Gravel. What is it? Most people don’t think about gravel, and frankly, neither do I. But my moustache was tingling this morning — a sensation that has preceded every major journalistic breakthrough of my career, and also, coincidentally, every unsolved arson in Pickax — so here we are.
Gravel is small rocks. There. I’ve said it. You’re welcome, Moose County.
Now, some might ask: why should a man of my stature, sole trustee of the Klingenschoen Fund, a fortune so vast it could repave every road in the county, concern himself with gravel? That’s a fair question. The answer is that Koko knocked a piece of gravel off my boot this morning and then stared at it for eleven minutes. Eleven. Koko does not stare at things without reason. When a cat with an IQ that rivals most Pickax city councilmembers fixates on a mineral fragment, you pay attention.
Yum Yum, meanwhile, tried to eat it. This is also significant.
Where does gravel come from? Who puts it there? These are questions I will not be answering today. I will note, however, that the Dimsdale Diner charges $1.75 for coffee now, which is outrageous, and their parking lot is full of gravel, and I resent both of these facts equally. I had three cups anyway because they were offering refills, and a man does not refuse what is freely given. That’s not stinginess. That’s economics. The K Fund accountant agrees, and the cups were, I believe, tax-deductible as research expenses.
Speaking of the Dimsdale parking lot, someone was murdered there last Tuesday. That makes four this quarter, which is unremarkable for a town of three thousand. I happened to be present, naturally. My moustache had been tingling all day. The sheriff no longer asks why I’m at these scenes. We have an understanding.
Koko sneezed twice when I returned home, which I interpreted as commentary on municipal infrastructure spending. Is gravel the answer to Pickax’s crumbling roads? Is anything? A squirrel was on my bird feeder again. I have filed a complaint with no one.
Gravel.
Leave a Reply