Breakfast at Sally's

by Richard LeMieux

  I wanted to look inside the bag but chose not to. I wondered if I was carrying pot, needles, contraband, or some illicit drug. Sally’s was only ten minutes away, and I drove carefully. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got there and handed Jake the rumpled bag, saying, “C asked me to give this to you.”

  “How is the old boy this morning? Still his birthday? Still thirty-three, is he?” Jake asked, taking the bag from my hand. He opened the bag, looked, and then reached inside. “Great,” he said, pulling out a paperback book. “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption,” Jake said, holding up the novella. “Have you read it?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “I’ve seen the movie,” Jake continued. “I like Morgan Freeman! ‘There are places not made of stone... Yet, let me tell you something, my friend: Hope is a dangerous thing.’” Then he motioned to the serving line, saying, “Let’s go get some gruel.”

  As we headed up to collect our bowls, I heard a voice. “R-Richard!” It was Earl, Betty, and the girls, sitting at a table at the back of the room. Earl raised his hand and smiled as he waved. I waved back.

  I ate three bowls of oatmeal and then decided to take the money C had given me last night and this morning and go out into the world. With my stomach full and warm and a few bucks in my pocket, there seemed to be the faintest rebirth of hope, or at least a willingness to not give in to despair.

  Perhaps it was time for an adventure. Perhaps I needed to go searching for angels in Bremerton, Washington. What harm could it do?

  Chapter 5

  GOING LOOKING FOR ANGELS

  A fog had settled over the city.

  As I pulled out of the alley beside Sally’s, I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. I was just going for a ride, with no destination. In a few blocks I came to a T junction; most of the cars turned left, so I turned right. Big white letters spelling out puget sound naval shipyard were painted on the side of a looming old brick building on my left, set behind the high fence that ran the length of the street.

  On my right was a string of little houses, block after block of them, built side by side. I thought of that song Pete Seeger used to sing:

  Little boxes on the hillside.

  Little boxes, all the same.

  I kept on driving and came to another T in the road. This time, most of the people turned right, so I turned left.

  As I rounded the corner, I could see the tall towers of a line of old aircraft carriers in the distance. I slowed down as I got closer. They were mammoth World War II-era ships. They sat in the harbor side by side—gray ghosts from another time and place. The traffic just whizzed past them, drivers changing lanes as if they were in the final lap of the Daytona 500.

  It was a dumping ground for the old ships.

  Stray thoughts continued to rattle around in my brain. I wondered if I was alive. Perhaps I had succeeded in my leap from the bridge and this was just some dream in the final stage of dying. Perhaps I was a ghost.

  The sound of a horn directly behind me verified that I was still among the living. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw the face of a young man. I could see his eyes as he brought his Ford truck within inches of my bumper, yelling obscenities and flicking his cigarette ash out the window. He pulled out to pass me, the blaring music from his stereo jarring my fragile nerves.

  Three other vehicles passed by me, including the ice-cream wagon, bellowing its doodilly, doodilly tune. The driver gave me the finger.

  The road I was on branched up ahead into two freeway entrances, one heading north (but I didn’t have enough gas to go far that way) and the other heading south toward the Tacoma Narrows Bridge (and I couldn’t face seeing that again today). I pulled off to the side of the road, rolled down my window, and turned off the engine.

  I stared out at the ships. I remembered one of my friends telling me about them a few years ago when we were on our way for a round of golf. This was a graveyard, all right. Like those old iron hulks, I seemed to be trapped in not-quite-life.

  We had driven past Bremerton a number of times, my affluent golf buddies and I, on the way to a well-manicured course called Gold Mountain. With my polished Ping Zing golf clubs in the back of the van, Mark, Ted, Steve, and I would cruise along.

  We were an odd foursome: Mark and I were staunch Republicans, and Steve and Ted were dedicated Democrats. We would jab at each other in political swordplay, but we also knew when to stop—just before drawing blood. We were linked together in our worship of the god of golf at least once a week.

