Here in this pleasant, semi-tropical setting in Clearwater Florida, where oranges and grapefruits flourish in great abundance, the mood was peaceful. The long green leaves of the various palm trees, rustled calmly in the early July breeze. The air tasted of fresh coconuts.

In the pastel-blue sky, a few noisy sea gulls hovered above the sugar-white beach, creating flickering shadows on the soft sand. In the neighboring distance, a graceful pelican dropped down into the warm Gulf Of Mexico, then, using it's enormous beak, plucked a small fish out of the clean, aquamarine water.

"While I'm gone," the owner of the Pretzel Shack said to Ralph Wilson, "you're in charge of the counter."

"Okay. I've got you covered," Ralph replied, standing at the soda fountain, filling a large paper cup with cold Pepsi.

"I'll probably be gone for an hour today."

"Is Bob coming in?"

"No Ralph. That slacker called out sick again."

"It figures."

The tiny Pretzel Shack was a brown, hut-like structure. It stood between the beach, and the edge of the street where cars could park. On each side of it, there were red wooden picnic tables, positioned underneath a group of swaying palm trees. Today, all of the picnic tables were occupied with beachgoers. Sea gulls were nearby waiting for scraps. The Pretzel Shack did excellent business year-round.

"Sounds like our friend Bob," the owner said, "was out partying with that wild sweetie pie of his again."

"What? Last night?"

"Uh huh."

"What happened?" Ralph asked.

"When Bob called here this morning, pretending to be sick, I could hear her laughing up a storm in the background."

"Big Bob's got his hands full with that one," Ralph said, handing the customer who'd ordered the Pepsi her drink.

"How much?"

"A dollar five."

"Can you break a fifty?" the customer asked, holding up the bill. It was a young girl in a pink, one-piece bathing suit.

"Can we break a fifty, Mr. Briskel?"

"As long as it's not counterfeit."

"We can break it."

"Sorry," the girl said. "I don't have anything smaller."

"No biggie," Ralph told her, closing the cash register. "We won't go bankrupt. Forty eight ninety five is your change."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Come again."

After the customer had walked away, headed toward the hot, sunny beach, Ralph began wiping the long orange counter with a wet rag. There were a lot of mustard stains on it from the big Golden's squirt jugs, which always seemed to be dripping. A radio was playing softly in the background; popular rock & roll.

"So you can work a double today, Ralph?" Mr. Briskel asked. The sixty-year-old owner was about to go on his lunch break. He had his car keys in his hands. Mr. Briskel's silver Saab was parked out near the street. He could walk there in ten seconds. The car was parked that close.

"Yeah. I'll fill in for Bob again," Ralph replied, rinsing the mustard-stained rag underneath the cold faucet.

"You amaze me, kid."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Briskel?"

"Because," the owner responded, "you could be making a lot more money doing something else, Ralph. You're an intelligent kid. Instead, you choose to stay here and work for peanuts."

"I like working here."

"Still. I wish I could pay you more. You're the most loyal employee I've ever had here."

"I make tips."

"No you don't. You make nickels and dimes."

"It adds up."

"How can you be so naive?" Mr. Briskel said, scratching the back of his neck. "The world will eat you alive someday, Ralph, if you don't start getting more greedy. Money is what separates the men from the boys."

"Why should I work at a job that pays more money," Ralph said, now turning around, "if it's not something I want to do?"

"You'll change that thought someday. Believe me, you will."

"Maybe," Ralph said. "But for now, I'm happy working here."

A sea gull landed on the sand next to the counter. Ralph tossed the noisy bird a piece of dried-up pretzel.

"Don't keep feeding those things," Mr. Briskel told him. He disliked sea gulls. He thought they were a nuisance. "There's a great big ocean out there filled with lots of fish, and these scavengers would rather eat what we eat."

"The pelicans eat all the fish," Ralph joked, turning the faucet off. "I thought you were going on your lunch break?"

"I am," Mr. Briskel said, shooing another sea gull away. "I'm leaving now. If it gets really busy, call me at home."

"Gottcha."

"See you in about an hour."

"Mr. Briskel. Wait."

"What?"

"If Bob doesn't work out, do you think you could give my little brother a job? He's looking for part time hours."

"Maybe. I'll have to think about it, Ralph."

"Okay. See you when you get back."



Ralph Wilson had been working at the Pretzel Shack for three years. He was a tall, muscular kid, about six foot two. A lot of the pretty girls from the beach who came to buy soft pretzels, thought he was really cute. They would often giggle when they approached the counter. Mr. Briskel would often say, "You're a chick-magnet, Ralph. You're the Brad Pitt of Florida. The girls can't get enough of you. When you're not working, they don't even bother coming here to buy pretzels.

