Gathering of Cans
Published by Robert L. Saunders
Smashwords edition
© Copyright 2004, by Robert L. Saunders
All rights reserved.
ISBN 1-4196-5282-6
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This is a work of fiction. Although the story is based on true characters, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Gathering of Cans
Robert L. Saunders
CENTRAL CHARACTERS
Jerry
Zoie
Nathan
Birdie
Della
Billy
Mark
Andrew
Barry
Carl
Zack
Pete
Silverfish
Janet
Sam
Ruth
Claire
Phil
Helen
Crawford
Ben
Vincent
Frank
Ray
Max
Lenny
Stu
Novels by Robert L. Saunders
Tommytown
Tommytown 2: Helen’s Song
The Monopoly Factor
Gathering of Cans
John Paul Jones: Finding the Forgotten Patriot
Dedication
To the woman who brought
her own style of joy into my life;
Janet, my wife
Chapter 1
Janet Brooks was born to the wrong parents. That’s what her grandmother had told her. That hurt, but she knew better than to say so.
“They’d have to search long and hard to find any person on either side of your parents to be remotely like you. Your mother couldn’t add if her life depended on it. Just give her a five dollar bill and tell her to buy something that costs three dollars and twenty-five cents from that shady store-keeper on the corner. You’d be lucky if you got your dollar-seventy-five back.
“Your father is nothing but a no-account lazy bum. Runs like a rat whenever there is work to be done.
“But you don’t take after either one of your parents. You’re smart, you know how to add and subtract. You don’t mind hard work and you save your money so you can better yourself.”
Her grandmother put an arm around her. “There’s no way it could have happened,” she told her thirty-year-old grand-daughter. “I ain’t no fool. Thems’ not your real parents.” Her grandmother had no opinion of her brother; only of her.
This is the impression Janet had been left with. But so much had been lost; so much had been bandaged over, that Janet wasn’t sure which of her grandmother’s accounts were accurate.
Janet awoke from a pleasant dream at the crack of dawn one muggy August morning; it was five A.M. on the dot. She groaned a little and stuffed her feet into her slippers. The slippers were shaped like pink bunny rabbits and had been given to her by her brother, Randy, many years ago, for reasons best known to Randy.
She showered and dressed quickly. Wearing black jeans and a loose fitting green T-shirt, she rushed down the stairs, opened the door, and entered the arena that would be her home for the next twelve hours; Janet’s Grill.
With urgency in her step, she moved to the five-pot coffee urn, flipped a switch under one of the pots, and started brewing the first of many pots to come.
Pick any day of the week and this is how Janet began her day.
The grill’s hours were cast in stone and all her regular customers knew what they were: Monday through Saturday; 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., closed on Sunday.
Casually, she remembered that tomorrow would be her forty-second birthday.
“Where does time go? It doesn’t go anywhere,” she mused. “There’s nothing mysterious about it. It’s here now; today. So, make the most of it.”
She lived above the grill in a five room apartment with her elderly parents, both in their seventies. She had married once, divorced fourteen years ago, left alone to raise her daughter, Julie, now sixteen-years-old.
Janet had never expected to gain any social acceptance with the upper-class crowd in town, nor did she seek it. The grill was her life and she had plenty of work to do.
Now, her motivation; the will to serve her customers; took over. She threw herself wholly into the tasks of feeding her hungry morning patrons. Her first order of business; double-check her food supply.
She opened the double doors of the large upright refrigerator and mentally noted the available quantities of food. The cream cartons were a bit low and she hoped that there would be enough to handle the morning crowd.
Sipping on a cup of coffee, she reflected on her early years and where her life stood now as her eyes traveled across the empty tables; checking to ensure each one was neat and clean. She mulled about whether she wanted to continue in this business.
She thought a good deal about whether it still remained the best decision for her daughter. After all, she was at that stage in life when it was getting harder for her to control Julie’s social activities. She decided quickly that Julie would have to learn the hard way like she had done.
It seemed to her that all she did was nag her daughter to get up, wash up, clean up, and it just drained her energy. The only thing that seemed to satisfy Julie was shopping for clothes, the latest rock ‘n’ roll record, and makeup, yet she can’t even run a checkbook without messing it up. But Janet always made a point of telling her that you have to work and work hard to get ahead in life.
She resolved to herself that she knew it was too late to change her attitude just for her daughter. Besides, why should she? She loved her work and her customers were the people that truly appreciated her; even though her daughter didn’t. They were her silent family and they loved her.
Janet took pride in her little eatery and kept it clean and tidy. She had made the curtains for the small front windows and she had placed vases filled with silk flowers around the seating area that boasted six steel tables, each holding salt and pepper shakers and flanked by four padded chrome chairs.
Her displays on the wall weren’t a stun-the-eye collection. However, the light blue walls were tastefully decorated with watercolor paintings by local artists and portrayed various country-living themes. One painting gave credit to the farming community with its red barn, white silo, and a small herd of Holsteins grazing on a grassy knoll.
Country ornaments such as an old rake, wooden tub, and black cast-iron trivets were also strategically placed around the dining area. Attached to the far wall was a tole painted circular saw blade that doubled as a clock.
By 6 p.m. when she closed, she would be so exhausted that she slept deeply, blocking out all memories of the past day.
When she took over the grill from her parents twelve years ago, she had not known there would be a tremendous amount of work to running a restaurant. Even though it seated only fifty people, she soon realized the monumental effort to feed that many people all at seemingly the same time. Being up to the challenge, she realized very early on that she would have to learn every detail of the food business if she was going to survive in it.
