Month: March 2019

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” asked the homely male voice.

Debbie didn’t hear the response over the sigh she loosed into the glass she was cleaning.

“Hi Clyde, how are you today,” Cheryl asked, “having your usual?”

“Does a bear…” left off Clyde.

Debbie moved off down the counter, thankful once again for Cheryl’s youth and eagerness to please. It was a busy Saturday for the Kurtz Café, and though Clyde was a regular, she couldn’t stand the thought of him today. 

The buzzer on her hip sounded and she headed to the kitchen to pick up the order for the family at the end of the bar. 

Tammy and Tyler’s young son had been standing on his stool stabbing at the coloring sheet she’d placed in front of him, threatening to topple over the bar and spill the containers of lemons and limes she’d cut up this morning. She’d been shooting him dirty looks since he stood up, trying to scare him into sitting down, while at the same time hoping this would be the Saturday he finally fell off his stool.

She shot the same looks at his father years ago. His mother, if Debbie remembered right, had been well-behaved. Her family also had the good sense to sit in a booth.

Debbie’s bones ached as she moved off to the kitchen. She was tired. She’d been in at 5am to get ready for the breakfast crowd, and now it was 1:30pm and her feet were telling her enough was enough. And now Clyde was here. A headache was beginning to form behind her eyes, and she knew he would add to it at some point, she just wasn’t sure if it would be before or after his inevitable proposal they go out to dinner.

Debbie had been working at the Kurtz Café for over 50 years. She’d started bussing tables when she was 15, graduated to the hostess stand, then waiting tables and had been tending bar for the past 30 years. She’d seen it all, but nothing quite like Clyde.

The man was repulsive. A couple of years older than her, he came in here with his thinning gray hair, thick side burns and mustache, wearing a ridiculous studded leather jacket that didn’t quite cover the folds of fat straining at his sides. The white shirt he wore underneath was stained with something from his breakfast; ketchup was what her expert’s eye told her upon closer examination. Today, in the middle of January, coldest day of the year so far, he was wearing khaki shorts and work boots. The impracticality of the man!

The tray of food felt heavy in her hand. The arthritis in her right shoulder flared, while a new pain ached behind her left. Phoebe and Vicky fluttered by. She envied their youth.

As she glared a plate of chicken fingers and fries in front of the young terror at the end of the bar she heard a glass clink then, “Damn! Oh, what have I done! I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh no, Clyde, what did you do,” sang Cheryl in her cheerful voice.

“I’m making a mess. I’m terribly sorry,” he said to the pretty young lady on his right as he dabbed at the brown puddles on the bar.

“It’s fine. You didn’t get me,” she replied.

“Ah well, I always was a slob,” he said.

That’s one way of putting it,Debbie said to herself.

“You’re wasting it Clyde,” she said to him, her voice sounded old and harsh to her ear. When had that happened? Why didn’t she have the same youthful energy as Cheryl and the other girls waiting tables?

“Clyde, are you going to be having the usual,” Cheryl sang in in that way that drove Debbie crazy. She always interjected herself in the middle of beratings.

“Ah what, now? What was that?”

“Onion soup, are you having your onion soup?” asked Cheryl.

“No, French onion soup.”

“Yes, onion soup.”

“No, I’m having French onion soup and a sandwich.”

Debbie couldn’t stand this charade of Clyde’s, trying to flirt with Cheryl. She stormed down to the end of the bar to stare hatred at the boy with the chicken fingers. 

“Okay, Debbie will take the rest of your order, but I’ll put the soup in,” she heard as she walked away. Why did Cheryl do this? Why couldn’t she see she didn’t want any part of dealing with Clyde?

“How is everything?” she asked the young family, timing it so everyone had their mouths full and couldn’t say anything other than a slurred, good. Pleased to have caught them in a vulnerable position, she smiled to herself as her hip buzzed and she went back to the kitchen to pick up more food.

On her way back she ran into Renee. Renee was one of the de facto owners of the café. She buzzed around the whole place on Saturdays, checking in with each and every table while Billy worked in the kitchen.

