From The Virginian-Pilot
By Daryl Lease

My old friend Winston Smith was at a window table, exactly where he said he’d be. He was drinking gin and looking rather dour, just like the old days.

Our meeting place, the Chestnut Tree Cafe, was nearly deserted. After all these years, it was going out of business, another victim of the recession.

“So,” I said as I took my seat, “how’s it going?”

Winston heaved a sigh. He’d mentioned on the phone he had a new job with the government but hadn’t said what.

The cafe’s lone waiter, the only employee I’d ever seen in the place, inched closer to our table, as eager as always to eavesdrop on our conversation but as disinterested as ever in taking my order.

We both awaited Winston’s reply. “Awful,” he said, finally, staring sullenly into his drink. “Just awful.”

The waiter frowned in commiseration and then – ignoring my gesture for a drink – slowly began packing salt and pepper shakers, one by one, into a cardboard box atop the table next to us.

Read more Depression