BR036 Banana Fritters

   I supervised the wrecked racing car being trucked back to the Jackster plant and became the last of our team to leave the Dog Brothers Racetrack. Condon Duck had been whisked away to some celebratory party. I could have ridden back with Ben Bear and his crew but I decided to take the train and go straight home to the studio. I walked outside and up to the public part of the stadium, enjoying the lonely view, and climbed long stairs to the central exit which passed through into a wide circular hallway of concrete. Little bunker-like windows punctuated the outside wall with a good view out over the slightly sad neighbourhood of low-level residential properties around Dog Brothers.

    The corridor was empty and quiet but at the front, where it slopes down to the underground train station, I could hear some clattering noises before I came far enough around the curve to see what was making it. Somehow I wasn't surprised when I saw it was Si Rabbit, clearing up from his Banana Fritter stand.

    "Hey Si," I called out, nice and loud. "You look like you're the last one." 

    "Well, if it isn't Jack Rabbit," he called back, "I haven't seen you in a long Turtle!"

    "Where's Lucky?" I asked. Lucky was Si's wife, who usually was bent over the stove cooking up the fritters.

    "She's home in bed. Not too strong on her pins these days. How long has it been, Jack?" 

    "Four or five years I guess. I don't get out to the track much any more."

    "Too busy with your car factory," and Si nodded knowingly. "I guess you let Condon do the racing."

    "It looks that way," I said. 

    "It must be more like six or seven, I should say," and Si gave me a long stare. 

    "Well, it's good to see you, Si." 

    "Condon made a fool of himself today, if you ask me, Jack, spreading himself all over the tarmac like that, right after winning the race."

    "Yeah, it was quite a crash. Expensive, too." 

    "I would have been ashamed of myself, in my younger days, letting my tail lift like that on the finish line. It's like you're too excited for your own good. You've got to whoosh straight through with real style!" and he demonstrated whooshing straight through with both his hands gliding quickly through the air. For a short moment he looked like a much younger Rabbit. In all the years I'd known Si he had never referred to his racing days. I only knew what I did about it from stories told around the track. 

    "I would have loved to see you in your prime, Si," I said. 

    "Come back again soon, Jack. Come for a fritter. It's always good to see you," and he turned away from me and began lowering his red and white umbrella with the Banana Fritters sign on it.