Over the years she had become a competent cook, waitress, and finance manager. She had no office to go to; her office being a small desk, chair, and file cabinet in her bedroom. Sunday, the only day she had to rest, was spent plowing through the IRS paperwork, balancing the financial records, and preparing bill payments and purchase orders for the next week’s food supply.
She knew most of her customers’ names; there were just a few she wasn’t familiar with; mostly people that stopped in for the first time having just stumbled upon her place.
After the first three years, she had been able to hire a short-order cook, a dishwasher, and a full-time waitress and still found the time to play the role of a mother hen to her staff.
There was a knock at the front door. She glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was creeping close to 5:45. “Right on time,” she told herself as she unlocked the door.
Mary Evans, the short-order cook, known by family and friends as “Noodles,” entered first; eyes darkened from lack of sleep, support hose on her legs and clumpy shoes on her feet. She was followed by the dishwasher, Harry Cooper.
From elementary through high school, Noodles had always been the tallest and thinnest girl in her class. At some point in grade school she had acquired the nickname “Noodles” in reference to her thin, lanky figure and the name had stuck. Noodles, not a pretty woman, with several Bobbi pins holding back her long, blond hair, had topped fifty and her deep facial lines were set in a leathery tan.
Janet found it easy to like the tall woman with a good humor; her irresistible, contagious wit made her want to roar with laughter whenever she worked with Noodles.
They exchanged greetings as Noodles slipped on a clean white apron.
With an unshaven face, Harry gave a slight wave with his hand as he guided himself past the single counter running down the right side of the room and disappeared into the bathroom.
He was a short, slow moving creature, nearing sixty-two years old and known to enjoy the taste of whiskey. He was also a man that most people would say was down on his luck, and known as something of an “eccentric”. He lived at the YMCA and rumor had it that he slept on the floor. He had no car or other monetary possessions, but for some reason that no one could figure out, he was a happy man and he always enjoyed a good conversation with the staff and customers.
Short-order cooks were a dime a dozen, but good short-order cooks were hard to find. Janet harbored the belief that a good person working the grill had to have the ability to work on several orders at one time, all the while remembering to emphasize quick service. They had to possess a superior retentive memory in order to keep track of countless variations of eggs, hamburgers, steaks, and other entrees. Not to mention the fries, onion, lettuce, mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, relish and other add-on selections.
She also knew that Noodles had a different personality trait than Harry, the dishwasher. Noodles kept her composure in a distracting environment, falling back on her internal cooking rhythms and generally avoiding the commotion that went on around her.
Harry, on the other hand, was unable to separate himself from the external world. He loved to talk. He would talk to anyone who would lend him just one second of their attention.
In theory, his time was supposed to be spent largely in the galley hidden in the rear room. However, in reality, she had to constantly shunt him off to the galley in order for him to do his job; otherwise he would be diverted from his tasks of keeping the grill refilled with clean glasses, dishes, and dinnerware.
Two minutes later, Doris Miller, Janet’s only full-time waitress, emerged from the warm air outside. Once she noticed them, a smile of greeting wreathed her face. “Good morning, everybody, I do believe it’s going to be a hot one out there today.”
“You’re certainly in a good mood this morning,” Doris noticed. “Not that I have ever seen you in a grouchy mood.”
Janet read their faces, cataloging their expressions. “I’m just so glad everybody showed up on time. It just makes everything go so smooth.”
They agreed and smiled back at her.
Harry, thirsty for his morning jolt, bowed his head slowly. Quietly, his baggy trousers made their way to the urn. After his first couple of sips, he came to life and set about scrubbing the two pots that were left over from yesterday evening.
Noodles warmed up the vegetable oil on the grill. Next, she placed loaves of white and wheat bread beside the toaster before making her way over to the remaining four pots of coffee. Once there, she flipped the switches to turn them on.
One would think that it would be a hardship for four people to work in such small, tight quarters. In fact, it made their work easier. They moved efficiently in the cramped space. It was an unwritten law that each one kept an eye out for the other, while maintaining a cheerful attitude as they earnestly helped one another to fill the many food orders that were sure to come up, just as surely as the hot sun had risen from the east that morning.
For a small out of the way section within the city of Hagerstown, this stretch of Potomac Street was an active, vibrant location consisting of a multitude of various types of merchants.
The grill was sandwiched between a self-service laundry and a large brick house that had been converted into three small apartments. It did not have any authoritative characteristic portrayed in its external humble structure. It really would take a person with a poet or writer’s sensibility to appreciate it. The white clap-board portico, surrounded by a light-blue brick wall blended in with the neighborhood and one could easily miss the structure had they not been paying attention to its location or the small sign that hung above the door.
Across the street from Janet’s grill was a two-chair barber shop, a liquor store, and a small mom-and-pop grocery store with a large green awning on the pavement side that prided itself in being one of the few stores that sold only local meats and produce. Further down the street, a tavern sat on the corner. Two blocks away there was a hardware store that claimed to stock every known gadget that had ever been manufactured in the county.
Any gathering at the grill was rooted in a kinship of networks stretching back many generations. A majority of the patrons had one common trait in that they were all born and raised in the local area. Through their parents and many previous generations, they had grown attached to the county. Many had survived the Great Depression, world wars, hunger and disease. Many could ill-afford an extra guest in their home, yet they would generously offer a stranger a chair and a meal. It was comforting to some of them to be around old high school classmates, civic club members, neighbors, and friends that many had forged a strong bond of friendship over the years. Some came to the grill just because they missed a home cooked meal; food prepared the way their mothers had cooked for them at one time.
