Читать книгу Of Man and Animals - Thomas R. Hauff - Страница 14

Turly Breidablick banged the metal spatula down onto the sizzling grill, swished it under the potatoes and, with flair reserved for the truly talented, flipped the whole mass of hash-browns over. He banged the spatula again, knocking the few clingy pieces of spud from its face, and turned OverMedium’s eggs. Glancing up from the grill, as Marty hung another order, he saw AmericanOmelete enter and head for his window seat. As American settled, Turly clanged the little bell and slid OverMedium’s breakfast onto the counter for Marty to serve. She took it with a wink, added a pot of coffee in her other hand, and sauntered the whole mess over to OverMedium in his corner by the Coke clock. Turly watched as Marty grinned at OverMedium, plunked the food down, and filled his cup. She then added a little something on his bill (Thanks! And see you again!), tore it from her book, laid it on the table, and turning, slid her pencil behind her ear. On the way back to the counter she dribbled some coffee for ColdCereal, and answered a question from ToastandJuice (like she would actually have anything else!—Turly grinned to himself).

Before she made the counter, AmericanOmelet waggled a finger at her, and without looking to see what he said, Turly cracked three eggs into a metal bowel. When Marty hung up the order, Turly grinned to himself finding it for “Am Om, pots, cof.” Imagine that! His eyes twinkled as he swished in the milk and poured the conglomeration onto the hot stove. As it cooked he snagged some cheese, a few chives, and some onions. He quickly grilled the onions and then formed the Omelet into its customary shape.

Ding! Two scrambled eggs, toast (wheat), ham. Funny, HamandEggs hadn’t been in for a week now. This order had reminded him of that again. Turly glanced at the Coke clock; 7:28. HamandEggs was always here by 7. But not this last week. Something’s up there. Ka’ching; bye Oatmeal. That was a good one. Almost never get Oatmeal these days. Once, to Turly’s surprise, he had been asked for bulgur . . . for breakfast! That was odd. We don’t have bulgur for breakfast. We don’t have bulgur at all. Bulgur doesn’t ask for bulgur anymore. Now he has FriedPotatos, low oil. They don’t look too good to Turly Breidablick, but then, he’s not eating them.

Eight o’clock. Just about usual, most are gone now. BlackCoffee is still nursing his cup from an hour ago. He just reads the paper though. He’s not here for anything Turly can supply. Well, there was the once. Rye toast. Just the once though. BlackCoffee pretty much just had the coffee.

AmericanOmelette had taken some time today. Usually he scarfed it down pretty fast. Guess on most Mondays he had to get to work. Though it was hard to be certain. He looked like a rusher. Never took his coat off. Today was different. Long weekend perhaps. He had a good number of cups of coffee. Marty was wearing a rut in the linoleum to his table this morning. Course, he was reading something. Maybe he was working already. Turly squinted his eyes, and turned his lips in for a second thinking. Hard to tell.

He swiveled the order ring around and saw nothing. Taking the chance, Turly slipped into his jacket and stepped out the back door into the alley. He let the little wood block stop the door as it tried to close. The cool of the alley washed over his warm face as he fumbled out a pack of cigs. He pulled one, lit it, and took a long draw, looking up the alley at the few cars passing down on the street. Whew! Cold today! He stamped his feet a couple times and drew another breath of nicotine saturated air. As he leaned back into the brick wall, settling in for a nice smoke, he saw DoubleHash’s car pass by the end of the alley. He dropped the cig and stamped it once, re-adjusting his apron. He re-entered the building and made his way to the grill just in time to see DoubleHash bang open the glass door, jostling the “OPEN” sign.

DoubleHash swaggered over to his table and plopped down. He shook his head at Marty and yammered, “Hey honey, I’ll have the usual.” She nodded and turned to Turly with the order. Like he needed to hear it. Ol’ DoubleHash always spoke at the top of his lungs. Seemed to want everyone to know he was there. Once a fellow had looked at him when he bellowed out his order (like he needed to yammer in such a small grill anyway), and DoubleHash had taken a dislike to him. He then pressed him with, “What’re you looking at, pal?” and, “You got some kinda problem?” Turly Breidablick thought there was gonna be some trouble that day. But DoubleHash was content to belittle people. Maybe that was the extent of his bravado.