She’d been a server for a minute before she married Billy Kurtz 25 years ago. When Billy’s parents, Bev and Jules had retired, Billy and Renee inherited the business. Renee hadn’t spent more than a quiet Sunday evening once a month working in the place after they were married. Now she was like some old general ordering her troops around with little regard to their lives and well-being.

Debbie resented Renee’s rise, thought Renee should have had to spend more time in the trenches as a server before graduating to owner operator. If she was being honest, which she hated, some of the changes Renee had implemented weren’t that bad.

The televisions behind the bar were nice, bringing in a bigger crowd on Sundays when the Steelers were playing. That had helped. 

She’d also pushed Billy to create a veggie burger. Kurtz Café was already known for having the best burgers in town, but there was a portion of the population they weren’t serving and Renee thought they needed a solution. 

Debbie hadn’t been a fan of the veggie burger. She didn’t understand what was wrong with regular burgers. Why they had to be so difficult? It was such an imposition. And now all these people were talking about cows and the environment and how we needed to eat less meat to save the planet. It was ridiculous. She wished they’d locked up every one of those damn hippies.

“How’s Clyde?” Renee asked, breaking in on Debbie’s thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how is Clyde? I saw he spilled a drink.”

“Clyde always spills a drink.”

“How does he seem? Is he still upset?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a therapist.”

“You could try being pleasant to him. It wouldn’t hurt either one of you.”

The pager buzzed in anger at her hip. 

“I have to get this food out.” 

The food was veggie burgers for the pretty young lady to Clyde’s right and the suspect young man with the cap pulled low over his eyes she’d walked in with. Debbie looked around, seeing no one, she lifted the top off one of the burgers and spit on it. She’d give that to the young man. No man in his right mind should be avoiding meat. She’d give the girl a pass because she was sitting next to Clyde.

Debbie hoisted the plates, feeling the arthritis in both her wrists scream as she headed back towards the bar, just avoiding a collision with the young boy from the end. His mother smiled an apology and Debbie glared.

She put the plates down in front of the couple and asked if there was anything else she could get them. When they declined, she moved off, but not before she heard Clyde say to the young lady, “those are the best French fries. You know, they hand cut them here? Fresh. Not frozen. I can’t eat frozen. I have a health condition.”

Why did the man have to interject himself into everyone’s meal? Who had raised him? She didn’t care if Rose had been dead six months, she should have done a better job breaking Clyde of these awful manners. 

She felt bad about besmirching the memory of her former best friend, then felt the weight of the years, had a brief flash of her own mortality, then saw the young boy sit back down at the bar and heard his mother say something about dessert, and was angry again.

“Debbie,” sang Cheryl, “could you put in Clyde’s order? I already did the soup. Thanks!”

Debbie sloughed back toward Clyde as Beth and George Winston took seats at the bar. 

“Hi Debbie,” smiled Beth.

“Hiya Deb,” said George, his vacant smile plastered to his face. She hated being called Deb. George had been doing it for 35 years. At this point she figured he was just too stupid to remember she hated it. She’d always thought Beth had made a mistake marrying someone as simple as George Winston, despite all his money.

She forced a smile back at them. Her face hurt.

“What kind of sandwich are you having Clyde?”

“French onion soup,” said Clyde, “and…”

“Yes, I know, Cheryl put that in. What kind of sandwich?”

“Well, well, it’s kind of a special sandwich. It’s not on the menu, but they made it just for me last time I was in and it was good, so I’m going to have it…”

“Yes Clyde, what kind of sandwich was it.”

“Crab salad sandwich.”

“What?”

“A crab salad sandwich.”

“We don’t have that.”

“No, I know, they made it for me special last time I was in. Cheryl ordered it.”

“Let me go check with the kitchen.”

“They did it special for me last time.”

Turning hard on her heel, she stormed from the bar to the kitchen, not knowing why she was so angry. It sounded like something Billy would do. If they had the ingredients, they’d make anything for a customer, and they did offer crab salad as an appetizer. 

She leaned into the noisy, steamy filled kitchen, “Billy,” she called, again wondering when her voice had become so shrill.