Most people who didn’t frequent the eatery would think that old age was an epidemic in Janet’s Grill for which no one had found a vaccine. On the contrary, it was a mixture of mid-twenties through eighty-year-olds that frequented the small eatery. It was always filled with all sorts of people seeming to have a desire to gravitate toward lively conversation and a hearty country meal. The patrons came from all walks of life and they were an interesting mixture of working class and office dwellers. Some were housewives or professional men, but most were hard working people; plumbers, carpenters, drywall hangers, bricklayers, clerks, truck drivers, and farmers. It wasn’t just a source to satisfy hunger. It was a meeting place and a talking point.
The grill was nothing short of a beehive of activity; Saturday morning being the apex of this humming hive. On this Saturday morning, Janet was counting out the money supply and placing it in the cash register drawer when she heard the door being flung open.
Terry, a young, bearded construction worker in his middle twenties, plowed through the door. His close friend, Reggie, followed; holding his hard hat against his black shorts. Both men wore tan, ankle high work boots.
To Janet, there was nothing unusual about the man’s clumsy entrance. She teased him, “Hey, Terry, take it easy on my door, will you, sweetie?” Janet knew from past experience that only half of Terry’s mind functioned until he had swallowed his first cup of coffee, and then he would rather abruptly change into a coherent chatter-box.
“Sorry, Janet,” he muttered.
Reggie scratched his neck and looked around hurriedly. “Guess we’re the first ones here.”
“I suppose so, fellows. Like they say, the early bird gets the best food.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Terry said, as he placed his yellow hard hat on the counter.
“Coffee, all around fellows?” she asked.
They nodded their heads.
“What can I get for you boys this morning?”
The breakfast menu was far from being an extensive selection and a dietitian would regard it a heart-killer filled with lots of carbohydrates, cholesterol, and saturated fats. There were no glossy, colored hand-outs that described the menu. It hung from the ceiling, hand written on a large white grease board. They surveyed the six breakfast entrees:
Rib-eye steak and eggs
City or Country ham and eggs
Sausage and eggs
Bacon and eggs
Pancakes and eggs
Ham & Cheese Omelets
Side orders included; home fries, ponhaus, pudding, and gravy. All orders included coffee and toast; wheat or white bread.
“Bacon and eggs, home fries for me,” Terry said drearily then went back to sipping his coffee.
Reggie ran his eyes down the menu and grunted. “Just ham and eggs for me.”
The ceiling fixtures were casting bands of yellowish light across the tan counter top when she asked, “Country or city, baby?”
“Country,” he replied as his attention shifted to the community bulletin board that hung on the wall next to the cash register. Brightly colored stickpins held the business cards and some hand-scrawled notices; people selling used furniture and women seeking baby sitters. He studied the notes for a moment and then began talking to his friend.
She wrote their orders on a pad. “Coming right up.” Swirled around and started humming a tune.
Ben Frick, a burly cement mason with a neck looking almost as big as his wide head, came striding into the grill with a casual self-confident air. Close behind him were his fellow bricklayers, Zack Weller and Doug Moore. They crossed the room to the far end of the counter and with them came the smell of stale sweat.
Doris was always on her guard whenever she asked for Ben’s order. She never knew what type of mood he might be in on any given day. It was her general consensus that Ben always woke up on the wrong side of the bed. In addition to his sour disposition, she just didn’t like his attitude. “What’ll it be?” she asked curtly.
Greedy for a feast, Ben’s square jaw growled. “Steak, three eggs, and fries.”
“How would you like your steak?” her gray eyes avoiding his dirty face.
“Make it rare.”
“What about you boys?” she asked looking at Zack in disgust. Everything about him from his greasy hair to his soiled clothes, to the way he sniffed up the mucus in his nasal passages instead of blowing it out with a handkerchief, reeked of filthiness.
“I’ll take steak, too, except make mine well done,” he said with bad teeth behind a smirk of a smile.
She sensed that Zack’s smile was not genuine. The sincerity of his smile was missing; portraying the impression that she could not trust him. She returned the smile, trying desperately to look cordial.
“I missed you, you know, Doris,” Zack said with a half-giggle.
“I missed you, too.” She drew her attention to the third man and thought, “Huh. That’s not true. I wouldn’t miss him for the world.”
“And you?”
Doug, the youngest of the threesome and more civil, gave his order, “Just ham and eggs, please.”
“Coffee all around?”
They nodded and began talking boastfully about whatever popped into their minds.
Doris was serving coffee to Ben’s crew when Louis Burlup, a man in his fifties with a lean body, a calm but serious manner, and closely cropped gray hair that helped mark him as being in the white-collar class of patrons.
His careful assessment of his clothes before he left his apartment had failed to notice that the collar of his white shirt appeared frayed and the fabric around the elbows rubbed thin. He appeared to be a very happy-looking man, but only on the surface. Surface appearances can be very deceiving; most folks that frequented the grill knew the real truth. Two years ago, his wife of twenty years had left him for another man and Louis still felt the pain of her departure.
Ben did a double take after he popped a forkful of egg into his mouth. Immediately, he disliked his clean cut appearance and smooth hands.
Numerous times, on the strength of Louis being a retired English teacher, certain patrons of the grill had asked for his advice on how they should proceed to have their delinquent teenage sons and daughters reinstated into the school system. Only he knew the number of times he had to call in favors from his fellow school administrators to use their influence to reinstate the patrons’ delinquent teenagers so they could continue their education. With all these favors in his pocket, Louis held a certain degree of respect within this little establishment.
