapers just like I did at home.

I didn't have to order, I always ate the same thing. The staff–whoever was on duty, usually a woman named Kathy–knew to bring coffee, orange juice, and a dish they called, Eggs Wolferman.

I ate breakfast there for years. I came to know the staff and they me, each about as much as each of us wanted to be known. 

One morning, I asked Kathy for an espresso instead of my usual coffee. “And would you mind turning down the music,” I asked.

“That's Billie Holiday,” Kathy said. 

“I know it's Billie Holiday,” I said. “I like Billie Holiday a great deal, but not this early in the morning, and especially not at breakfast.”

Snowstorm, Northwest Wyoming, 4 a.m, April 28, 2017. 

Snowstorm, Northwest Wyoming, 4 a.m, April 28, 2017.