An Order of Coffee and Tears

14





Some days at the diner start out busy, and then stay busy. Today was one of those days. The bell above the door, ringing every couple of minutes, had me lifting my chin to see who was coming and going. Sounds of our busy diner played back a tune of dishes and dinnerware, and people talking and laughing. I loved that sound, and would never tire of hearing it. As for my feet, I wish I could say the same, but that was a different story. Like Mrs. Quigly’s doggy slippers, my feet were barking. I kept a steady pace of back and forth to pick up plates of food from Clark, and was certain a rut of footprints, just my shoe size, were fixing a path from the booths to the counter, and to the grill.

Even Mr. Thurmon was pitching in to help where he could. He’d donned a waist apron to clear and setup the counter when bussing was needed. I liked having his company, but found that I was keeping an eye on him, hoping he was okay, while trying to keep an eye on everything else. He struggled through his pain, but was surprisingly quick in working the counter; he’d obviously done this a few times, maybe even a few thousand times. It especially helped having him with us when he chased out a few campers who’d held onto one of our booths for more than an hour. Just kids having fun, but not ordering anything, they cursed him some, and he scoffed a laugh as he told them to please come again. The counter was busy that night, and we wouldn’t have been able to manage the floor without him.

While you might think the counter would be the easier section to work in a diner, it wasn’t. Not at Angela’s. Quite a few of our regulars were singles, meaning they were here for a meal, and then out the door. No socializing; no need to. So, the counter not only saw more faces, they were inclined to move fast, very fast. When Mr. Thurmon’s neck started to pink up, I knew he was already beginning to tire. Soon after, the pink crept into his cheeks and darkened to a near purple, and, at times, his leg seemed to drag behind him like a dead limb. When he caught himself falling into the counter’s edge, I told him he should take a break. He was working into his second hour, and looked as though it had been a full day. He knew it, too. The stumble in his step and the cramping in his hands fought him constantly. A few times, I saw him try to shake out the dysfunction in his fingers, as though conjuring a spell to rid himself of the disease. Whatever relief there was to have remained fleeting as his expression soon turned to disappointment and sadness when he looked at his hands.

When a plate smashed to the floor, and the diner hushed in a momentary lull, I could tell he was ready to take a break. The pain was too much. Red-faced with sweat over his eyes and above his lips, he gave me a smile and shrugged. I told him that I’d take care of the broken dish, but that the cost was coming out of his pay. He laughed, but his voice sounded tiny, and I could tell he was embarrassed. I also thanked him and asked if he’d like to take a few minutes and let me get him something to eat or drink. He hesitated when he reached to pick up a piece of the dish, but then stopped altogether and pulled himself up. He grabbed a cup of coffee, and took to the empty seat he was clearing before the dish crashed at his feet.

“Buyers are coming today. Probably would be better if I stay more professional-looking, anyway,” he conceded, and blotted the sweat from his brow.

“Buyers?” I asked, thinking my voice sounded naive and unknowing. Of course, we all knew about the pending sale – the detective had made certain of it. Hearing the words aloud stung a bit. Regardless of the danger to Ms. Potts and Clark, selling Angela’s still felt wrong.

Mr. Thurmon lifted his eyebrows with a warm expression, and maybe some relief, which I suppose was at the prospect of selling. “Buyers… from the neighborhood. They own a few buildings, and want our plot to expand one of their businesses. ‘Strategic’ they called it. I didn’t think this place would sell… didn’t expect it would ever sell. And never considered the dirt we’re sitting on was worth more than the diner,” he finished, his expression absent of any reservations, or remorse that I expected to see.

I loved Angela’s, and the thought of it being torn down hurt inside. As I watched Mr. Thurmon drink his coffee, I felt angry. I felt mad that he could just sell Angela’s, only to see it torn down. Destroyed. It wasn’t my place to think anything, and I couldn’t imagine what he must be going through, but I was angry. Putting his cup down, Mr. Thurmon smiled and winked at me. I gushed a little, and any resentment I held onto disappeared. I felt sad for him: sad that he didn’t feel an attachment to his mother’s place like I did. He may have, but just didn’t show it. Not now, anyway. I’d like to think that was the reason.

“Well, if that’ll make you happy, then I suppose that is the best thing for Angela’s, isn’t it?” I shot back, and realized my voice sounded short and gruff. Sometimes my voice doesn’t catch up with my mind. I refreshed his cup and then told him I had a table waiting. Guilt pressed on my shoulders as I walked away. Maybe four or five steps, and regret told me to go back to him and apologize, but Mr. Thurmon was already up from the counter. He was moving to the front to greet two Asian gentlemen dressed in dark suits – the sound of the bell rang out as the door closed behind them. One of the men wore a cream-colored tie, which matched his brown eyes, while the other wore a tie with spots, which clashed against the stripes on his suit. Neither of the men was smiling. Mr. Thurmon shook their hands with vigor, and made a polite enough smile, waving his arm in a half circle, napkin still in hand, to show off the inside of the diner. Ms. Potts took a notice of the men, too, only her concern was more pressing. She glanced to Clark, and then to me. This was real. This could happen. The diner could be sold and torn down.

