by W.H. Harrod
“Wow! Two o’clock already!” The sound of my own voice reminding me of the time of day brought me back to reality. Flo announced her hurried departure as she went flying through the front door heading for her weekly session at the local beauty parlor. Glancing around the dining room, I caught sight of two tables still occupied with customers not in a hurry to get anywhere fast. I had plenty of time before I left to meet with the Mayor who agreed with my suggestion that we best meet somewhere away from the diner. In my pocket were instructions on how to get to an equipment barn located on a quarter section of land the Mayor owned and farmed with the help of a neighbor. We planned to meet there at 6 p.m. Until then, several chores needed to be finished. I looked forward to getting the meeting over with and putting the responsibility back into his hands. This matter involved serious stuff. People could go to jail.
I looked at my watch again to make sure of the time. I then mentally reviewed the directions he’d given me without referring to the map I’d drawn and safely stuck into my back pocket. Typical Kansas directions: drive in a straight line until instructed to turn left, right, or stop, and if all you did was stop temporarily, repeat the first instruction. I figured the trip required no more than ten minutes travel time. I also made sure Junior Junior’s truck stayed available. I’d expected it would be because by that time Junior Junior was usually deep into his favorite photo album of him and his ex-wife during happier times (which reportedly, according to her, was when she was asleep) along with a six-pack he always picked up on the way home.
Until the meeting time, I figured I may as well stay at the diner cleaning up, checking inventory, preparing the daily bank deposit, placing the frozen rolls into the proofer, going over the books including sales tax, payroll taxes, and Flo’s time sheets, making sure the rest rooms were clean enough to pass a surprise inspection by the county health department, and a host of other daily and weekly activities that go along with operating a clean and profitable food service establishment.
I got so busy with my expanded to-do list that I didn’t notice when the last customers left the building. Realizing the place sat empty, I headed towards the front door with every intention of rotating the Open/Closed sign hanging on the inside of the large plate glass window to the closed position. Before I got there a young couple with a small child carried in the mother’s arms entered the diner and looked around until they spotted me. As I was headed in that direction anyway, we met not more than four or five paces into the dining room.
“Sorry folks, but we’re closed,” I informed them before they had a chance to find a table.
“Are you Mr. Clayton?” the young man asked.
“Why yes, I am,” I responded somehow sensing they possessed reasons for being at the diner other than wanting something to eat in the middle of the afternoon.
“My name’s Scott and my wife’s name is Sarah, and this is Wendy, our baby girl. Preacher Roy said we should come here and talk to you about a situation that’s about to cause some big problems in our life.”
My confusion must have been obvious to the nervous young couple. I didn’t understand. Why would the Preacher tell these two people to come to me with whatever problem they might have? I managed a restaurant. Did he expect that fresh rolls or biscuits and gravy might help them deal with personal issues? I didn’t know what was going on, but it was easy to see they were both very nervous. I had no intention of being dismissive with them. There was a misunderstanding, and I decided to find out the facts and politely redirect them if possible.
“Sit down,” I said to the couple as I motioned to one of the tables. As they obeyed my request, I went to the front door and rotated the sign to the closed position and then walked back to the table where the young couple and their infant child sat waiting and took a chair.
“Well, ok. Tell me why the Preacher thinks I can be of help to you folks.”
They both looked to one another first before letting me in on what presently complicated their young lives. “We haven’t filed tax returns for the last two years. I’m self-employed as a house framer, and I haven’t had any work for over a year. The last real money I actually made framing was in 2006. But come time to pay taxes in 2007 and 2008, we didn’t have it. We don’t have insurance and had to pay the hospital for the delivery of our baby. Things are even worse now. We’re two years behind, and there ain’t no way we’re going to be able to pay anything from the paltry sum we’ve made in 2008 come April of 2009. It’s not that we don’t want to. We can’t because we don’t have it. The housing industry has crashed, and we’re getting in deeper. I can’t see anyway out, and I don’t want to go to jail. Can you help us? The Preacher said he thought you could. We really don’t know what to do, and we’re real scared.”