As soon as Doris finished taking Louis’ order there was a sudden movement in the doorway. A team of strangers strolled into the grill wearing black uniforms that the locals knew identified them as guards at the state correctional institution located a few miles outside of town. They found a table and started wise-cracking about some convict at the prison.
Noodles slipped the spatula under an egg and flipped it over before she gathered up stray potatoes from the surface and heaped them onto a pile.
While Chris Becker strode leisurely into the grill, Doris was busy trying to decide on which one of the men in Ben’s crew wanted their steak well done and which one wanted it rare.
She caught Chris glancing her way. “I didn’t forget you. Morning, Chris.”
Chris smiled slightly and sat down at the far end of the counter. A tall lean man that made his living as an independent contractor cutting trees and brush for the power company, he was known as a good man, not prone to drink or wild living like some of the men Janet had as customers. He worked hard, maybe too hard, as some people had mentioned to her.
There was no need for her to ask Chris what he wanted, except to verify the order. Every day Chris was so hungry he could eat a horse and he put in the same order: double bacon and eggs, toast and potatoes, orange juice, and coffee.
“The usual, Chris?”
”Yep,” he replied.
As soon as Art Shoemaker, a journalist at the local newspaper, walked into the grill, dressed in a green tee-shirt and tan shorts, he found his friend, Louis, and he sat down next to him. The two shook hands briefly. Art was a walking one-man news source for the people at the grill. If anything news-worthy happened around town, all one needed to do was ask.
“How’s Art this morning?” Janet asked from behind the counter.
“Just fine and how about yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Now, what can I get for you this fine morning?”
Art ordered pancakes and eggs and then began talking to Louis.
Evelyn Long, one of the many women that worked as a seamstress at the local dress factory, bustled in holding a brown paper bag full of clothing. Her first awareness was the unmistakable smell of fried bacon, then she felt the diner's warmth. Her ears siphoned all the sounds of the many customers' voices.
With her auburn hair pulled back into a bun, she waved at Doris as she searched the counter and decided to sit at a table close to the entrance.
Doris was always amazed at her calm manner. Nothing seemed to bother her.
“Morning, Evelyn. Are you working today?” she asked casually.
“Afraid so. There’s a big order the boss wants to get out today.”
“Say, how’s your daughter?”
“Home fries are up,” came a notice from Noodles.
“We got pancakes coming for him, baby,” Janet reminded her.
At that moment, Evelyn moved closer with eyebrows arched down slightly. “Well, Doris, I’ll tell you. She’s mad at me, again.”
“Is that so?” She felt the urging of curiosity, especially since she may become privy to some juicy family gossip. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders as she sat down. “Who knows? She smokes too much, drinks too much, she’s broke and depressed. Her husband left her and I won’t give her any more money. Makes you wonder why she would want to stay at my place. Besides, what difference does it make? She’ll only do what she likes anyway. She always does. Other than that, everything is fine.”
Evelyn laughed her rich, honest laugh. Doris couldn’t help smiling while she thought it was just great to hear from someone that could still find humor even though she must be facing a serious problem. She allowed a weak chuckle, hoping her humor would show her support. “Sounds like something I’ve been through with my daughter.”
Busy, Noodles ignored them and poked her head into the refrigerator, searching for another carton of eggs.
Every morning at 6:45, Kenny Logan’s large frame and broad shoulders came through the door looking half asleep. His long hair, usually shiny, looked unbrushed. He found one of the few remaining available stools and sat down. A man with many skills, he was commonly known as a jack-of-all-trades, and worked for the city’s street department. Immediately, he pulled out the morning newspaper he carried and laid it on the counter. His 35-year-old, nicotine stained fingers flipped rapidly through the pages of the newspaper, passing by the main sections until he got to the sports section, where he began to read.
Doris didn’t expect him to say any greeting or anything more than he ever did. She knew his mild, dry behavior well enough by now. Smiling she asked, “What’ll it be, Kenny?”
He lowered his newspaper so he could see her. “Coffee, pancakes and eggs, home fries, wheat toast, please.”
“Gotcha,” she said acknowledging his order.
Noodles began preparing the prison guards’ orders. With a serious intent on her face, she opened the package of pre-sliced ham, placed a thick slice on the griddle and then cracked two eggs; watching them carefully as they started forming their white circles on the hot griddle. She pressed down on the hissing slice of ham with her spatula and then without missing a beat, two slices of wheat bread went into the toaster, and another handful of potatoes went onto the grill.
Saturday morning at Janet’s Grill had always been Claire’s favorite place to eat breakfast. Two years ago, her girlfriend, Amy, had told her about the grill and ever since then, they had made a habit of meeting there every Saturday for breakfast and some joyful conversation.
The sizzling sound from the eggs drew Art’s attention then he went back to listening to Louis’ fascinating opinion on the demise of the public school system.
When Claire arrived, she entered wearing a pink blouse and a short cotton tan skirt. Some of the patrons ate their breakfast in silence, giving no notice to her entrance, each caught up in their own private conversations.
She removed her sunglasses and folded them into her purse. Her russet-colored hair tangled on her shoulders as she scanned the room.
One would not have felt any urgency from watching the young guard who was sitting at a table fiddling with his food until all of a sudden he perked up and made several strategic eye contacts with Claire; his gaze traveling down her thin, shapely buttocks as she passed by him. He began calculating her breast size; 34C or D, maybe a 32D, definitely not a 36. He mentally catalogued this new information should he happen to date her at some future time. The odds of him getting a date with Claire were not in his favor.