“Yeah Debbie,” Billy’s forehead glistened with steam and sweat glued his thinning hair at odd angles across his head. A bead dripped from his nose onto the rounded top of his ever-growing belly.

“Clyde wants a crab salad sandwich, can we do that for him?” she tried to will him to say ‘no.’

“I don’t see why not. What’s he wearing today?”

“Studded leather jacket, stained white t-shirt, khaki shorts and work boots, why?”

“That man has some style,” he said shaking his head, “I hope he’s doing alright.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what kind of bread he wants it on? I think we did a roll for him last time. We’ll put it on a roll, don’t you worry about it.”

Debbie sighed and turned back to the bar. Beth was smiling at her as she approached. 

“Do you need menus?” she asked them.

“Do you still have any pot roast?” asked Beth.

“I’m having the haddock sandwich,” stated George.

“We do.”

“You do what,” asked Beth.

“We do have pot roast left.”

“Then I don’t need a menu.”

“Fries or chips George?”

“You must have the fries,” called Clyde from two stools down, where he was leaning out over the bar, “they’re hand cut, fresh here. It’s the only way to have them. It’s what makes them different.”

Debbie frowned.

“I’ll have chips,” said George, the same vacant smile stretched across his face.

Debbie turned back to the computer to enter their order.

“Don’t forget about me Debbie,” Clyde whined.

“I’ll be right with you Clyde, just wait your turn.”

Cheryl came up to the computer.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the crab sandwich before?” Debbie asked.

“Billy told me not to tell anyone.”

“Well, now Clyde’s ordered it half the town knows about it,” Debbie waved her arm around the packed restaurant.

Cheryl smiled and turned back to Clyde, “another one?” she asked.

“I suppose I’d better. I have all afternoon.”

Debbie stared at the clock under the television. Four hours left in this Saturday double.

“Debbie?” Clyde called. She braced for the invitation to dinner, “you know there’s a problem with this glass.” He waved his empty Manhattan glass about like a conductor.

“What, that it’s empty?”

“No, no, the stem is hollow. That’s a problem.”

She turned and walked away. “Cheryl, there’s a problem with this glass,” trailed after her. 

She pushed past one of the smiling young new servers, a friend of one of Renee and Billy’s kids no doubt, on her way into the break room. All these young kids who didn’t know a thing about waiting tables, she snarled to herself as she pulled her cigarettes from her purse. 

She pushed out the backdoor to the parking lot. The January cold was like the day’s sky, crisp and blue. It stung her at first, but then she warmed to it as the sun caught her face and the noise from the café died away.

She pulled the smoke down into her lungs, welcoming the burn. She coughed and thought about Rose. Rose had gone because of her pack-a-day habit. She hadn’t quit with the diagnosis either. She’d stared it right in the face and said something to the affect of “live by the sword, die by the sword” and kept right on going.

Debbie couldn’t blame her, living with a slob like Clyde. If that were her life, she’d have more than a pack-a-day habit.

She had stopped as soon as Rose received the diagnosis, but since Rose had gone, she had to have one every time Clyde came in – just about daily – to settle her nerves, which he excelled at getting on. At the start of the New Year, she’d started having one or two extra a day to keep the weight off. She’d put on a couple of pounds once she quit, and she wasn’t happy about it.

Clyde was once the talk of the town. He’d led the high school basketball team to three state championships and there’d been talk about him going to State to play. In those days, Debbie was desperate to have him look at her, let alone talk to her, but she’d been too shy to ever approach him as he was a couple of years older and such a big personality.

Rose didn’t share her fear. Where Debbie was quiet and shy, Rose was bold and outgoing. She’d snatched Clyde up and never let him go; not even after he’d come back from the war, having lost his chance to go to State due to the Draft. 

Rose had married him right before he left, and she stuck by him when he came back. He came back a different kind of broken; not haunted by his experience like so many others. He was more vapid, and unable to carry any sort of responsibility, but Rose had loved him and supported him through it all. He’d lover her back, in his way, but he was still a slob.

Debbie would never have allowed a man like him to stay around. Sure, she felt alone at times now she was older, but even to this day, she wouldn’t tolerate anyone not up to her standards.

