"My God, man! Are you trying to kill me? What would the Muffin Man have to say about this?!"
"I was the Muffin Man," he sputtered, vitriol and bravado dripping from his lips. Or maybe it was butter and jelly, but anyway. . . .
What could I do but stop in my tracks? Mark? The Muffin Man? And so, his story--as old as the hills, or at least as old as the half-opened peach yogurt tucked behind the Velveeta (quit judging)--was brought to light.
A crackly-voiced 16 year old hungry for gas money, Mark Holt had turned to local restaurateur Mr. Steak for income, if not actual respect. Now, I know there's probably no actual person called Mr. Steak, but having never eaten in the place before, I can be forgiven for personifying the joint. Apparently, one of the ways this Mr. Steak distinguished himself--aside from reusing hardly-touched pats of butter and reheating scallops that showed up on former patrons' plates--was by employing a Muffin Man.
No, seriously. . . .
And so, a strapping, blond-haired, teenaged version of Mark Holt, not yet a grown man himself, walked the soiled carpeted floors of Mr. Steak, tray in hand, offering patrons his delicious wares.
"Good evening. Would you care for a fresh peach muffin?" Over and over and over again. Delighting elders and youngsters alike with his endless platters of flaky goodness and his witty repartee.
Thirty years I've known him, only to find out I didn't know him at all.
Why, yes. Turns out I do know the Muffin Man.
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