Claire saw that he wasn’t bad-looking. She had an instant flattered feeling, but she soon forgot the sensation and ignored his roving eyes. She moved down the narrow path toward her table. Fresh smells of bacon and sausage teased her. She smiled, grateful for the aroma.
Sitting, she slipped the strap of her purse off her shoulder and sat it on the empty seat next to her. Amy was late as usual and she would save her a seat till she arrived.
Ben Frick was talking to his fellow bricklayers on either side of him. The workers hooted with laughter at something Ben had said and Claire felt herself smile even though she hadn’t heard it.
Claire noticed that his shirt was unchecked and fell over the back of his pants. She saw that his hands were large, the fingers thick and strong-looking. They didn’t appear like they belonged to someone who spent time working in an office.
The morning sun had begun to heat up the interior and on her way back from delivering an order of pancakes; Janet turned on the air conditioner.
Three minutes later, Claire saw Amy enter from all the way across the room. Claire thought Amy appeared younger than her twenty-five years. She waved excitedly and motioned for her to come and sit down.
Amy, being a dutiful mother, kept a busy schedule with PTA, church activities, and raising her son, but she always made sure she was never too busy to spend time with her childhood friend. They had developed a strong bond during their elementary and high school years and both attended the same church. They were very close.
While Amy adjusted herself into the seat and crossed her tanned legs, Claire watched her. “It feels good in here. I love the sounds of all the voices, the banging of dishes, and hearing Janet calling out orders, just everything. It’s amazing and it’s just a simple little grill. Don’t you just love it?”
Amy nodded slightly. The tables around them began to fill up as people drifted into the diner. “Yeah, that’s the main reason I come here, besides the great food,” then being a sentimental woman, she inserted a kind remark, “and of course, I get a chance to see you.”
Claire’s face flashed with delight at the sincere remark. Soon they began to wheeze with laughter and complimenting each other on their wardrobes and chattering about the latest news each was willing to share with the other.
Doris stopped by their table and Claire ordered her usual; bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on wheat toast. Amy decided on the western omelet and home fries, they both ordered coffee and orange juice.
Chewing his food, Art continued to listen intently as Louis delivered a quick update on the latest statistic concerning the sorry state of the public school system, specifically the mediocre reading levels that stuck in his crawl.
Art gave him a cursory look. After swallowing a piece of egg, he made his point. “I absolutely concur with your assessment. My paper finds it very difficult to hire any of those kids that graduate today. It’s just plain disgusting. Most of them struggle to read the front page of the paper. It’s as if they have never been taught to read the written word.”
Louis had aristocratic features and a gentle but persuasive voice. From the expressions around the dining area, it was clear his opinion carried a lot of weight.
“All I know is that more than half of my taxes go toward our schools.” Art’s voice was defensive. “You would think that those kids could at least be able to read a newspaper. He looked at Louis anxiously. “No offense intended.”
“None taken. Facts are facts and you can’t hide from them.”
Eight more people had entered the grill within the short time that Doris came back with Claire and Amy’s glasses of orange juice and cups of coffee. They could see the steam from the cups fill the air in front of them.
From a table in front of Claire, a customer wondered if their eggs were truly over light. Trying to be patient, Doris assured her that the eggs had been flipped only once; however she would check with the hen to ensure that she agreed with her.
A humorous chuckle came from the table, just as a man slapped some money down on the counter. Janet put him down as a local; he came across as a hardy fellow and his face was so crusty from his pursuits in the open air that it was leathery.
An elderly couple appeared in the doorway, they appeared confused as they slowly checked the area for a place to sit down. “Seat yourself” was the unwritten policy at the grill. They stood gazing. A woman at the far end motioned with her hand to come and sit at their table. Her husband sat next to her reading at the newspaper, sipping coffee. Resigning himself not to protest his wife’s sudden invitation, he folded the paper and placed it on the table next to him.
“Noodles! Remember to put four slices of bacon with Chris’ eggs, baby.” A low murmuring, punctuated by an “ooops” came from the hot grill, following the command as she scraped the grill with her spatula into the iron trough.
“Please, come sit down…there’s plenty of room,” the voice called cordially, her face overlaid with too much blush and rosy-colored powder.
Doris gave the table a swipe with a damp cloth before transferring the glasses of ice water from her tray to the table. Her attention was drawn to the clatter and much talk in the background from three small children crammed with their parents at one table next to the wall, the smallest perched on his father’s knee, brooding over whether to smile at the people around him or cling to his father. He chose to snuggle up to his father.
The couple caught the woman’s invitation and seated themselves. Immediately, the strangers began to ask questions of each other. Within a few seconds, the old woman eagerly pulled out a small photo album from her purse and proudly began showing the other woman small pictures of their grandchildren. Soon they began sharing pictures. Their husbands joined in without much enthusiasm when the talk got around to praising the infants’ eyes, ears, and legs. Without much effort, the two women with their high voices blotted out the low murmur of the men’s.
Sitting on the stool in front of Janet, longtime resident Thomas Wolfe ate slowly and stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth.
She threw a wink at him. He was one of her favorite and loyal customers. “Working hard or hardly working?” she teased him.
Thomas, deep into his seventies, looked up into her face. The edges of her mouth were starting to form a smile. He always felt that her face held that same appearance, as though she were about to tell a joke or laugh at one. That look never failed to cheer him up no matter how lousy his day had been, no matter how many times he longed to see his deceased wife who had died three years ago. He was alone now. His two daughters lived far away; one in Arizona and the other in North Carolina. He spent every day and night alone, except for these several hours at the grill where he could flirt innocently with Janet, Doris, and Noodles. Here, he felt he was part of something.