I suspected the beginnings of a slight smile on my face might come off as insensitive to the two nervous young parents sitting across from me, so I hurried to explain myself. “Please pay no attention to my finding humor in this situation. It’s just that the good Preacher apparently thinks I’m the cure all for whatever ails most of the folks in this area of the world. I assure you I don’t—”
“Can you help us, Mr. Clayton? We’re scared, and we don’t have anywhere else to turn.” The nervousness in the young woman’s desperate plea caused me to forget what I had started to say. Instead, a new thought forced its way to the forefront of my brain. Tell these frightened young people what they ought to do. It’s not going to kill you to take five minutes to help them out.
“Here’s my advice to you,” I started out. “First, no one is going to jail. Go to the IRS before they come to you. If they have to find you, you’re going to have a much more difficult time cleaning things up. Go home and gather up every piece of paper that has anything to do with what you have earned during the periods in question, and also include documentation for every verifiable expense and deduction you can claim. Then, if it’s at all possible, I suggest you three get in a vehicle tomorrow morning and drive to the nearest IRS office, which is either in Salina or, for sure, Topeka. Once there, all three of you should go into the office and ask to speak to the first available IRS representative. Wait however long it takes. When the three of you are sitting across the desk from a breathing agent tell them the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The agent will start the ball rolling and from that point on, do exactly as you are told. The IRS is not ignorant as to the worsening economic climate, and I would be very surprised if they won’t try to work with you. And finally, I will tell you that in every instance where I have given this advice to folks like you, and they followed that advice and the IRS instructions to the letter, their problems eventually got solved. Any questions?”
They both looked at each other and then back to me. “That’s it?” asked the young woman with no small amount of incredulity in her voice.
“That’s it,” I responded quickly. “Anything else?”
“No, nothing,” said the obviously surprised young man.
“Well, I should get back to work. Please give Preacher Roy my best.”
Seconds later, I found myself the lone diner occupant. I looked at my watch and saw 3:15 p.m. Over two hours still to go before I needed to leave to meet the Mayor. I made a mental note to speak to Preacher Roy about expecting me to be able to help every person or family bringing his or her troubles to his door. Okay now, what was I going to do next? Barely did the thought cross my mind when my next unexpected guest came right through the doorway prominently displaying the CLOSED sign.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” asked Mary June Jangles as she advanced into diner apparently oblivious of the prominently displayed CLOSED sign hanging on the door.
“No, of course not, nice to see you again. Come in and sit down. I was just going to get a cup of coffee and take a break. Could I get you a cup?” I surprised myself with my ability to switch from dutiful diner toiler to host in such short order.
“Don’t bother. I’ll get it myself. Go on and sit down. I’ll join you in just a minute.�
� Her confident and easygoing manner seemed to have a calming effect on me. I immediately forgot all about the ignored door sign as well as the awaiting chores.
She joined me at the nearby table I’d chosen simply because it sat closest to the checkout counter where the phone sat if the Mayor or anybody else called. Once an efficiency expert, always an efficiency expert, I thought as I waited for her to start the conversation.
She started right in. “I’m sure I’m bothering you, but I had an idea, and I wanted to run it by you. Assuming you will be able to accompany me to Salina Wednesday night I was wondering if you might be interested in going to one of my favorite restaurants in Salina? Are you familiar with Mongolian food? There is a surprisingly good Mongolian restaurant there. It’s located about a mile south of the interstate where we come in on the north side of town. What do you think?”
My initial thoughts revolved around hoping she could not tell from my facial expression I had absolutely no idea what Mongolian food tasted like. I could only guess that since China is its neighbor their diet may bare some resemblance. Otherwise, I had nothing. Far as I knew they ate frozen dirt. I didn’t recall seeing a tree in any photo or film I ever took time to glance at so they couldn’t have fruit there. I doubted you could grow vegetables either if the ground stayed frozen. I’d never seen a body of water either so there wasn’t any chance of fish. That pretty much left the dirt and maybe some big woolly wild creatures considered holdovers from the ice ages.
“Oh sure, great idea. I love Mongolian food. I wondered if there was any chance of finding a good place here in north central Kansas run by real Mongolians. Good call. Just show me the way.” All this time my tablemate sat looking at me as if she wanted to reach across the table to give me a poke in the eye and tell me to stop lying through my teeth.