Marty was a good waitress. She had been doing it long enough to get to know the regulars, and she enjoyed people enough to make the once-in-awhile types feel comfortable. It’s not that she was just pleasant because she’d get a better tip neither. She was just that sort. Friendly. She’d smile, and chat, and just be a regular person with ‘em all. People like that. They like to feel as though they have a friend. Even when they are alone. And Marty was pretty too—at least for a forty-five year old waitress. She was to Turly anyway. Sometimes the night guy would comment on that “piece of nice ass in the morning.” Turly couldn’t really argue; Marty had a nice ass. But he didn’t like Buddy Vashon commenting on it. But it wasn’t Turl’s way to confront. He’d usually just ignore Buddy. Still, Marty did have a nice ass. The point was Marty was a good waitress. Even to the DoubleHash’s of the world with their big mouths and pushy ways. She still smiled at him and kept his coffee poured, and chatted with him. Though sometimes Turly would giggle to himself over what he heard her saying.

Sometimes Marty seemed to just bait ol’ DoubleHash for fun. She never was so obvious that he’d catch on, but Turly could tell. He’d known her for years. Like once, DoubleHash had commented on a businessman who’d stopped for a cup of joe. He wasn’t a regular; looked like he just needed the joe after a hard night of driving. DoubleHash had been sitting at the counter that morning instead of his usual table. He had winked at Marty and said in a voice loud enough for the stranger to hear, “Some men use their wallets when they’re lacking other places.” (The guy had paid for the dollar coffee with a fifty.) Marty hadn’t missed a beat and replied, “Kinda like some guys using their mouths when their brains are slow.” DoubleHash had missed it! Hell, the stranger had missed the whole exchange too, which was probably for the best. But Turly had heard it all and almost dropped his gum when he laughed. He ducked behind the back counter and just guffawed. It wasn’t the statement itself, it was that DoubleHash was so full of himself he had nodded in agreement, and winked a wise “you and me think alike baby” wink at Marty! Turly thought he’d bust a rib laughing over that. And it was all the more funny when Marty came ‘round the corner and kicked him lightly in mock rebuke for leaving the grill! She whispered a stern, “You get to work Turly Breidablick!” But her eyes said, “What an Ass that DoubleHash is!”

DoubleHash kept his mouth mostly shut today. It was ToastandJuice who was interesting. She had the usual for eating, but not for company. Turly had figured her for a college student. One day he had covered for Marty when she was using the toilet ‘cause the other waitress was out. It was a slow day and only the regulars were in. He had filled ToastandJuice’s order and was placing it on the table when he saw her open book. It looked like a biology book and had a picture of a lemming on the open page. He had commented on it and she had told him how lemmings run themselves off cliffs sometimes. Imagine that! An animal gets an idea in its head, and that idea defines the world for it. It keeps that idea even when the idea says, “Run off a cliff!” That’s pretty strange. Course, Turly supposed animals liked to feel comfortable with their ideas just like people. They keep their impressions of things even when they don’t really match with reality. So some lemming thinks the world requires a good cliff jump . . . and off it goes.

Anyway, ToastandJuice came in on Mondays and Fridays and always had the same breakfast with minor variations. She read and ate; usually alone. But this morning she was with a young man. He was wiry, and had dark eyes and hair. Turly thought he was handsome and fitted her very well. He looked like a poet to Turly. Right now they were engaged in a soft but seemingly meaningful conversation. Every now and then she would look around as if trying to see if anyone was watching when they were becoming a bit more insistent. Turly always looked away, acting like he was scraping the grill, or maybe making up a new batch of potatoes.

Maybe the poet was telling ToastandJuice it was over. She didn’t seem angry though . . . just vehement. Perhaps ToastandJuice was dumping Poet. But he too seemed not so much hurt, or angry as just animated. He was a hand talker. He’d wave them up or down, tapping out his points in the air as though he were hitting a blackboard. Turly watched as his left eyelid rose and fell whenever he seemed to be making an important point. ToastandJuice would nod or shake her head depending on her response. She was a quiet one. She did bob her head in time to her speech though. Turly could see her bobbing and weaving as though sparring through some onslaught that Poet had just leveled against her. She would also tap her finger on the table at the end of some brilliant point as though saying, “Look, you have to talk with mouth and hands, but I need one small finger to cement my point in stone!” Turly envied ToastandJuice and her Poet. They clearly knew one another well and felt comfortable even arguing. Now and then they’d fall silent, eat a little (Poet had the eggs and sausage. But he was Poet, not EggsandSausage yet). Then they would chat a little. Then grow intense. It was a cycle. Much like life Turly supposed as he covertly watched them while cleaning his grill, and cooking food.