Sweat beads formed on his wrinkled face as he smiled back at her. “You’re the only one that is overworked and underappreciated.”
Janet was smiling, thinking of his sympathetic comment and poured Thomas another cup of coffee.
Somehow, Janet’s presence was all around her customers, even when they were sitting at a table in the far corner. They could sense her warm smile, her empathy for them. They felt a need to touch her arm or hand and tell her their latest news about their families. So, it was not unusual for a woman in her fifty’s holding a one-year-old baby, to walk briskly over to her and blurt out, “Guess what, this is my grandson!” Her voice exulted.
Simultaneously, Doris and Noodles turned to get a glimpse of the baby and then devoted themselves to pursuing the food needs of the customers.
Janet smiled down at the baby as the woman lifted the infant so she could get a good look at him. It was obvious that she adored her grandson.
“Well, I’ll be darned. What a lovely baby!” Awkwardly, she reached out with one hand and squeezed his cheek between her two fingers and planted a kiss on his forehead.
Just then the door opened, and a flood of hungry mouths streamed into the small foyer. Now, the grill is being filled to capacity; the noise level had risen swiftly in this close confinement. The people were burning with intense eagerness, possessed by a longing to tell their fellow citizens of their latest experiences, ideas, and opinions. There were six people standing; their faces peering down at the dining area for a spot to sit down.
Doris was breathless from scurrying to deliver four orders to a table buried next to the bathroom, but she answered with the same politeness when someone asked her for another round of coffee.
“Sure, honey, I’ll bring them right back.”
A tired but contented Janet surveyed her domain. Her attention was drawn to the front entrance. She gave a fleeting look at the waiting customers, and spoke loudly from the far corner of the room. “Folks, if you’ll just be patient for a few minutes, there’ll be a table for you.
The air-conditioned room cooled their bodies as several of them smiled; the others just stared at the seating area.
With five orders backlogged and waiting to be filled, Noodles found herself sinking further behind in her effort to fill any more orders. The griddle in front of her was covered with food, and all being heated at the same time; six eggs sizzled with their yellow yokes shinning, eight slices of bacon were emitting a soft gray smoke as they shrunk into their crispy slices, the batter of three pancakes bubbled, and sliced potatoes that covered the size of two full plates were turning a golden brown.
Noodles looked up from her griddle, and down again.
“I could use some help over here,” she commanded to no one in particular, while focusing on the surface of the hot grill.
Janet heard her plea for assistance and rushed over to the grill and started flipping eggs and pancakes. She peeked several times over at the people jam-packed near the entrance. Inwardly she sighed, frustrated. There was nothing she could do, short of busting out a wall to make room for them. Right now, there were only so many seats to go around. She peeked over in the direction of the galley and there she saw Harry leaning against the wall casually sipping on a cup of coffee, talking to Ben.
Annoyed that he was goofing off, she raised her arm quickly. “Harry, I need you!”
He jerked his attention toward her.
“I need you to help Doris and make the rounds with the coffee pot and clear the tables on your way. I’d appreciate it.”
The bag of bones in his green plaid shirt shook his head. “Sure, Janet, you can count on it.”
“Oh, Harry.”
“Yes ma’am?” He’s concentrating on the coffee pots now.
“Let’s not have any long talks with the folks. Okay?”
“I understand, ma’am. Just pour the coffee and clear tables.”
“That’s right, Harry.”
He smiled showing his crooked teeth, grabbed a pot of coffee and started refilling cups.
Doris came bustling with a large tray of plates, each heaped with hot food and a small jug filled with strong coffee. Not wanting to burden Doris with any more work than she already had, Janet called out to him. “Harry, you be sure to clear the tables when you are finished with the coffee rounds!”
Acknowledging her request, he moved amongst the crowd refilling their cups; all the while sneaking a few tidbits of chat; “How’s the family? How’s your health? How’re the grandchildren?” always keeping alert for Janet’s eagle eye, lest she might catch him in the act.
After Doris snatched a bite of an egg sandwich for her breakfast an 80-year-old man gave his order to her, slowly, “Well, I believe, I’ll have….”
From behind, came a faint rattle of dishes as Harry cleared a table.
Ida, his wife who often didn’t let her husband finish a thought, cut him short. “He’ll have the sausage and pancakes and I’ll have the cheese omelet, plus coffee and juice for both of us.”
Just then the phone rang. Janet picked it up. It was Doris’ 14-year-old daughter, Ginny. She gazed around the dining area. “Doris, it’s your daughter.”
Doris rushed over to her, and reluctantly retrieved the phone. “Honey, I’m sorry but I can’t talk to you right now. I’m real busy.”
“But Mom, I just wanted to know if you could come home and take me over to Nancy’s house. She asked me to go over to Linda’s house with her and then we’ll go to the mall.”
“No way. Look, hon, I have to work or otherwise we don’t eat.”
“Have a heart, Mom,” said Ginny.
“Having a heart won’t put food on the table. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’ll call you back, later. Bye.” That probably won’t go over too well: she’ll think Mommy doesn’t care about her. She prefers to believe that Mommy is like a princess; that she doesn’t have to work long hours or even worse; she doesn’t really work at all. She believes bacon and eggs are simply produced for her, like leaves from a tree.
After hanging up, she flew past the cook and clipped her order sheet to a magnetic clip attached to the ventilation shield above the stove and took an order from another customer sitting at one of the tables.
Janet had barely placed four breakfast orders down on a table when she noticed some customers seated at the table and asked if anything more was needed.
They shook their heads. Satisfied, she spun around and rushed over to the register.
