Eb Griper’s prepares for a procedure
Eb Griper was a vision of melancholy. There he sat in the coffee shop booth — three-day beard, striped bib overalls and head in hands. I had never seen my cantankerous old buddy look so gloomy. “You look like you lost your last friend,” I remarked as I slipped into the opposite seat. Eb scowled and made an unintelligible grunt. “What’s wrong, old fella?” I asked. “I’ve never seen you so forlorn.” “Just came from the doctor’s office,” Eb finally volunteered. “Oh!” I was reluctant to ask but I did: “Bad news?” “Yep.” “I’m sorry, Eb. If you ...