  One morning we exited at the cloverleaf just on the edge of the city and drove to a local restaurant for breakfast before hitting the links. We swung into a parking place right near the door. As we got out, I locked the doors with my key-chain remote. “The van still running pretty good?” Ted asked.

  “Sure is,” I replied.

  “What did Danny DeVito call that type of van in Get Shorty?” Ted asked.

  “The Cadillac of minivans,” I replied. We went into the bar adjoining the dining area and sat down.

  The waitress stepped up right behind us, menus in hand. She knew good tippers when she saw them; she could tell by our attire. I was sporting my tan $250 Mephisto loafers and a $125 Cutter and Buck polo shirt. Steve, a tall, sandy-haired attorney, was pure Johnston and Murphy, and Mark, an insurance salesman, wore his Dockers golf ensemble—shirt, pants, and belt. Ted, a contractor, was a Calloway man, with the logo stitched on the breast pocket of his shirt, on the wallet pocket of his blue pants, and even on his socks. All together, we could have stepped right off the pages of Golf Magazine.

  I scooted into a seat of the booth that faced out to the busy street and glanced at my Rolex. “What’s our tee time?” I asked.

  “We’re up at 12:05,” answered Steve. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Then I’ll have a Bloody Mary to get me rolling,” I said to the waitress.

  She nodded in response to my order. “You headed for the golf course?” she asked, handing each of us a menu.

  “How did you guess?” Mark smiled. “I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary, too.”

  “And you two gentlemen?” the waitress asked Ted and Steve.

  “Just coffee for me,” Steve said.

  “Coffee for me, too,” Ted replied, opening his menu.

  “I recommend the Eggs Benedict here,” Ted said.

  “You’ve eaten here before?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve been in a few times when I’ve been down here bidding on some projects,” he said.

  “Did you land any of those bids?” Steve asked.

  “No,” Ted said. “Actually, good jobs are few and far between down here. When they built the mall up the highway, the city began a slow death. First the Sears and then the Penney’s closed. It’s like a ghost town now.” He nodded toward the downtown area. “There’s lots of bums wandering around town during the day. Some call it ‘Bummertown.’ And at night you really don’t want to go down there. Lots of homeless people begging for money to buy booze; lots of druggies, too. There’s meth everywhere, and it’s pretty rough. You could get killed.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re not working for the Bremerton Chamber of Commerce,” I laughed.

  Two waitresses rounded the corner with laden trays. “It’s breakfast time, gentlemen,” one of them said as she served us our feast.

  As I dug into my Eggs Benedict I asked, “So, is there anything good about this town?”

  “The Gold Mountain golf course,” Ted said, laughing. We all joined in. “And that little theater downtown is kind of nice.”

  I took the last sip of my Bloody Mary and signaled for another.

  “I’ll take another, too,” Mark said, holding up his glass.

  “This is a navy town,” Ted said, after taking a slurp of his coffee. “The town booms when the country’s at war,” he continued. “Three or four thousand sailors walk down the ramps of those ships when they make port. Head straight for the booze
, women, and cars.”

  “Hell, isn’t that what all young men want?” Steve said, as the waitress came back with our fresh drinks and coffee refills.

  “Years ago, the core of the town was lined with bars, and then the Catholics and Protestants began a building campaign—two churches for every bar that opened. They wanted to save those poor, lost sailors. In the late thirties, Bremerton made Ripley’s Believe It or Not as the city with the most churches in one city block.”

  “Well, Ted, aren’t you just the Thornton Wilder of this town!” Mark tossed in, a smirk on his face.

  “You know what’s really funny?” Ted asked. “Now, despite all the churches, Washington State ranks lowest in the nation in church attendance, and Bremerton ranks lowest in the state! So, when was the last time you went to church, Steve?”

  “I went last Christmas,” Steve replied.

  “Mark?” Ted continued.

  “I go every once in a while—looking for insurance clients,” Mark answered.

  “And you, Richard?” Ted turned to me.

