It was locked.
Clyde, with his Florida tan, was standing on the other side peering out through the glass. "All you have to do is say, 'We love the Indians,' and I'll let you in. We've got coffee brewing," he chirped in his reedy voice.
By this time, we were starting to get pretty wet. And annoyed. The angle of the rain was such that it was im-possible to protect ourselves completely, even with the help of the awning and umbrellas.
"I love the Indians!" Cathy cried, not amused.
Traitor. Tom and I stood stoically.
Clyde shook his head and let all of us in. "You boys really are diehards. You should seek professional help."
"You telling us we need a psychiatrist is like Karl Maiden telling someone he needs a nose job," Tom mur-mured as he toweled off.
"I thought you three might not show. It's terrible out there," Roy commented.
"What? And miss our long-awaited, eagerly anticipated first lesson? You've got to be kidding!" I retorted. "What I can't believe is that these three have shown up in this weather," I added, motioning toward Clyde, Jimmy, and James Murray. I'm not sure why I always use James Murray's given and family names. Perhaps it's because, when I was young, I thought that his name was James-Murray, like Billy-Bob or Bobby-Joe.
"They wouldn't miss free coffee and doughnuts if we had a tornado. You should know that by now," Roy replied as he straightened up the counter.
"Roy, I've been looking forward to today for a month. My financial situation is getting worse instead of better," Cathy began impatiently. "I can hardly wait to hear what