“Can we get some fries and milkshakes?” the table in front of me asked. The teenage girls from the all-girls school were back for a visit, sitting in their pre-assigned seated locations. Funny how people do that. Staring up at me with freckles and dimples, a set of braces, and even a little acne, were the familiar faces of Blonde, Black, Red, and Brown. I assumed from the chatter and banter that they were all friends again. Brown’s companion from the other day was notably absent, and I wasn’t about to bring up that little sunburn lie. Let them stay friends for at least ten minutes. A small giggle pressed behind my lips.

“So, no to the coffees?” I directed toward Blonde in a sarcastic tone. The three other girls turned to Blonde, wide eyed.

A whisper of “really?” came from one, while another answered,

“I know, right?” I tried not to laugh, but Blonde smirked, and then giggled herself, and answered,

“No, no coffee today. Some french fries and milkshakes. I think three chocolates and one vanilla, right? Oh, and an extra straw.” The other girls nodded, with Red waving that the extra straw was for her. I remembered. A minute later, and they were engrossed in teenage talk, their time with me completed. Brown kept her head up long enough to catch my eyes, and, when I saw her, she motioned to my arm where the flower petals had changed colors and wilted some. I grinned a thank you for the concern, and she dove back into the chattering amongst her friends.

Milkshakes and fries, a deadly combination. Add some ketchup, and you’re hitting upon a true local delicacy; the locals being the girls at my table, that is. By the time the milkshakes and fries were served to them, Keep on Truckin´ had joined me at the counter, as did one Detective Ramiz. Clark kept his eyes on the grill, and Ms. Potts tended to the booths in her section. And I am sure she left one eye working the tables, while the other stayed on the detective. The air felt electric again; it felt uncomfortable. Thankfully, it wasn’t as heavy as before.

Twenty minutes into a second serving for Keep on Truckin´, and another plate of fries for the girls, the detective stayed seated at the counter, his coffee steamy and black, having ordered nothing more. No manila envelope came from across the counter. No accusations. No commentary. No questions.

In my head, I heard my father’s voice calling out Donut. It was his voice from the day I’d seen him at the clinic. And it was the last time I’d heard him call me by that name. I heard his voice again. Until now, I assumed Tommy’s parents must have contacted my Daddy and Momma. How else would they know where I was, or that I was a waitress in Philadelphia, and at Angela’s Diner? But with the detective across from me, would he have called? Could he have called them? The last thing he said during a recent visit was: Call your parents – children should be civil to their parents.

“Thoughts got your mind twisted up, do they?” Detective Ramiz blurted over the counter. His voice cut through my contemplation, and I flinched.

“How so?”

“I can see you’re up in your head about something. Want to share it? Maybe something I can help you out with? Maybe these two, here, you’re working with told you a little something you need to share with me?” he answered, and sucked down more of his coffee. Keep on Truckin´ gave the detective an odd look, and then turned back to me. I realized Keep on Truckin´ hadn’t seen the detective before. He didn’t know who this man was, or why he would be making propositions. I nodded to Keep on Truckin´. I appreciated him looking out for me.

“Call your parents yet?” the detective continued, and motioned for more coffee.

“Why? Why do you care if I call my parents, or not?” I remarked, and shook my head, annoyed.

“Children should be civil to their parents is all. Not a matter of respect or disrespect. Just civil, like you’re being with me right now. Civil,” he answered, exposing his round nubby teeth in a pretend smile. “I’m trying to finish my job with this last open case, and, in doing so, your friends, here, are going to be affected. Yet, you can be civil, can’t you?” When he finished, I poured the coffee and didn’t say a word. He had a point.

Memories of my parents came to my mind. I saw images go by, like flipping through an old photo book. From birthday parties, to learning how to ride a bike. And then I saw my father walking away from me, his hands pressing against his head, as people with signs poked at me with wooden posts, throwing rotting tomatoes at me while screaming. I could feel tears swelling my eyes, and I pulled a needed breath. If only they knew… if only they knew that they may have been the ones who killed my baby.

“Parents need to be civil, too,” was all I could think to say, and moved on to pour Keep on Truckin´ more coffee.

“Gabby, you gonna be okay?” Keep on Truckin´ asked, a piece of food dancing from the tip of his mustache as his lips moved.

“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I rushed out, and swiped at one of the tears that got away.