Ben Frick, rotated slightly and then he searched the table seating area. When he spoke, his voice was strong and resonating. “Well, I got wind they’re planning on building another big housing development down on the Sharpsburg Pike. Did anybody else hear anything about it?”
Janet winced. The very word “development” made her senses become and stay on a constant alert.
If ever a subject ignited ill feelings in this dot of civilization, it was the word “development”. This subject had been brewing for over a year and it centered on a hurricane of development that had blown over from neighboring Montgomery and Frederick counties. At one time, this knit of people were standing shoulder to shoulder as farmers, factory workers, shop keepers, or tradesmen and made the wheels of progress go round. They went happily to bed, their consciences clear, having contributed to the welfare and prosperity of their family and the county. But now, this subject caused a crack in the seam of solidarity within this once thriving agriculture and manufacturing community.
Arrogant transplants, or AT’s, the acronym that the local folks wryly referred to all the strangers moving into their county and gobbling up all the land that was sacred to them. The mockery from these strangers still lingered in their memories every time they had heard these strangers refer to them as yokels, hicks, morons, hillbillies, rednecks, and other unkind labels. When the title originated for this group of people or how it got bestowed upon these transplants, no one knew, but AT stuck, and the mention of anyone or anything associated with them would cause the discussion to move to the forefront and Janet was fully aware of it.
What had happened to these people’s prefrontal cortex? That region of the brain just behind the forehead that extends to the ears where people make social judgments, weigh alternatives, and hold behavior in check. A normal person doubted that he could remember what happened to him a month ago, but these people seem to remember every minute detail for years on end. What kind of brain retained such detail? How does this mound of meat suddenly reject a more rational and objective part of their thinking and bring into being their unrestrained impulses to pass judgment whenever this word, “development,” hits the air waves? No one knows except that part of the brain got shut out and now a bitter defensive position took over. Ironically, this is the same position that can be traced back to the year 1773 when a group of men disguised as Indians dumped a ship load of tea into the Boston harbor.
Janet kept a keen ear on this type of discussion; noticing that it had become a more frequent discussion, usually peppered with bitterness and spite. She rolled her eyes heavenward in a way that her mother had told her never to do or they might get stuck that way; the same went for crossing them. She prayed that it would remain calm and civil.
Since he worked for the street department, Kenny felt he had a certain amount of inside knowledge concerning the city and the county’s entire road system planned for next year. With this knowledge, he felt it his duty to speak first.
“The traffic has already increased fifty percent on our roads and you know what that means; more roads that you are going to be paying for. Hell, even after you pay for the new roads, you and I can’t afford those $200,000 homes they’re building. At least I can’t and I don’t think most folks that live here can either. I’d have to work two jobs to afford one of those homes, so why should we go out of our way to accommodate those people? I mean, they’re not doing us any favors by coming here. Unless you believe that having your taxes raised is a favor to you.”
Ben signaled Doris for another round of coffee, who gave him a dejected little look. Couldn’t he see how rushed she was? “And don’t forget their eighteen-hole golf courses they build for themselves; and those perfect jogging trails.”
Kenny jumped in. “Yeah, God forbid they might leave their big homes and meet some of us local folks. No, on second thought, let ‘em stay home. Every time I bump into one of ‘em, they sound like they’re talking down to me, like I’m a hick or something.”
“Well, they won’t be showing up in this place. That you can bet,” a voice from his right piped in.
Ben ignored Doris’ frustrated look, thinking he had found an ally and peered over at Kenny. “Nobody can convince me that they’re paying their fair share of road construction and for the new schools that are going to have to be built and that isn’t even taking into account the strain on the water and sewer systems. I tell you, I’m sick of it. And the commissioners tell us not to panic, the developments are under control. That’s like saying the government has those illegal Mexicans under control. It’s all a bunch of bull crap! I don’t trust ‘em anymore.”
Someone at a table spoke to their partner, posing a serious question. He was a wiry man, with a goatee, pushing fifty. “Why should we give up our way of life for more taxes? There must be something we can do.”
“Yeah, we can tell those commissioners to stop raising our taxes, because no one can tell me any different that every time these transplants build one of these big illustrious homes, it causes an increase in our property assessments. Our quiet, peaceful county is being quickly erased, thanks to a bunch of laws that are only geared to developing our land and asphalting the whole county,” a thick voice from a heavily built man, probably in his late thirties, rang out forcefully near Claire.
Concurrence with his assessment caused many heads to start moving up and down.
From down the counter, Kenny stopped eating his pancakes and uttered his dark prognosis, which would become darker the longer the subject of development or AT’s were discussed. “They say they come here so they can have a better life. How they gonna’ know if they found a better life if they haven’t ever had it?” He held the pause another beat. “Besides, they don’t live amongst us. They build their own exclusive neighborhoods from scratch. And you can bet there’re not going to roll out the welcome mat for any of us.”
Chris had just finished checking his map, so he could be sure exactly where the grove of trees were located that he was to cut down that morning, when he heard Kenny’s comment. “I’m not sure if the people that actually approve these housing developments actually live here in our county.” He raised his voice an octave. “I believe it will end up just like it always does. The banks will make money and you will be left with nothing but old memories.”
The patrons’ attention began to perk up; heads and ears became alerted and they settled in to what was being discussed. They listened intently and they absorbed every word within the heavy tension of the room.
