Diane, it's 11:30 a.m. I'm approaching the town of Twin Peaks, and I have just been handed a quiz. The trees here are enormous. The coffee is black as midnight on a moonless night. The pie, Diane, the cherry pie is worth the drive alone. I have a strong feeling, the kind I get in dreams involving red curtains and backwards talking, that this quiz will tell me something important about the person taking it.
Notes on the locals so far. A special agent with a tape recorder and a boundless love for doughnuts, trees and Tibetan deduction methods. A high school girl with saddle shoes, a cherry stem trick and more secrets than the hotel she lives in. A quiet woman who carries a log everywhere and says it has seen things. And a deaf FBI regional chief who shouts every sentence at full volume and somehow never misses a clue.
Diane, the questions cover coffee, dreams, diners, owls and how you behave when the lights start flickering. Answer honestly, because the owls are not what they seem, and neither are the results. I'll report back after the next slice. Possibly two.