Time passed and the breakfast crowd gave way to the LateMorningers, those from nine to eleven. They were usually retired folk. They had worked and lived and now were happy to stay in bed late and come out for the breakfast special at ten. Sometimes they’d just go right to lunch which Turly liked to cook best of all. That’s why he was a morning/day man. Buddy Vashon came on at two in the afternoon with the dinner shift. That was a change in counter people too. Marty left, along with Debbie the college kid and Clancy the washer. In came Brendan (another college kid), Shirleen, and Marty’s kid for washing. Turly and Marty were the oldest there. Turly was fifty-two. He was more like the LateMorningers he supposed than the breakfast or lunch crowd. He was beginning to envision retirement from his work, sleeping in past four a.m., and having someone else cook his Monday and Friday breakfast.

LateMorningers were an easy bunch. Well, cranky, but easy if you did your job. They usually had the same things: Prune juice, orange juice, or grapefruit juice; toast or pancakes, or eggs and hash browns. Come to think of it, they pretty much just cut out the good meaty stuff Turly still liked: Ham, sausage, chicken fried steak . . . the meat of meat and potatoes! They probably had to. Most of ‘em probably had heart problems, and were told to eat right by their doctors. In any event, they were easy to please if you did your job right. If you shorted them on enough potatoes, or didn’t get the coffee cup filled, or spilled a little juice, it could be hell. They’d grumble and crab about how service was “in my day” as though they were the only ones to invent good service. Turly would just grin and take it. His pop was like that too. Marty would wrangle right back at the men. They liked it, Turly thought. The women were less open to banter. You pretty much “yes ma’amed” them and let it be.

Turly supposed his pop would be considered a Late-LateMorninger. He didn’t really get up though. They gave his food to him through a tube over at Cresten Care Center. After mom had died, he had deteriorated pretty quick. Seemed like just a few months and he was in the Center. It was hard to watch. He went from alive and vital to a lump within the year. And it wasn’t like a disease that incapacitates you. It was like he was broken. Like he was withering away from the spirit out. He didn’t go out much, even for his walks after mom died. He slept a lot. Turly would go over and try to talk and play checkers and such, but they didn’t have the closest of relationships. Still, it’s no sight to watch your pop go down like that.

Ding! Sausage and biscuits; one egg. Marty swished it away. Probably the last meat for an hour or so thought Turly.

His pop used to like the meats. He’d have a hearty breakfast on Saturday in the morning. That’s where Turly learned to cook so good. Pop would show him all the tricks, like keeping a grill cooler to hold the potatoes in a rush hour, and how to turn the meat just right to get the lines on it. How to arrange the sausages like a star around the eggs. Some cooks just plunked it onto the plate and let ‘er go at that. Turly was so practiced at the details that he didn’t even notice he did them. Could be fifty people asking for food and their sausages would still come out in stars around the eggs. Astounded Marty the first time she saw it. And she’d seen lots of cooks. The way she commented on it made Turly blush a little.

Turly watched his pop go down until he could no longer go down anymore. He was taken to Cresten in a white ambulance and had been there since. Now he’s more a vegetable than his pop anymore. Turly thought his pop would appreciate the way his sausage stars and toast stacks came out. He was a good cook too.

About 8:45 things began to slow and Turly thought he’d take his break before the LateMorningers started to come in. He told Marty he’d be out back, and putting on his jacket, he again pushed out the back into the alley. His first break was nice. It was the first full couple of cigs he’d get after arriving at five a.m. Oh sure, he’d grab one or a half, if it was slow, but mostly he just went without till break. He eased himself down onto the crate he used as a seat in the chilly fall air of the back alley. The rain had wetted the cement, and the smell of the dumpster was just a light fragrance in the air. The cigarette masked it within seconds of ignition. Turly drew a long breath, exhaled, and spat into the small puddle in front of him. He had spent years in this alley. He saw businesses come and go on both sides. He’d seen waitresses, waiters, washers, cooks, and bosses come and go. The alley stayed pretty much the same. Dumpster, graffiti, some garbage, cigarette butts, and Turly. He’d taken his job as cook almost thirty years ago. He didn’t go to college. He never seemed to want more than a job and place. He lived in his parents place now. (All paid for thanks to pop and mom.) And he had his job. And not bragging, he was good at it. People came from all over for Turly’s food. And the truckers liked to stop too. Yuppies and bums. Everyone liked Turly’s food.