Debbie stared up at the sun and tried to remember better, younger days. Giving up, she threw her cigarette on the pavement and ground it out. 

The buzzer on her hip went off as she opened the door to the restaurant. She picked up the pot roast and haddock sandwich and headed out to Beth and George. The sandwich looked so small next to the massive plate of pot roast, mashed potatoes and creamed corn.

“I’d like to see you eat all that,” she said as she placed the plate in front of Beth, forcing joy into her voice. 

“It looks delicious, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“If I ate all that, I’d have to not eat the rest of the week not to put on a pound.”

Beth replied with a blank stare.

“Is that the pot roast?” asked Clyde, talking over the young couple, “I love the pot roast. I had it when I was in on Tuesday.”

“That’s nice,” Beth smiled, polite to a fault thought Debbie.

“It doesn’t come any better than they make it here. Oh, that haddock sandwich. I don’t like the full piece of fish. They’re making me a crab salad sandwich. That’s the ticket there. You got chips? You should have had the French fries. I get them, even with the pot roast. You know, they’re hand cut here, never frozen. I can’t eat them frozen.”

“Another drink Clyde,” sang Cheryl.

“Does a bear…”

Debbie was staring daggers at him as her buzzer went off again. Her heal dug into the floor and she stormed back to the window. Renee caught her again.

“So how is Clyde, really?” she asked.

“He’s himself: loud, obnoxious, sloppy.”

“Now Debbie…”

“Don’t. The man is a menace to this establishment.”

“He’s a paying customer, just like anyone else.”

“No, he’s not just like anyone else. All he has in common with everyone else is he involves himself in their meals.”

“Debbie, that’s unfair, he’s just lost his wife.”

“It’s been months Renee, almost a year. He needs to move on.”

“I think he’s trying.”

Debbie spun away to the window and grabbed the plate holding Clyde’s sandwich.

“Debbie,” began Billy.

“He’s fine Billy,” she said as she turned to bring the food to the counter.

What did Renee mean, ‘he’s trying.’ The man was in here close to seven days a week ruining the good name of her former best friend with his boorish behavior, and then he went around asking her out to dinner. How was that ‘trying?’

“Try again,” she heard Cheryl say to Clyde as Debbie approached with his sandwich.

“Here you go Clyde.”

“Thank you Debbie.”

“Sure, do you need ketchup?”

“What?”

“I said, do you need ketchup, for your French fries?”

“Oh no, not me, not with hand cut fries. With frozen, yes, but never with hand cut.”

“Alright then, enjoy.”

She couldn’t watch him take the first disastrous bite. She turned to the young couple to his right. She wanted to tell the girl she could do better than the degenerate she was with. Instead, she asked if they wanted any dessert.

“Oh, no thank you, it was delicious, but I’m stuffed,” said the girl.

“Yeah, me too,” said the boy.

“I’ll get you the check then,” Debbie wondered how a veggie burger could fill anyone. It was a large portion of fries. Maybe that was it?

She placed the check down in front of them.

“Thank you so much,” said the boy. 

Debbie was surprised by the clarity of the statement and couldn’t think of a response. So she took the proffered card and returned to the computer. She made sure to turn so she would avoid sight of Clyde.

“Everything was great,” said the boy when she placed the receipts in front of him.

Stunned into silence again, she watched him dash a signature on the slip then fill in a tip. 

“Have a great day,” they both said in unison as they got up to leave.

Debbie was surprised to see the boy hold the girl’s coat so she could get into it. She hadn’t seen anyone do that in the Café in years. Renee’s shrill “have a nice day” cut through the shock, bringing Debbie back to the bar.

She looked at the slip in her hand. The boy had left a large, generous tip behind. No one left that much. Not even for the younger girls.

“Debbie.”

She looked up to see Clyde, crab salad dangling from his mustache and another dollop staining his white t-shirt, looking at her.

“Yes?”

“How about dinner this week? We could come to the Café? Or something else?”

For the first time in the three months he’d been asking she looked into his eyes. She saw the hurt and the hope fighting there. She wasn’t getting any younger.

“Maybe.”