  “I went to a funeral—maybe five years ago,” I replied.

  “No wonder you miss so many three-foot putts,” Ted laughed. “You’re not putting enough in the collection plate!”

  “Who are the players here?” Mark asked Ted.

  “A guy named Bremer was a real estate tycoon,” Ted replied. “He bought and sold land and made big bucks when the navy needed a port. He’s long gone now, but his fingerprints are all over the city. His money helped build a college and a bunch of other stuff, too. You know, Bill Gates’ great-grandfather lived here.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” Steve said.

  “Yeah,” Ted said. “He had a secondhand store down near the waterfront. But right now, the city is dying. It’s got a thirty-percent poverty rate, more than its share of slum lords, and a whole lot of homeless people.”

  I took the last bite of my Eggs Benedict. “Why doesn’t the city just chase the homeless over to Seattle?” I asked. “Get them some jobs; put them to work at McDonald’s.”

  Ted laughed. “You know, Rich, you’ve been listening to Rush Limbaugh way too much. You want a simple solution to a complicated problem. The homeless need help—a place to live, a place to get cleaned up, a well-paying job, and they need respect and kindness and motivation. You’ve got people with broken minds, broken hearts, broken spirits, and sometimes broken bodies. Don’t be so dismissive. It could happen to any of us.”

  That was a thought none of us wanted to entertain. We were momentarily silent, until Steve chimed in with levity again. “Except Rich,” he said. “He’s the man who has everything. He’s the self-made man!” They all snickered.

  “You guys are just trying to get me to pick up the tab,” I said.

  “Well, it’s your turn anyway,” Ted said. He glanced at his watch. “Hey, we’ve got to get going; the golf gods are calling. I want to hit a bucket of practice balls before we tee off.”

  “Me too,” Steve said, as they both moved out of the booth and stood up.

  I grabbed the check and, pulling my money clip from my pocket, peeled off four twenties and dropped them on the table. Then I rushed out to catch up with my buddies.

  Wheeeeeeeeeew! The sound of a shrill noon whistle came from the shipyard.

  I could smell the salt water. I could hear the seagulls cawing as they flew above the big ships. My angels were not here, only ghosts from the past. I looked up at the tall tower of the gray carrier filling my visual space. I saw the number “61” in large black letters; below that I could barely make out the name “Constellation.”

  I could feel one of the ghosts looking down at me from the edge of the ship’s deck. He was joined by another, and another, and yet another, until I could feel a hundred eyes looking down at me. I could feel them in my being, telling me I didn’t belong here by the side of this road.

  I knew I didn’t belong here; I didn’t really belong anywhere. So I figured I would have to keep moving.

  Which direction should I go now?

  What signs should I follow?

  I didn’t know.

  I reached for the ignition key and was startled by someone knocking on the passenger window. I didn’t see him coming, and neither did Willow, who had been sleeping on the seat beside me. My little dog barked, just once; then she jumped up to put her front paws on the window.

  A tall young man peered in, and I pushed the button to roll the window down. “Pardon me,” he began. “Could you possibly give me a ride into downtown?”

  I turned and looked straight ahead before answering. I saw the big green sign with white letters just ahead: tacoma NARROWS bridge—31 miles.

  “Sure,” I said. “Hop in.”

  He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

  I looked in the rearview mirror to check for traffic. It was clear. As I began a wide U-turn, the young man asked, “Do you know where the Salvation Army is?”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “Well, my dad just kicked me out, and someone told me they have food there. Do you think that’s right?”

  I smiled. “You bet. If we hurry, we’ll just make it in time for lunch.”

  Chapter 6

  THE FOOD ANGELS

  “I give it four stars,” I said, lifting my fork and savoring a bite of asparagus topped with melted cheese and crumbled bacon.

  “I beg to disagree. It is most definitely a five-star,” C responded. “The sliced ham is moist and perfectly textured, the yams are delectable, and certainly you must agree that the spinach dish is simply elegant. I say, bon appétit.”