“How we doing back there, Clark? Getting all your cooking in before you go back to prison?” Detective Ramiz yelled. The diner went quiet as people sought out the source of the loud words. I watched heads turning, their wandering eyes furrowed by concern. Mr. Thurmon and the potential buyers of Angela’s were standing outside. I didn’t realize till then: the buyers had no reason to look inside. They were tearing down Angela’s. They hadn’t heard Detective Ramiz. None of them looked through the glass into the diner.

“A man belongs in prison when he’s done a thing like what you’ve done. I’m getting close, you know. Very close. Not long, now…” Detective Ramiz pulled a napkin over his mouth and pushed out a phlegmy cough, “… not long now, at all.”

“S-Sir, why don’t you just leave? J-Just leave,” Clark stammered.

“Now, now – look who has a voice, all of a sudden. All this time, I’d thought prison had got your tongue,” the detective shot back, smiling. I hated that smile. He looked around the diner, and then back to Clark. “I heard in prison, they knock your teeth out – if you’re prone to biting while on your knees, that is. But never heard of them taking your tongue. Ain’t that right? Guess you best get ready for more of the same!” Detective Ramiz laughed, and finished his coffee. Ms. Potts approached, and stood next to the detective. Her face was fixed in a scowl, anger thinned her eyes, and she pressed her lips until there was just a thin line above her chin.

“I know you think you have business with us, but you don’t. We trying to work here, and, as you can see, we full. Now, I suggest you finish up and leave, or order yourself somethin’ more than coffee. You’re wasting a seat at the counter.” The detective raised his hands, and waited until Ms. Potts took a breath.

“Oh, but Ms. Potts, I don’t think I have business, I know I have business. Look out that window,” he started, and pointed toward the front. “Who do you think those men are? They are bringing a wrecking ball with them, and they are going to destroy this place. And when they do, I’ll be here to see it happen. I’ll be here to see what is under that floor, over there, where Clark is standing. Ain’t that right, Mister Clark?” Detective Ramiz yelled some more, taunting the cook.

“Sir, you got someplace else to be?” Keep on Truckin´ interrupted. While he asked the question, his tone was more of a demand, telling the detective that he should listen and leave. Keep on Truckin´ stood up next to Ms. Potts, towering over the detective.

“Got some fine people, here. I don’t much appreciate anyone messing with their business. And, mister, from where I’m standing, you’re messing with their business.” Detective Ramiz’s smile grew into a sneer, as he moved his eyes to Keep on Truckin´. His smile was long, with the corners of his mouth pulling back heavy lines of skin below his eyes. He looked like an evil clown, smiling, and enjoying the challenge from Keep on Truckin´. The detective pulled his badge from his hip, and held it out just long enough for most in the diner to recognize it before tucking it away to hang from the front of his belt.

“You might want to sit your trashy ass back down. As part of serving the law, seems my business is wherever I need it to be.” Keep on Truckin´ gave the badge a once over with his eyes, as a smile peeked out from beneath his mustache.

“That’s fine. Just remember, if you didn’t have that badge, we’d have ourselves more to talk about,” he finished, and took to his seat. Keep on Truckin´ stayed on the edge of his stool, close to Ms. Potts. His expression stayed bright and wanting, while he kept his eyes fixed on Detective Ramiz. The detective’s grin went flat, and I could see he took to the truck driver’s words. Ms. Potts forced a straight face, but I could see she was trying not to laugh. The strain of the moment lifted, and I gave Keep on Truckin´ a warm thank you with my eyes.

“Good boy,” Detective Ramiz praised sarcastically, and then added, “Badge works, but, given the time and purely coincidence I assure you, I do have to run. Clark and Ms. Potts, I’ll be seeing you.” And, as Detective Ramiz left the diner, I watched as he pulled up one of our napkins and cupped his mouth. As the door closed, I could hear a burst of coughing and choking, and saw Mr. Thurmon and the potential buyers of the diner turn a concerned eye. For them, the detective was just an old man struggling to breathe. But to Clark and Ms. Potts, he held their future in a manila folder.

Keep on Truckin´ looked a little agitated from the rush of adrenaline, but shrugged it off with a snicker. I thanked him for stepping up like he did. Ms. Potts patted his back with gratitude of her own, and tended to her tables.

“On the house,” I started. “Name the slice of pie you want. All fresh and homemade,” I added.

“Homemade!” he scoffed, “You get them from the Food Mart up the road, and then charge three times over cost. Who you fooling? I recognize the boxes.”

“Shhhh… how about two slices?” Keep on Truckin´ giggled, and winked his eye. “How about one of them rhubarbs, there, and an apple? Thanks, Gabby. Oh, and whip, lots of whip. Love that whip.” I nodded and returned the smile.

I fixed Keep on Truckin´ his slices of pie, and then fixed a slice of rhubarb for Clark. It was his favorite, and I’m sure he needed it. When I went back to hand it to him, he was gone. When I went to his cot, I saw that his book was gone, too. Clark had run.