As Turly mused about this and that, the door cracked and Marty came out wrapped in her maroon sweater. She clutched it to her body against the chill. Turly offered her a cig, but she was quitting so she declined. “Just came out to chat a bit,” she said. They chatted every day back and forth during work. But now and then they would stand or sit in the alley and really talk. Sometimes they didn’t talk, but sometimes they did. Turly doubted Marty knew how much he loved her. He had loved her for years. Since before her husband died. He was good man. He always made Turly feel good about who he was. He was a businessman. But he seemed to wear it like a regular guy. It was a drunk driver killed him. Marty and Turly had been through it together as she got on with life after that. They had shared a lot, but never had Turly told Marty how he loved her. They never went out. He was too embarrassed to ask her, being fifty-two while she was just forty-five. And he was nothing to look at like she was. Sometimes, she’d have a day off and bring a date into the grill for some of Turly’s cooking. You’d have thought he’d be jealous, loving her and all. But he always made things even better for them. A little more egg or potato. Maybe an extra link of sausage. He did it for Marty. And Marty always introduced him to her dates. She’d say, “And this fine fare is from the hands of my best friend Turly Breidablick,” or something like that. He always blushed when she complimented him.

“What’s with ToastandJuice?” Turly asked. Marty answered, “I’m not sure, but the guy is cute, isn’t he?” She grinned at Turly after she said it because Turly let his mouth fall open in mock horror at her saying such a thing about such a young man. He only held it a second, then started giggling too. Yeah, he was “cute.” Marty said they were arguing over some sort of experiment they were doing in a class at the college. Turly couldn’t really envision Poet as a biologist like ToastandJuice. He was too, hmmm, troubled looking. He was gonna be Poet to Turly even if he ended up actually being a biologist. Maybe he just missed his calling.

“How ‘bout that Stan Karney?” said Marty. Turly looked at her waiting for more. It wasn’t her way to talk about customers just for a conversation topic. Sure, she’d talk if they did something of note, but not just to use them as gossip fodder. She continued, “Oh, you wouldn’t have noticed being so far in back, but his breath smelled like a brewery today! He tried to pick me up this morning!”

Turly shook his head in disbelief. “He was that drunk?” DoubleHash was a loud mouth, but this was the first time he’d come in drunk. That maybe explains some of his behavior.

Marty nodded and said, “He was drunk or hung over. He wanted me to come with him and massage his head for him.” Marty said that with a tone of “can you believe it?!” in her voice. She’d already turned DoubleHash down a dozen times. (You’d have thought Marty would smack him with her feelings about drunks.) He was persistent. Sometimes Turly thought he only came in to try to woo Marty. The order of double hash browns and eggs was just a ruse. Still, he always had it. Turly grinned to himself thinking maybe ol’ DoubleHash would ask him out if the Marty thing didn’t come through.

But Turly’s grin faded as he thought about Marty. He looked at her leaning against the wall by him. She looked pretty today. Her maroon sweater looked good with her hair. It was kinda dark and shiny. And there was that nice, uh, shape too. She was very beautiful to Turly. Lately he’d been thinking of screwing himself up and asking her out on a real date. They actually went “out” all the time. To dinner, and a movie sometimes. But it was never as a “couple.” It was more like good friends; work friends. There was this good restaurant out on the east side of town he had heard her comment on. Maybe Friday they could go out there together. He was musing about how to broach the subject when Marty tsked her tongue and said, “Well hon” (she called him hon like your mom would), “Well hon,” she said, “time to hit the grind.” They had chatted and sat for fifteen minutes and it was indeed time to get back at it. Turly nodded to her, stood, and opened the door for her. “Thank you” she said, dipping her head and smiling as she entered the grill again. Turly followed her, retying his apron.

No one new had shown up in the interim (as Turly had expected), and he now had a few minutes or so to wash his hands, scrape the grill again, wipe the cooking area, and get some condiments. About nine the LateMorningers began to appear. Turly knew them by their dress rather than their orders. GolfPants and his buddies came in first usually. Where he got those pants, and how his wife ever let him leave the house with them on was hard to say. Turly was always amazed that there were that many colors of plaid.

