Yesterday I wrote something about my late friend, Floyd Creech. Every so often I have an uncontrollable urge to re-write stories I have written about him in the past.
After deadline, Floyd and I often went out to lunch together. I discovered early on that he hated it when I changed my order to match his. From then on I did it at every opportunity. I'd order a hamburger, then he'd order a grilled cheese. I'd say, "That sounds good, change my order to what he's having." Floyd would see red. "Don't you have a mind of your own? Can't you think for yourself?" And on and on while I sat there grinning.

One day we went to the Mandarin Inn, a Chinese eatery. There was a new waitress, a recent arrival from Sweden. Floyd ordered a Spanish omelet but got a weird concoction as its filling. The owner walked by, took one look at and grabbed Floyd's plate. "That's our hot Mexican chili!" he said.
Floyd was angry, I was laughing. "Floyd, you're the only American who could go into a Chinese restaurant, order a Spanish omelet from a Swedish waitress and be served Mexican chili." He didn't find it amusing.
Another time we had lunch at the little restaurant a few doors down from the newspaper. Something about his order displeased Floyd so he jumped up and at the top of his voice shouted, "This would be a great place for somebody to open a restaurant!" As everyone turned to look and I started laughing, Floyd stalked down the aisle to the door and grabbed for it. The doorknob came off in his hand.

There weren't many dull moments working with Floyd. What he felt was my ill-timed laughter drove him wild, but he got his revenge when we worked together on a full-page feature blasting the city administration and the recreation department for the miserable condition of the baseball diamond in a park. He was supposed to go with me to cover a dinner meeting the night the story ran, but didn't show up. When I got to the table I found I was seated between the mayor and the recreation director.

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