a philosopher’s guide to crêpes suzette.
“Gerald, you can’t make crêpes while we’re running from the cops!”
But there are no cops, Gerald points out, peering through a bullet hole in the back door of the food truck––the one they “borrowed” from Frank’s buddy Louis back in Waterville; the one with Cut the Crêpe painted on the side in blue beside a cartoon pancake eating an anthropomorphized strawberry; the one Gerald hadn’t meant to shoot up from the inside as they fled George’s Banana Stand, but guns are harder to handle than SVU makes it look––now hurtling down the empty ME-150.
Frank sighs and grips the wheel tighter. Agatha calls him chicken. Agatha says he’s only still stuck in his back-alley Portland apartment because he won’t get off his ass and do something with his Philosophy degree. Surely she didn’t mean armed robbery, but something is something as his father used to say. Dropping batter onto the mobile griddle behind the driver’s seat, Gerald suggests they’ve done pretty well so far. They should have hit the Gifford’s too on their way out of town. Some Rocky Road would be great on these crêpes. “You want caramel on yours, Frankie?” No, Frank does not want caramel, he does not want a crêpe right now, Gerald. But they’ll make it to Canada alright, Gerald assures him, leaning against the truck’s dividing wall and chewing loudly. There’s not even anyone following, and they’re already five miles out of Skowhegan.
Maybe they should turn on the radio, Frank says. Of course, Agatha would be on him about that too––would demand he turn it on simply because she’d want him to hear that no one had reported his crime, to hear the silence of the apathetic world behind updates on the upcoming fish derby in Moosehead and the re-opening of the Oxford County Fairground. Damn her. So what if nobody cares about what they’ve done? So what if a man-hunt for two armed robbers up Maine isn’t worth tax-payers’ dollars? So what if he and Gerald make it to Montreal, to Québec, to the Arctic! without consequence. They’ll have plenty of crêpes to live off, that’s for sure, enough supplies to get the truck up and running maybe, turn a profit. His grandmother used to make a damn good crêpes suzette––maybe he could remember how the recipe went…
“Er…Frankie…”
And who picked Canada, anyway? Frank wants to know. What kind of cliché trainwreck are they playing at? Everyone goes to Canada. Agatha would expect him to go to Canada.
“Yeah, but Frank, about the being followed…”
They should have picked––Frank doesn’t know––Orono, or Canoose; there was some good open land in Canoose. Good for hiding. Good for living, in Canoose. Away from Agatha.
“Cops!” Gerald yells, ducking down suddenly behind the seats, but Frank doesn’t hear whatever comes next over the explosion of a bullet through the windshield and the pungent smell of burning as the steering wheel jumps from his grip and the burning suddenly smells sweet and he feels something hot and sticky trailing down his neck and––maybe he could remember that recipe after all.