As she saw truth in Louis’ comment, there came a voice from one of the old women sitting at a table. At the age of seventy-one, she had welcomed her retirement. Slowly with no concern for time, she spoke, “Ummm, what I hear makes sense to me. I once had this idea that I could retire in peace here, but no more. I could possibly move west toward Hancock, but how far away would be far enough? Answer that one, I say to you. I fear no one will realize there is a problem until there is no more green space left in the county. And then if you move too far, you find that you are not close to the major shopping area. Soon, you will find that it takes you two hours to drive to your doctor’s office for an appointment. The hospital will be a two hour drive, maybe three hours if an ambulance needs to transport you to the hospital. In my case that’s a real possibility and I’m sure it is to a number of other elderly folks. I think the local folks like myself are losing more than we understand by all these people coming in here and building these expensive homes. My taxes keep going up and I’m sure it’s because those folks have driven the price of land up.”
Soon, other patrons began nodding their heads in agreement as the old woman placed a pill on her tongue and gulped down a glass of water. Swallowing, she smiled at her friend when she placed the glass on the table.
Zack shot a peek at Kenny. “I believe the only thing these people do to our county is take away everything we like. A bunch of leeches. That’s what I think of ‘em.”
“Listen,” Evelyn tried to persuade as a few more people came. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Ben and Zack stared coldly at her, as if wondering why she didn’t see their point. Zack’s mouth was bent down when he growled, “Well, I would. I tell you I’m fed up with the whole bunch of them. If we can’t live the way we are used to, why should we let them outsiders come in and plop their butts down any old place they want to?”
Ben’s hand shot up as if he had been scalded. “Why should we move over for them? They don’t belong here, anyway.”
Supporting Zack’s position, Jesse Morgan, a farmer from the Sharpsburg area, having spent his whole life walking over plowed fields, had become a crusader against developers. He had a deep desire to preserve the local heritage and culture, so he spoke bitterly, “They move here from Baltimore and D.C. with their big government salaries, and then they complain when I haul manure on the road.” He paused and most of the people watched him. “I’ll say something to boot. All you have to do is ride down through the southern part of the county and look into the fields where cows used to graze and corn grew tall. They’re now filled up with big homes; field after field. Soon there won’t be any fields left to be found. I’ll say one more thing; cows never crowded our schools, or clogged our roads and never caused our taxes to go sky high.” He wasn’t being vindictive. It was the simple truth.
Ben felt he should add another log to the fire. “Their lonely wives sit home all day with nothing to do, so then they decide to sit on some committee and the next thing you know, they start telling us how to run things, like there’s too many beer cans along the roads and then they’ll tell us how we should to keep our roads clean.”
Zack quickly supported his fellow bricklayer. “Hell, every time I talk to one of them, they look at me like I’m some kind of moron that’s never been taught a single thing in my life.”
Just about everyone in the diner, except Zack, knew this appraisal was correct.
Over in the far corner, Doris inhaled deeply. Now, there was another new customer sitting in a vacated chair; another table to set, another order to fill, another cup of coffee to pour.
Ben put a casing of tobacco in his mouth. His top lip lifted from his brown-stained teeth. “Damn politicians. They get up on their soap box and tell us what they’re gonna’ do for us. Then, when they get our vote, they just ignore us. I’ve said this before, if I had the power in this county, I’d fire all of them.”
Anxious, Evelyn said, “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I’d like to say something.”
“What’s that?”
“I think the commissioners do a good job and I can’t see why you insist on blaming them so much.”
Zack challenged her. “Those commissioners are suckering all of us local folks. That’s what they’re doing. Telling us these people will cause us no harm, while at the same time they allow these developers to harvest our land and our trees, while they keep raising our taxes.”
Zack forgot to mention that he lived in an apartment and had never owned a home in his life.
Chris vaguely played with his fork, as he spoke to the crowd, “You know what happens when those big developers from D.C. are done building all those houses?”
A man yanked his head up. “No, what happens?”
With his thumb extended and his hand moving up and down, one would think he was a hitchhiker looking for a ride. “They’re gone. Vamoose. They never stick around to clean up the mess they leave behind, just keep that in mind.”
Evelyn wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and made a request, hoping for support. “Can’t we change the subject?”
There was an immediate stillness. Coffee was gulped down. Eyes darted here and there, searching for other eyes that might agree or disagree with this request.
Her appeal fell on deaf ears. By now, everyone seemed to be getting into the dialogue and the patrons swooped down on one another, swept away by the need to contribute their opinions.
One couple was beaming and nudging each other demanding to be heard. Harry grinned like an overfed cat as his hands flapped in the air; expressing his thoughts to Zack. The laughter and voices seemed to be everywhere and every person reached down their very long tunnel of hidden gripes and announced their point of view each chance they got.
Adrenaline surged through them. Now, they wanted to ask questions aloud. Others were waiting and straining to hear what the answer might be until their heads hurt from the anxieties. Some wanted to give and take equally, valuing the other’s opinion. Some were meek and submissive and a few, like Ben, were domineering.
The rest of patrons had no idea where they were going with their comments and opinions, and they had no idea what to do when they reached the end of the discussion. They just wanted to express their hidden opinions and their need carried this type of conversation for almost another half hour.
Most definitely there was not a need for another shovel of coal to be dumped on the already blazing flame of debate, but Ben enjoyed the tension growing in the dining area and decided to drop another bombshell.
He swiveled on his stool so that he could lean back against the counter and then spoke in a very unfriendly tone. “And now we got that old crazy Zoie Baker woman, another one of those transplants, mind you, rummaging around our roads gathering a bunch of cans, because she wants to build a swimming pool. She reminds me of some old bag lady.”
The hum of conversation and clinking of glasses began to pick up when Art took a swallow of orange juice. He leaned back and gave his impression. “I’ve met her and she doesn’t strike me as being some old bag lady.”