#jam hands

"You aren't going to believe what I found in this pawn shop downtown."

"That's not real, is it? Can't be real."

"Well, I haven't taken it to be appraised yet or anything, but look: here's the Crux/Lomar mark, there's the serial number, and it does have the right number of wolves on."

"Impossible it could be real. What in the world was it doing in a pawn shop?"

"I can't begin to guess, and of course the proprietor wouldn't say. Have to chalk it up as a lucky find."

"A really, really lucky find. Damn... What's this sticky stuff, though?"

"Not sure. There's some crud on it, mostly around the grip. Almost seems like whoever used to use it had... jam-hands or something."

"...Smells funny."

...

Jam Hands

[Next door at the soda shoppe: Dosey hands the kid back to Luke with a wholesome smile trying to hide how irked he is that there's a new abstract chocolate gelato masterpiece on his freshly washed windows. He'll have a field day in about 30 minutes when he realizes that the back of his white sweater was also the paint palette]

Luke: "I'll admit when I'm wrong, jam hands are immensely satisfying."

Lorelai: "I could have sworn you were going to say jam hands are handy."

Luke: "Give me some credit for creativity."

[They enter Luke's diner and have a seat at the counter as Luke bounces the tot on his knee and Lorelai takes and upon herself to serve them rather than interrupt play and gloat time.]

Lorelai: "Says the man who owns and regularly adorns standard issue flannel shirts older than my daughter."

Luke: "I guess I could retire one or two if, as you say, they're practically historic."

Lorelai: "Don't tease me if you don't mean it."

Luke: "I think they should stay in the family though."

Lorelai: "Especially since you haven't had them appraised yet. Mrs. Kim might offer you a pretty penny for vintage diner attire..."

Luke: "Hardly, that woman drives a mean bargain."

Lorelai: "Ha! It gives new meaning to the phrase 'she'll take the clothes right off your back.'"

Luke: "Maybe I'll send a few to Liz, she can make them into some patchwork kids blankets. Not that Rory hasn't already taken care of all that, but what's a few extra for the car or laundry day when every last blanket is in the hamper covered in spit and cereal..."

Lorelai: "Oh, Luke. That's so sweet. Rory will love it."

Luke: "You think so?"

Lorelai: "Absolutely. I take it back, the Danes family are the great creative masters of our time..."

Luke: "Stop it..."

Lorelai: "The modern Mozarts of munchkins. The Beethoven of blankets..."

Luke: "Hey, will you go to the back and tell Cesar to send me out a plate of applesauce?"

Lorelai: "Feeling peckish?"

Luke: "No, I'm going to teach Amelia the time- honored Danes tradition of finger painting with food, and then I'm siccing her on Kirk. He's been hogging that table for an hour and he's still nursing the same donut. Applesauce please?"

Lorelai: "Only if we can swing by the inn later. I get dibs on Michel next."

Luke: "Wow, that counter offer was too easy. You're no Mrs. Kim."

Lorelai: "To be fair, the woman has an unparalleled reputation which she will uphold until long after we're both senile in a nice home or having Rory and Jess keep us out of trouble."

Luke: "Deal. To Michel, not the old folks home. Although, the alternative of Jess keeping an eye on us in my golden curmudgeon years is equally horrifying."

Lorelai: "I like this for us."

Luke: "Then I'll let you break it to Rory that she may not see Amelia again until she graduates college."

Lorelai: "Well then mister, you better be willing to put some tuition where your mouth is!" She says in dramatic jest.

Luke: "It's taken care of," he says matter-of-factly like a stone cold sniper or a mafia don, in comical contrast to the funny faces he's pulling as Amelia tries flailingly to reach for his baseball cap.

[Lorelei stops mid stride with a plate of applesauce in one hand and a bib in the other, mouth agape]

Lorelai: "Luke, you didn't..."

Luke: "You should think about closing that tunnel before someone, I'm not saying who but someone, gets the bright idea to stick a vegetable in there, you petrify on that spot, and Taylor opens up a new Stars Hollow tourist attraction of the crazy caffeine lady with a severe allergy to chlorophyll."

