by W.H. Harrod
It’s going to be a hot one, I thought as I made my way down the single flight of wooden stairs that allowed access to Junior Junior’s second floor carriage house apartment. My how time flies when one is having fun. I’d repeated this sentiment almost daily for a month now. I was obviously intent on using hackneyed phrases rather than my brain for source material while having another of those troubling conversations with myself. Irritated, I stopped in mid-stride. “I told you to stop talking to yourself. Do you hear me?” I said aloud. “Yes,” I replied, much to my annoyance.
Looking around to see if anyone had noticed me, and observing not a living being nearby, I breathed a sigh of relief. Once more assured I would be dealing with my conscious self for the foreseeable future, I headed straight for Junior Junior’s diner located across the gravel lot in front of me. Flo, my waitress/cook, whom I hired the first day I took charge, had been there for two hours. She opened up, and I closed. As I approached the entrance, pickup trucks were pulling into the lot carrying workers headed to jobs located throughout the county and beyond. Whether we liked it or not, the services and products we offered every workday determined in part how the rest of their day went. If we weren’t open at exactly 6 a.m. and the coffee wasn’t hot and the food wasn’t tasty, then we expected to be held partly to blame if the remainder of their day did not go well. And don’t think they wouldn’t let you know about it the next time they came in. I’m not at all certain an accident on the way to work might be of less importance than a plate of cold gravy and runny scrambled eggs.
Fortunately with Flo doing most of the cooking, we did not have to worry. A natural born diner cook and waitress, she’d served people food most of her life. Said that’s all she ever wanted to do, except for finding the right man. She’d been married three times and let it be known she was looking for number four. All the previous husbands had not lived up to her expectations was the story I heard without ever having to ask. I’d been forewarned to not make the mistake of inquiring what deficiencies were present in them. Apparently, much of the problem dealt with what went on during the late evening hours between the covers. Rumor was she just plain wore the guys out to the point they up and ran off looking for a safe place to get a night’s rest.
Everybody liked her. It’s simply that nobody wanted to give her the notion they were interested in being number four. I took the precaution of dispelling any notion of my being a candidate for number four by coming straight out and informing her I got my balls shot off in the war. Although that’s not true, I could see how she had started to size me up, and I became desperate. She responded to this unexpected and unsolicited bit of personal information on my part by saying she suspected right off something was different about me. She had cause to wonder, she said, as I hadn’t displayed any interest at all towards such a fine example of middle-aged womanhood. She thought maybe I might be one of those, you know, happy people. I thanked her for her understanding and made a mental note to add some crude typical male expletives to my everyday vocabulary to support my claim to manhood. We made quite a team. She was the lovelorn fry cook, and I falsely claimed to be without the tools to make me a prime candidate for her number four.
After only a month during which Flo and I worked out an entirely new menu as well as hours of operation, a regular morning crowd formed and let the new management know they intended to be there every workday morning expecting us to send them off to the mines fully awake with full stomachs and a hearty “Thank you very much and please come back,” ringing in their ears. Distinct and sometimes odd personalities began to emerge. There was the bug-eyed County Judge who always sat by himself in the farthest corner. Other customers referred to him as the Taxi Driver because he always looked around to see if anyone was staring at him. Obviously paranoid, the guy confronted anyone caught looking in his direction. “Are you looking at me?” he’d inquire on those occasions parroting that famous actor in the movie. Consequently, none of the newly formed regulars made that mistake more than once. Gossip had it, he believed drug dealers from back east, who accidentally lost a big shipment of marijuana in the county when one of their mules got stoned on the cargo and drove a beater Cadillac full of the stuff through one of the anti-drug billboards prominently displayed along side the county’s main arterial, put a contract on him. The driver, reportedly a relative of the owner of the illicit weed, landed in the county jail and probably would stay there for the next four hundred years if the judge got his way. There was also the Mayor who sold insurance, stocks, bonds, mutual funds, pyramid scheme soap, real estate, and Girl Scout cookies. If the guy added used cars to his repertoire he would represent the complete pantheon of dreaded salespersons most wage earners wanted not to find themselves alone with. Fortunately, he did not stop in everyday or business would surely have suffered. I calculated I could make a decent living as the lucky guy who sold him his business cards. He reportedly stuck cards in every hand, pocket, sack, mail slot, cookie bag, windshield wiper, and on every bulletin board in a twenty-mile radius. At last count, I had thirteen in less than thirty days.