“Really?” she said with a smile. “I have to admit I’m surprised. I didn’t figure you to have such a well-refined palate. What’s your favorite Mongolian dish, by the way?”
As she spoke, she sat back in her chair widening her smile. I knew immediately from the way she put the emphasis on the word ‘really’ that I was busted. “Oh, I don’t know, I guess I like just about all of it.” But that didn’t mean I intended to admit it.
“Do you even know what kind of food is served in Mongolia? I’ll bet you don’t.” She was smiling big time now. No longer could she conceal her doubts regarding my hearty approval of her proposed menu choice.
“I’ll have to admit it’s been awhile,” I responded carrying on with my ruse, “but by my best recollection it’s similar to Bolivian food. And, of course, we all know that Bolivia is located west of Arkansas so that would make it similar to Polynesian, wouldn’t it?” I sat back attempting to display my most confident smile.
My suitor looked as if she thought I might be serious but only for a second until the same incredulous smile returned. “Okay, wise guy. Just for that I am going to take you to a Mongolian restaurant. As it’s my treat, I’ll do the ordering. And just to whet your appetite, I’ll further inform you that the Mongolian people consider the reproductive organs of almost every living creature a pure delicacy. And best of all, you can’t really tell what dish you are eating by merely looking at it. I’ll pick you up at about 4:30 p.m. It’s an hour’s drive, and the rally starts at 7:00 p.m. That will give us plenty of time to enjoy our meal. Will that time work for you, Will? It will? Well great, Will. We will see you Wednesday, Will. Bye, now.”
She got halfway to the door before she finished her parting sentence. I sat there trying to assimilate the extremely disturbing information regarding reproductive organs being on the menu as the door closed behind her.
I was glad she wasn’t around to see the look on my face. I had to admit I felt more than a little bit intimidated by the distinct prospect of chewing on a plate full of pan-fried Yak nuts!
By the time I grew tired of torturing myself with thoughts of devouring copious amounts of varmint genitals another ten minutes had passed. Looking at my well-used watch, I determined the time to be right at 4:00 p.m., another hour and forty-five minutes before I needed to leave to meet the Mayor. All the extracurricular activity caused me to lose my rhythm relating to the diner chores I’d expected to tend to. I wanted to get it all over with and return to my loft apartment. I seemed to have become fond of the place. Usually my workdays were so hectic and energy draining that I looked forward to a hot shower and soft bed. This day looked to be no different. I felt drained. I hoped no other individuals introduced themselves to me today informing me so and so sent them to me to get help.
I roused myself from my seat and headed towards the front door one more time to lock it and ensure my privacy for the few short minutes I expected to be at the diner. Surely no one else waited outside to see me. The gas pumps were shut down, allowing Junior Junior to go home and mope over his lost love. Flo had departed earlier to get one of her weekly three hour, two cans of hairspray, Lady Bird Johnson knockoff beauty parlor specials. I couldn’t think of another person who might possibly want to talk to me about anything at all for the rest of the day. Excepting...Big Bob Buford!
I only mention this because right as my fingers began to twist the deadbolt lock to the locked position on the front door, I noticed a four wheel drive pickup truck inching its way past the diner front door. Driving this ominous looking machine was none other than Big Bob Buford himself. It immediately reminded me of the huge great white shark in the movie Jaws when it slowly glided by the small fishing boat for the first time. That’s exactly how I felt when my eyes focused on Big Bob, who ultimately caught sight of me. Not for one second during the thirty seconds Big Bob sat idling in front of the diner door did he take his eyes off me. Likewise, I stared right back at him. Not a single word or gesture issued from either of us, but make no mistake about it, each party got the message: intense dislike.
With one last smirk, Big Bob turned his head and slowly drove away. No less than two vehicles slammed on their breaks to keep from broad siding Big Bob’s truck as he casually pulled into the flowing traffic without any regard for the two skidding vehicles. I found it interesting, but not at all surprising, that neither of the offended drivers bothered to blow their horns. But then I realized this wasn’t just any yahoo out cruising, this was Big Bob. Folks around here knew better than to show their displeasure to Big Bob Buford.
Chapter Thirteen