  We both laughed. “All we need now is a nice bottle of Sangiovese,” I observed.

  “No, no, no!” C countered. “A Shiraz, definitely a Shiraz. But I don’t think we’ll get that here.”

  C had taken me to The Lord’s Diner, a free community meal for the poor, in the basement of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I had spent my second night in Bremerton in the church’s parking lot.

  It was the first of many church dinners C would lead me to. We would always rate the food—one to five—like a culinary Siskel and Ebert team.

  The Lord’s Diner served meals from three to five p.m. on Saturday and Sunday, Easter Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, and New Year’s Day. The Diner was the domain of Delsie Peebles, a diminutive black lady. The regulars referred to the Diner as “Mrs. Peebles.’” She looked like I imagine Oprah will look when she is seventy. She was always dressed well, in a skirt and a floral blouse, and her short hair was fashionably combed. Around her neck she always wore a red strap that held a dozen keys to the many doors she had to open to get the food for 130 or more hungry people.

  Mrs. Peebles put out a sandwich-board sign at the corner of the church ever Saturday at nine a.m. A cooking and cleaning crew of mostly older volunteer women assembled to slice and dice. There was also an assortment of men who needed to work off court-ordered community service time. The wet and the cold could come in at about noon and get a cup of hot coffee, as long as they kept quiet and stayed out of the way. And behaved!

  It was also clean-up day for many who had no other access to a bathtub or shower. From noon to one p.m., the ladies were able to use the shower in the men’s bathroom, and from one to two, the men got their turn. Mrs. Peebles provided the soap, but you had to have your own towel.

  There was a sign by the kitchen door that read: do not steal From the lord’s diner. you Will be removed. I didn’t know if that meant you would be removed from the Diner, or, you know, removed!

  Mrs. Peebles possessed a booming set of vocal cords. “Don’t mess with Mrs. Peebles,” I was warned in an earnest whisper by one of our tablemates, as C and I were joking about our choice of wine. Delsie had a few rules: You had to behave, be upright, no swearing, no fighting, and no drugs. And you had to share and be courteous. She seemed to have Superwoman’s hearing when an unacceptable swear word was uttered. “You know, there is no swearing like that a
llowed here,” she would turn and call out to the perpetrator. Even the biggest and the baddest would tremble when she cleared her throat. She did not need a microphone.

  Mr. Peebles was a distinguished-looking man, apparently well trained. He would sit near the window reading the newspaper until his wife approached, and with a nod or a wave of her hand, she would dispatch him to go pick up people needing a ride to the meal. He would always pull a checklist from his top shirt pocket with the list of addresses that she had obviously given him.

  Mrs. Peebles orchestrated the activities in her basement diner all day, welcoming her guests as if they were the most notable dignitaries in the world. Each of the tables was covered with a cloth and a place setting for the season. Colorful paper napkins and bowls of fish crackers, bread sticks, or chips were set out. Often carrot sticks and celery slices awaited her guests. It was so nice that if the Lord himself had shown up, he would have been proud. And he would have been welcome, too, even if he were dirty and smelly—as long as he didn’t swear, stayed upright, ate all his food, and behaved himself.

  The guests were always served at their tables, and Mrs. Peebles was usually able to arrange for some local church youth group to carry the plates of food to the tables. This served at least two purposes: It eliminated the line of 130 hungry people, and it gave the young people a chance to get a “warm and fuzzy feeling” from helping the poor. More important, it helped them learn that the homeless were not going to bite, or spread germs, or whatever else they may have feared.

  The homeless were there—like C and me, and the guys living in the woods under tarps. Earl and his family were there, and they all waved enthusiastically as C and I entered the room. There were many red eyes from too much cheap wine on Friday night. There were the elderly, many with walkers, who had to choose between spending their money on medicine or on food. Families with small children, who had no heat, gas, or electricity after their utilities had been shut off, were there. Vets from World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and the Gulf War were there. Even some of the men and women hiding from the law risked a trip to Mrs. Peebles.