I also took interest in one guy who wore a ball cap signifying he’d served in the 1st Infantry Division in Vietnam in 1969. I had served in the same unit during that time period. I hadn’t confronted him yet with the news that I, too, laid claim to being a fellow Big Red One survivor of that most unfortunate expedition. I wanted to wait until I had more time to exchange old war stories with him. I expected it would be good to talk with an individual who most likely shared, at least, some of my experiences. He appeared to be every bit as socially challenged as me so I wanted to approach him cautiously. You never knew what you were going to get from a fellow Nam vet when you identified your colors. As they used to say in our unit back in the Nam, “If you’re going to be one, then be a Big Red One!”
There were others whom I felt sure qualified for the ‘list of characters’ roll I had unintentionally created in my mind: Preacher Roy, the sausage bludgeoner led the list. Sheriff Slaybaugh, my unwelcome wagon host, made it. Junior Junior, need I say more? The Democrat hippie lady, one Mary June Jangles, who had decided to give up on the restaurant idea since Junior Junior’s now produced edible food which put the kibosh on her attempt to convert the town to her health food menu also got included. This event suspiciously coincided with the recent appearance of middle finger obscene gestures drawn in the dust on Junior Junior’s vehicle and storefront windows. I hadn’t met the woman personally, but I can only imagine what she’s like if she’s the type to get mad because other folks don’t share her passion in foods that don’t bleed.
To complete my preliminary local cast of characters’ list, I must include another individual I’d yet to set eyes upon. He was referred to only as UB2, short for Unabomber Two. Seems this elderly gentleman showed up in town from who knows where almost ten years ago and settled in at the stately old Muxlow estate out on the south edge of town. All the local folks know is that his initials are D. B. He almost never came to town, and when he did, it was to make appearances at the local bank and post office, where he mailed a single package before making a quick stop at the supermarket/deli/bakery/movie rental establishment. When he finished, he walked directly south on the county highway back to his home, and no one saw him again until the first of the next month. He never talked to anybody, ever, and he always wore dark sunglasses and a jacket with a hood pulled over his head, just like the Unabomber did in the police sketches. You say hello to him, and he just passed on by. People wondered what he did out there alone. Can’t anyone say, though, because the house is at least an eighth mile back off the road, surrounded by trees and shrubs. Hardly anyone came around on the same day that he did any more as they didn’t want to get blown up if he happens to be mailing one of those suspected package bombs. Sheriff Slaybaugh told them they were out of their minds and to let the poor man live in peace, but his opinion had scant effect. I didn’t know how I’d manage it, but this was one guy I badly wanted to meet. For some weird reason, I thought we migh
t have something in common, namely, everybody in town thought us both to be strange. I didn’t tell the other folks this because I was on a very short leash as it was. I wondered on a number of occasions if he might not be the second Democrat.
Scarcely had I completed my mental wanderings before I found myself approaching the diner’s front door. The early morning sun in the east showed signs of another scorcher day. Best make sure there is plenty of tea and crushed ice for all the carry outs, I thought as I pushed against the heavy glass door allowing passage into the building housing my newest résumé-expanding venture.
“Hurry, Will! This bunch is about to drive me up the wall with all their, ‘Please hurry or I’m going to be late,’ bullshit. Ain’t none of them got to be at work for an hour, and most of them won’t be missed if they don’t show up at all.” Flo looked to be in her usual fine form. She didn’t take any crap from anyone and, by now, everyone knew it. She also gave the best service around which is why the guys didn’t take offense when she jumped square into their phony efforts to get their individual orders a little quicker.
“Hey Flo, I’m telling you I’ll be late if I can’t get out this door in the next three minutes,” complained one of the young guys who drove daily to the county seat to the east to spend the day working at the plant manufacturing rear attachments for tractors.
“Hey, give me a break kid! You still got fifty minutes to drive a measly twenty miles. I know your momma and don’t think I won’t tell her the next time I see her at church that you’re always giving me a hard time in the mornings. I know she didn’t raise you to be disrespectful to your elders.” Flo knew all of their parents or wives and would not hesitate to tell on the whole bunch of them.
“I ain’t trying to be disrespectful, Flo,” pleaded the impatient young man. “I just got to get to work early today to show the boss that that weaseling little prick from Dorn County ain’t a more ‘conscientious employee’ than me. We’re both trying to get the next promotion coming up.”
Flo set the sack of sausage and egg biscuits on the counter right as the young man finished pleading his case. “Thanks Flo, you’re the best,” he yelled over his shoulder as he turned towards the door leaving a five-dollar bill on the counter. She smiled as she placed the five in the till while extracting a single dollar bill to place in the tip jar.