Lorelai: "Lucas..."

Luke: "Lorelai, I opened up a savings fund the same day that Rory told me she was having a baby. You remember? The day I came home and switched all the coffee in your house to decaf, and you begrudgingly went along with it to show support even though you made 'Winter is Here' jokes for a whole month. It's settled."

[Lorelai sets the plate down wordlessly and Luke begins to hand-over-hand finger paint with Amelia]

Luke: "No snappy rebuttal?"

Lorelai: "You know I had a dream once, not in the great Martin Luther King way, a literal dream that you were a coffee thief in my kitchen, only Rory was me, or rather I was in Rory's shoes, and there was not one kid but rather a matching set, a two for one diner special, Sid and Nancy..."

Luke: "Is this a stream of consciousness or should what you're talking about make profound sense to me?"

Lorelai: "Not a clue." She wipes the shmear of applesauce from Luke's cheek, then thinks fast, presses it to his lip, and kisses him fiercely by surprise, watching his face turn cherry.

Luke: [at a momentary loss for words] "Well then. Maybe ask Rory if there's a Sid somewhere in her future."

Lorelai: "I'll have my lawyers at the Gilmore Group draw up the paperwork for co-custody."

Luke: "I thought the Gilmore Group handled insurance projections."

Lorelai: "It helps that I know a guy, who knows a gal, who knows the CEO. It'll probably be the most amicable custody case they've ever handled."

Luke: "Or the only one..."

Lorelai: "Kirk," Lorelai hoists a primed, jam hands Amelia off Luke's lap and marches across the diner with a sing-song voice, "I have an aspiring indi film fan in the making who is just insistent on your autograph. Practically in a fuss. I don't seem to have a pen, but I do have fruit sauce."

Luke: [watches her swagger from behind and considers offering her a pen as he has following a dozen diner jokes before, except he wouldn't miss Kirk squirm for all the world. ] "Yeah, I like this for us."

I don’t know where you get off sending me all these catalogues or how you even got my address, but I’d like you to stop it right now. I’m a married woman. The only ones who should be telling me what underwear I should be wearing are my girlfriends or my mother, or my husband, if it’s his birthday.

Did I mention I have twenty-seven grandchildren, many of whom like to go through my things? Just last week I caught little Bobby with his sticky jam hands in my purse! Luckily, I don’t own anything particularly feminine. I even keep my underwear in the safe ever since I found out why Sally’s bobby pins are always getting bent out of shape-- she’d been trying to jimmy the lock on my hope chest! I had to call my priest! Do you have an inkling of how troubled these children are? I hate gossip, and I never do it, but their father is never at home anymore. He sits in his friend’s bunker all day painting Jacobean-style dollhouse furniture and getting stonered on paint fumes. My daughter Allie wants a divorce, but I told her that isn’t how we do things. She made her choice, and now she has to live with it. Of course, I thought he was a darling when they were first married. I told him, “Tom, you take care of my daughter,” and he said “Mrs. Diver, it would be my privilege to take care of you both”. Isn’t that the sweetest? Whatever man he used to be is gone now. The man started vanishing for long stretches of time, and every time he came back he seemed a little different. I think maybe it was drugs. They can do all kinds of things, I hear. Then one day he went insane. He came home crying (not very manly at all), and when the children asked what was wrong, he told them he’d found a hole in space and time, and he’d been visiting the old west, but now the hole was gone. I’m sure it was the drugs. My Allie is beside herself.

Is it possible you meant to send the catalogues to the gays upstairs? Craiggie and whatshisname, the Jewish fella? They like that, don’t they? Ladies’ underthings? I pray for those boys day and night, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. Maybe if they get a good look at some of the tarts in your catalogues it’ll set them right.

In conclusion, please send the catalogues to apartment 401, not 301. Some good may come of this yet.

Best,

Dolores Diver