Ralph was nineteen. However, the scruffy brown goatee on his chin made him look considerably older. He was extremely tan. Especially his face. He had brown hair, which was neither long or short. The shaggy bangs fell down to his eyebrows. Ralph also had a deep voice; another thing the girls seemed to like about him.

At two o'clock, the phone rang.

"Hello. Pretzel Shack. Ralph speaking."

"How you making out?"

"Oh, hi Mr. Briskel."

"Been busy?"

"No. I wouldn't say that," Ralph responded. "It's been steady though."

"I hate to say this," Mr. Briskel said, "but it looks like you're gonna be running the show there for the rest of the day by yourself."

"Really. Why? What's the scoop on that?"

"The air conditioner at my house broke down again. The Mrs. won't let me leave until I take a look at it."

"Why don't you just call a repair man?" Ralph asked, now noticing a knock-dead gorgeous woman emerging from the Gulf Of Mexico. Her shapely figure glistened in the golden sunlight.

The sexy woman seemed to be staring at Ralph. Although it was difficult to tell because the warm blue ocean was somewhat far away from the Pretzel Shack. The woman was wearing a green-string bikini, which barely covered her well-sculpted, tan body. She reminded Ralph of a magical mermaid.

"I can't hear you, Ralph," Mr. Briskel said. "My phone's breaking up on me. I'm out back by the swimming pool."

"Are you on your cordless phone?" Ralph asked, still staring in awe at the sexy woman in the green bikini. She had other men on the beach staring as well. It was like Bo Derek from that movie '10,' starring Dudley Moore.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow morning," Mr. Briskel uttered through an earful of static. "Remember to lock the register."

Ralph hung up. In all the time he'd been working for Mr. Briskel, the old fellow still felt the need to remind him to lock up the cash register. It was funny. Some people had habits they didn't even realize they had.



Right after Ralph had poured himself a cup of coffee, he heard somebody ring the little silver service bell that sits on the counter. It was her. The sexy woman he'd been staring at in the green-string bikini. She was standing there in front of the Pretzel Shack counter, drying her long strawberry red hair with a white beach towel. She looked even more stunning up close.

"What's a girl gotta do to get some service around here?" the beautiful woman asked, smiling.

"Sorry," Ralph uttered nervously, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

You weren't?" the woman said flirtatiously. "Well, it sure looks like you're paying attention now." She batted her eyelashes.

Jeez, Ralph thought, I can usually smell a 'come on' from a mile away. But this one takes the cake. Look at the way she's staring at me. She won't stop making direct eye-contact. And look at the way she's drying her hair in front of me. She's trying to seduce me. How old is this lady? She's gotta be at least forty. I don't see a wedding band on her finger.

"So what's good here," the woman asked, "besides the obvious?"

"Uh," Ralph's jaw dropped, "we only sell pretzels."

"How much for a big one?"

"They're all the same size," Ralph said, indicating the hot glass box where the pretzels were kept on display.

"They're pretty big," the woman commented, still drying her long strawberry-colored hair with the beach towel. "Are they really salty?"

"No."

"How much?"

"A dollar seventy five."

"All right. Give me one."

Ralph opened the hot glass box, took a soft pretzel out, wrapped it in a piece of wax paper, then handed it to her.

"Umn," the woman said, biting into it. "Nice and chewy."

"There's mustard on the counter if you want it."

"Yum yum, mustard," she said, speaking in a playful, teasing manner. "Yeah, I probably should squirt a little on."

Ralph saw that the woman was having trouble with one of the big mustard jugs. Sometimes the nozzle got clogged up.

"Here," he said, "let me help you with that. This happens all the time. Sometimes you have to shake it."

"You mean, like this," the sexy woman wearing the green bikini said. She shook the big container. Globs of thick, gooey mustard came splattering out. Most of it went all over Ralph's hand.

He sighed.

"Oooops," the woman said, reaching for a napkin. "Forgive me. I wasn't trying to get it all over you."

"That's all right," Ralph told her. "It wasn't your fault."

"Call me butter fingers," the woman said, wiping Ralph's hand with the napkin. "There," she added, "that's much better. My, you sure clean up nice. Did I get any on your shirt?"

"I don't think so."

"How about on your arm?"

Again, the phone rang.

"Excuse me," Ralph said, unsure of what to make of this playful situation, "I've got a call."

"Well, don't let me stop you."



"Hello. Pretzel Shack. Ralph speaking."

"I see what you're doing over there with that woman," Ralph's fiancee, Tiffany Owens said.

"Huh?"

"I've been watching you."

"What are you talking about?" Ralph asked, now scanning the beach to see if he could see where his fiancee was. Tiffany often checked up on him. She was a jealous person by nature.

"You're such a pig, Ralph."