A little later the rest came in; mixed in, of course, with once-in-awhile types. There was Bluehair and her friend Hotlips (she always had on the brightest lipstick imaginable, even when it totally conflicted with her clothes). There was Doc and his wife. They came in on Mondays when he was going over to the free clinic. He was actually retired, but still did free exams on Mondays for poor people. It was funny, of all the people who should know better, he’d always order a really big doughnut as an appetizer to his breakfast. Probably told all his patients to watch their diets, but he still had his doughnut every Monday morning! Turly smiled as he watched them sit down.

Mostly the rest of the day went as usual. People came and went, ordered and ate. Turly cooked and cleaned and served the people good food. Marty shmoozed with the regulars and made the once-in-awhilers feel good. The second shift came in at two and took over, and Marty and Turly and the rest went to their respective homes. As Turly sat at his kitchen table watching Oprah and eating hot dogs that afternoon, he wondered how he was going to ask Marty to go out with him so that she’d get it the way it was intended. He usually just said, “Hey, let’s go have dinner,” and they would go. But this was going to be a different thing. A date. He hadn’t dated in years and years. He never found the right woman. And after meeting Marty, he didn’t really look. Even though she was married and happy.

It was a hard time for her when her husband died. It was hard for Turly too. He liked Mitch a lot. But way down, his spirit betrayed him and felt a pang of joy at the prospect of Marty being single—available. He was deeply ashamed of that feeling and couldn’t look her in the eyes when it came to him. In time he realized it was just his loneliness speaking. But still, he liked Mitch and never wanted him dead. And he especially didn’t like the pain in Marty’s life. Things had cooled now. Mitch had been dead for years and both of them had learned to live again. Marty with her missing him, and Turly with his guilt at desiring Marty.

Turly finished Oprah. (It was about makeovers this time. He was amazed at how pretty she could make people with just clothes and makeup!) He then read a little and settled into his easy chair for some math. Most people probably thought Turly Breidablick was a good cook and a decent man. And that he was not very smart. After all, he was a grill cook in a diner for twenty-six years. But Turly was not near as dumb people might have thought. He just loved the job he’d taken years ago, and didn’t see why he should leave it for something just ‘cause he’d make more money. And he didn’t need the mental stimulation of another job; he had his math. At night, when most busy business men and professionals were relaxing from a day’s work, Turly Breidablick would do math. He loved multi-variable calculus, topography, number theory and many other topics. He would spend hours manipulating numbers and proofs; all self-taught. He had spent a year working on proofs for Fermat’s last theorem without success. Even when it had been proven by use of high speed computers, he had still pursued it. If Fermat himself could find a proof that fit into a few pages of his journals without high speed computers, then there was still something to find! And Turly dreamed of finding that elegant proof that would amaze the world. Besides the math also helped him think. And he needed to ponder how to ask Marty out.

Tuesday morning was different from Monday. Less regulars. People just seem to want to start the week off with the comfort of a habit. So Mondays had lots of regulars with regular orders. Get the week off on the right foot perhaps. Tuesday was different. More once-in-awhilers. Writer came in though. She always came in Tuesday through Friday at about eight o’clock. She would take the corner table by the Coke clock (OverMedium’s table on Monday) and spread her notebooks out. She would order a muffin and coffee and spend the whole morning writing and watching. Turly thought Writer would probably publish someday if effort were any indicator. She always had lots of stuff with her. And she always showed up. Even on the worst mornings when no one else was out and about. She was there, nibbling at a muffin, drinking coffee and writing.

This particular Tuesday did hold one surprise for Turly. Around seven ToastandJuice and Poet came in. She never came in for breakfast except on Mondays. She’d have lunch sometimes later in the week. But Mondays were dependable. And here it was Tuesday, and she was back! And with Poet again. They took a table off to the side too; not ToastandJuice’s regular table this time. They ordered two Omelets, no potatoes, juice and coffee. Turly grinned when he saw the order. Poet was having an impact on ToastandJuice! Turly again envied ToastandJuice and Poet. He wondered how they met, what they had said. He needed something to break the ice with Marty and ask her out. Something that would signal more than another dinner. It was going to take some thought. It would be easiest to just say what he felt. How he loved her, and wanted to go out with her. But for all Turly’s intelligence with numbers and food, he was not able to express himself with people that way. This was going to take some effort.