“That boy knows better then to start yelling at me. Why I changed that boy’s diapers many a time back in the day,” said Flo. She finished fending off this most recent mildly agitated member of the local blue collar workers’ society, then turned back to the grill where more sausages and scrambled eggs awaited delivery to the breakfast buffet bar or being piled directly on to one of the tasty biscuits destined for the carry-out trade.
“Hey, Will,” came a shout from the big table over in the corner where all the ‘old geezers’ sat who didn’t have a darn thing to do for the most part except talk about how bad the younger generation and the librals back east were screwing up the world. “You know how you can tell the difference between one of those eastern librals and a lazy polecat?”
Not surprised to hear taunts coming from the ‘geezer corner,’ as it was christened by the younger customers who were also well accustomed to receiving unflattering comments from the tables surrounded by mostly octogenarian truants, I went along as usual with their little game. “Why no gentlemen, I can’t say that I do know how to tell the difference,” I said with a smile.
My response caused the whole table to grin in unison. I obviously had set myself up for whatever political mischief they might be inclined to come up with that morning.
“Well, Will,” said Big Bob Buford, the usual instigator of the group’s semi-senile mischief, “that’s because there ain’t no difference! Ha! Ha! Ha!” The whole table erupted in laughter that lasted until Hubert Crackenthaller started gasping for air so hard they had to help him put his oxygen mask back on. Usually he had it on, but he must have wanted to enjoy a chew of tobacco with his morning coffee.
I smiled as usual and walked back into the kitchen to see where I could help out. The geezers would amuse themselves for the better part of the next hour with this latest attempt at liberal bashing. Upon entering the kitchen, I noticed the two large pans of cinnamon rolls were over half gone. The blueberry muffin trays also looked thin. I reminded myself to ask Flo if it wouldn’t be wise for me to get another tray of each prepared for her the night before just in case. It didn’t usually require much more effort on my part. Unbeknownst to the customers who seemed to be growing happier everyday with Junior Junior’s new menu and management, all it took to get the trays of cinnamon rolls ready for Flo to bake fresh the next morning was to take several dozen small, frozen solid and un-proofed rolls out of a big box stored in a freezer that were delivered by a wholesale restaurant supplier in Salina and place them on baking pans that I then shoved into a crudely constructed proofer box I’d built from scrap parts. By the time Flo came in at 4 a.m., they would be puffed up and ready to be placed in one of the two large pizza ovens I discovered under piled boxes in the back of Junior Junior’s kitchen the very first day. After a time in the oven, Junior Junior’s became the place to go to get the best cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins in the county. Customers never suspected the rolls came out of a box of frozen pellets and the muffins from a box of premixed ingredients, and we never got around to telling them any different. If it made them feel good to think that flour-covered bakers slaved away all night long to get these legitimately tasty pastry items to their hungry mouths the next morning, it worked for us.
This pretty much described our complete diner operating system— provide a wholesome menu that tastes good, can be prepared quickly, served in volume by the fewest people, and at a reasonable price. Fortunately, my earlier training as an industrial engineer/cost accountant hadn’t been for naught. Though Flo would tell you it was nothing more than the application of some good old common sense, which she lamented, was in short supply these days.
Satisfied that Flo didn’t need me behind the counter where she held court over all who approached, I decided to check out the breakfast bar. That’s where we really saved the time while gaining the good graces of the folks who, for the most part, did not have the time to sit around waiting for their breakfast to be made to order. We endeavored to keep the ample sized, movable, sneeze proofed and heated food bar well-stocked with basic breakfast items: scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon, gravy, big fluffy biscuits, silver dollar-sized hot cakes, along with syrup, fruit, orange juice, jelly, butter, and bran cereal for those who might need some help getting that heaping helping out the other end before their next visit. For those who didn’t arrive with such hearty appetites, they could choose a smaller portion to go or stay. All indications said the whole town plus the surrounding area was well pleased with our efforts. Not a single person acted upset that one of those ‘librals’ now made himself at home in the community that was proud they twice voted into office an individual considered by millions, and maybe even billions, of humans around the world to be the most inept politician to darken our country’s hallowed Presidential halls in all its history.
All of this went on without the assistance, or perhaps the interference, of Junior Junior, who it so happened, seemed okay with not having to take the former abuse he previously received in abundance. Now he only needed to stand behind the cash register and take the money. Seeing as his sales of gas, lubricants, candy, soda pop, coffee, smokes, and some of the areas finest chewing tobacco grew substantially, along with the booming diner business, he appeared to be a happy Junior Junior.