"Where are you?"

"A penniless dog that can't be trusted."

"Are you on the beach somewhere?" he asked.

"Yes, Tiffany answered testily. "I'm right past the picnic tables on the side the ocean is on."

Ralph immediately looked in that general vicinity. But he didn't see anything, except a bunch of other people wearing colorful bathing suits, who were laying in the hot Florida sun.

"I don't see you," he said, still looking toward the red picnic tables, swinging his head back and forth.

"Open your eyes," his fiancee told him. "I'm sitting on the sand, leaning against one of the palm trees. To your right, moron. Toward the Gulf."

Now he spotted her; sitting there with her cell phone pressed up against her ear. Ralph's fiancee was sitting about fifty feet away from the Pretzel Shack. Tiffany Owens had a huge pair of dark shades on. They looked like sky-diving goggles. She was also sporting a big floppy hat, which concealed most of her face.

"What did I warn you about?" Tiffany asked.

"Not to keep flirting with other girls."

"So what the hell are you doing now?"

"I'm not doing anything."

"Then what is that lady doing feeling you up?"

"She spilled mustard on my hand," Ralph tried to explain. "She was just helping me clean it off with a napkin."

"What are you some kind of baby?" Tiffany fired back at him. "Can't you clean mustard off of your hand by yourself?"

"How long have you been sitting over there watching me?" Ralph asked, picking up his Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Long enough to know we're through," his fiancee told him.

"Tiff, you have to stop getting so jealous all the time."

"I won't stand for it anymore, Ralph."

"You need a head shrink, Tiff."

"I've already given you one too many chances," his fiancee added. "I'm tired of playing second fiddle to all of these other bimbos."

"What other bimbos?" Ralph asked, sipping his coffee.

"The beach bimbos," Tiffany explained."The giggling bimbos that keep coming on to you at that silly Pretzel Shack you work at."

"Now what's that suppose to mean?" Ralph asked, staring at the palm tree where she was sitting.

"It's not even a real job. You sell pretzels," Tiffany said, laughing at Ralph in a mocking way. "That's not even a step up from frying French fries at Mc Donald's. Do you think I want to marry a guy who works on the beach selling pretzels for a living?"

"You know something, Tiff?"

"What, Romeo?"

"You have a really rotten attitude."

"There are plenty of other men," his fiancee added, "men with respectable careers, who would love to give me the kind of life I deserve. I wasted three years waiting for you to treat me better, Ralph... I even told your boss, Mr. Briskel, to try and talk some sense into you. I told him, my boyfriend can't even afford to buy me a rose from 7 Eleven. I can't marry a guy who doesn't even have two nickels to rub together."

"Good-bye," Ralph said.

"Don't hang up on me."

"Tiff," he said, "I thought people were supposed to get married because they love each other?"

"I don't want to live in a tent."

"Don't call me anymore," Ralph told the gold digger. "I don't want to talk to you ever again. And don't come over here either."

"All I'm trying to get you to understand," Tiffany said, "is that I'd need a husband who could help out with the bills."

"I'm not listening anymore."

"Working at the Pretzel Shack won't help pay any bills. That job can't even help pay for my car insurance."

"At the count of three," Ralph warned the gold digger, "I'm hanging up."

"No. Don't you dare hang up on me, Ralph. I'll never forgive you if you do."

"One."

"Okay. I apologize."

"Two."

"I said I'm sorry, Ralph. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Two and a half."

"Don't hang up on me, Ralph. You have to understand, we're both only nineteen and if you don't-"

Click.



Ralph unplugged the company phone.

"Hey," he said to the beautiful older woman in the green bikini, "are you seeing anyone?"

The sexy woman stepped back over to the Pretzel Shack counter. She had listened to Ralph's entire phone conversation with Tiffany.

"Why, no," the woman replied, smiling brightly. "I'm not seeing anyone at the moment. Just what might you be getting at, Sailor?"

"You could say, I'm looking to expand my horizons."

"Oh, are we a poet now?"

"No," Ralph said, gazing at his angry fiancee in the near distance, who had yet to move away from the shady palm tree. "I'm just some poor young guy who sells pretzels for a living. I won't claim to be anything else. Are you still interested?"

"Of course," the woman said, caressing Ralph's hand again. "Would you like to join me on my private yacht this evening?"

"On your yacht?"

"Yes. My yacht."

"Where is it?"

"In St. Petersburg. It's quite comfy."

"Definitely," Ralph said."I'd love to join you on your private yacht. Just tell me the address. I'll be there."

"Are you old enough to drink champagne?" the woman asked, now stroking Ralph's other hand.

"Before that phone call a moment ago, I wasn't," Ralph confessed, grinning at Tiffany. "But I am now."