Dawson Filter as He Relates to Clams

“Rakes are nothing but farcical little posts for my fickle lanky hands.” Dawson Filter said, in part to himself, in part to the parking meter outside the breakfast and midday snack restaurant at which he intended to eat a midday snack. For a brief moment, Dawson questioned the necessity of food; but this thought was interrupted when he realized that a large, gold-plated man was beginning to place him in a burlap sack. Perturbed by this development in his day, Dawson squealed some nonsense about his rights, followed by “Who are you and/or what are you doing with the scruff of my neck?”

“I’m a just an old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement.” Said the old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement.

“Fun’s not legal when I don’t like it, you goon!” Dawson replied, lips pursed and heart beating.

“Oh, go shake it up, you surprisingly literate literate box of barns.” The old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement said, eyeing the crossword puzzle propped between Dawson’s left arm and torso.

“Well I most probably will! Maybe  I’ll start by ordering like, twelve midday snacks and mashin’ ’em up until it’s like, a full meal, eating it, and feel smug about my ability to change the game!” Dawson promptly responded. He proceeded to walk into the restaurant, sniff twice, and sit down. A waitress came to take  his order some time later; and you can’t make me tell you what it was. Reclining in his chair, Dawson, or Dodecadawson, as he liked to call himself, took a bite out of the first and third of his twelve orders of clams, and began to fill out his crossword puzzle. He was quite pleased with himself when he discovered that his knowledge of porpoise anatomy was finally being put to use. His pleasure was cut short; however, when he saw that  56 down was an example of a thing to which he had no response.

“The true meaning of feelings.” It read. 241 letters. The 132nd was “A”, assuming that Mary-Kate was the first born of the Olsen twins. (She wasn’t, but it was of little consequence, as Dawson Filter was taught as a young boy that the “M” in Mary is invisible.)

“Oi, that’s a tougher sort of one.” Mumbled Dawson, in a voice his uncle Walden taught him. He waved down his waiter, whose eyes looked remarkably like Art Garfunkel’s; and soon after, the waiter came to him.”

“The bill?” The waiter said, pronouncing “bill” with nine more syllables than would traditionally be thought possible.

“Nay. Or no, sorry, or however I can convey to you that I don’t feel like paying just yet. Or, you know what: it doesn’t make a whole wack-load of difference when I pay, does it?” Said Dawson, slapping down a six dollar bill. “Anyway, what I wanted to ask was: would you” he paused for a second to read the young man’s name-tag “Sylvester, like to join me on a lengthy, arguably epic, quest to find the true meaning of feelings?”

“Would it be longer than six weeks?”

“If I had to guess.”

“Would I ever! I just wanted to know, ’cause my great-uncle’s going to be dealing out everybody’s inheritance; and I want nothing to do with his blood-money. What’s your best name?”

“Dodecadawson” Dawson replied, and as they turned their heads more and more to the left, he and Sylvester had a moment; and knew that their lives would be marginally different.


The life and times of Dawson Filter.

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