Satisfied the food bar looked well stocked and the customers happy, I decided to check out the register to see if Junior Junior adhered to my new cash register coding system. Previously, he rang up all sales under a single code, when he remembered to do it at all, resulting in a homogenous and useless total at the end of the day. We ended up with nothing resembling an accurate sales break down, which meant we had no
idea where our profit and loss centers were. Junior Junior seemed right perturbed at my insisting upon all of us taking the time to correctly record all sales by the proper classification. That was until I showed him after only a couple weeks that certain items were not worth the effort and that his profits would increase if we concentrated on those areas and items that displayed marketability. Junior Junior became the much happier entrepreneur with the increased sales as well as the praise being heaped upon him from all sectors for making the brilliant changes responsible for turning his once struggling business around. I personally wanted to tell people they should be thanking Preacher Roy because it was his idea to bring in someone possessing an IQ more than two numerical digits in length. The only thing he griped about after that related to my insistence that he reconcile the daily cash receipts and expenditures using forms I designed for his business and then deposit all money less the next day’s opening cash in the local bank night deposit box. I made sure everyone knew we kept little cash on the premises after closing.
As I surveyed the building, I admitted to myself that quite a lot had changed for the better in the last four weeks. It hadn’t been that difficult to determine where and what changes needed to be made in the operation of the business. I even somewhat enjoyed using my past administrative and accounting experiences to affect a going business in a positive and profitable way. At times during the month, I harkened back to the times when I enjoyed being a part of corporate America’s business elite. The feeling did not last for long before I recalled all the bullshit that went along with the few good experiences.
In my opinion, corporate America represented, with but few exceptions, everything screwed up and fatally flawed about our country’s capitalistic system. If we could be so lucky as to find another Teddy Roosevelt, I felt sure he would waste little time before shoving his rough riding boots up their collective thieving asses once more. I gave up hope of that happening long ago. The two party political system was completely corrupt and beyond redemption. American politics dealt primarily with the transfer of wealth. The Republican Party ensured that the wealth traveled upwards to benefit the wealthy elite leaving the scraps and the debt to the common folk and ironically, most of the delusional right wing sycophants who believed they, too, were members of a more deserving minority. Even now as their way of life crumbled beneath all the cancerous subprime debt presently threatening to destroy small town Kansas lifestyles, most followers persisted in believing all true adherents would be saved by the fraudulent elected officials who were beholden first and foremost to their corporate benefactors.
The Democrats, if possible, were even more pathetic as they believed the country’s wealth best traveled in a downward direction to the poor and less fortunate which it sometimes temporarily did as transfer payments before ultimately ending up in the same corporate coffers. They wanted to save the world, while for the most part, living side by side in the same suburban enclaves with their delusional Republican brethren enjoying all the same amenities. They, likewise, commuted many miles daily to places of employment via large automobiles requiring billions of barrels of oil yearly from foreigners who despise us, yet were willing to underwrite more of the increasing national debt we ran up to finance this crazy lifestyle. The Democrats wanted to tax rich people and corporations, and the Republicans believed practically all taxes and social services should be abolished. Both had indicated they were perfectly willing, if push came to shove, to pay for this public largess by having the country borrow the money from foreigners, ourselves, our children, or, if necessary, by printing it.
I reminded myself I risked getting all riled up again, and for nothing, if I kept thinking about the mess we were in. I could go off on a tangent at the drop of a hat. That’s one reason I no longer worked for corporate America. The injustice and stupidity of the whole system drove me to the point where I sometimes became a ranting lunatic, railing at the unmitigated arrogance and outright greed exhibited by high level corporate executives or the simple minded, well-intended, let’s save the entire world even though we’re bankrupt and won’t reduce our standard of living to pay for it, efforts of the Democrats.
I reflected upon my original thoughts regarding the changes affecting all areas of my life in the last four weeks. Yes, much had changed, but only on the surface. I still roamed the world looking for I knew not what, while the corporate scumbags sold out the American dream to the cheapest foreign bidder and millions of clueless left and right wing political partisans of this once great country screamed at one another over a host of what should be secondary social issues. Meanwhile, the greatest country to advance the cause of human freedom the world has ever known continued to collapse under the weight of its own financial stupidity.
Maybe for the time being, my life had changed for the better, right here, and for this single instance. But over all, things in this country were getting worse and barring a miracle happening soon, nothing stood to prevent it. Not even the election of a new President this fall or me gaining the temporary favor of a bunch of diehard right wing rural partisans.
Chapter Six