by W.H. Harrod
The following morning came much too early if my baggy red eyes were an indication of sleep deprivation. J3 needed to go outside and take care of his business at least three times. The thought occurred to me that maybe Junior Junior drank to help him sleep. A hound’s sloppy tongue washing your face after having licked his crotch for twenty minutes is not how the normal person wants to be awakened.
These pleasant notions occupied my clouded brain as I descended the stairs from the apartment on my way to the diner. I left J3 in the apartment happily chewing on an old shoe I’d found in the closet. If Junior Junior manned his regular post, I intended to watch the counter until he took his hound home and incarcerated it.
Business appeared brisk as I pushed open the diner door. Mary June worked the front counter with no Junior Junior in sight. She barely noticed my arrival as she chatted with a couple of regular customers paying their checks before heading to work.
“Why thank you, Jimmy. I’m glad you enjoyed it, and it was nice to see you, too. And don’t worry we’ll talk to the boss about making sure we have more pies available tomorrow. Tell Lacy hello for me,” said Mary June to the obviously pleased customer standing before her at the counter.
Well, I guess that answers the question about the pies, I thought as I stopped beside the counter to get a situation report.
Mary June beat me to the punch. “Junior Junior isn’t here. Flo has yesterday’s deposit ready for you to take to the bank. I brought two pies in for you to taste, a coconut cream and a Dutch apple, but Flo said she knew you would like them so she went ahead and started selling them to the customers. They went fast, too. I’ll make some more tonight so you can taste them yourself to see if you agree.”
As Mary June waited for me to respond to her succinct report, I tried to organize my sleep-deprived brain in light of all the information presented to me. Before I could rustle up an intelligent response, I heard Flo’s voice.
“Hey Will, we could use some help with the tables when you get time.” I looked around and saw four recently vacated tables that needed bussing. The thought, first things first came to mind, so that’s what I did. Although I wanted to check on Junior Junior, he would have to wait because I knew instinctively he was either passed out drunk or dead. In either case, my taking off in the middle of the morning rush would not change anything. And as far as J3, he was safely locked up in my apartment.
Having gotten fairly adept at clearing tables by this time, it required no more than ten minutes to clear all the dirty dishes. All the while, I cleared the tables in preparation for the new customers sure to arrive momentarily, I thought about how well the diner worked without my presence. This thought both pleased and troubled me. This was not the first time in my life something like this had happened. In fact, it had happened many times before. That defined my previous profession: Take ideas and make them real by organizing various resources including capital, labor, materials, marketing, and administration personnel in such a way as to cause a profitable enterprise to come into existence. The very fact that a going concern existed where once there were only individual parts and pieces indicated a sign of success on my part. Yet, I never felt comfortable when the managers and operators came in and took over as they were supposed to do and were trained to do. It was their job, after all, to run the business. My job involved organizing and creating. Afterwards, I got the hell out of the way and let them do their job, and I did, but it still pissed me off.
Resigning myself to assisting the ladies until the morning rush subsided, I got busy helping Flo with the food bar, bussing tables, washing dishes and pots and pans, talking to the customers, and whatever else came up. All in all, I was in fairly good spirits considering my crowded dance schedule. A lot went on within as well as outside the diner, but I felt in control of things. And for me, having a sense of being in control was vital.
“Hey, Will,” the familiar wheezing voice of Herbert Crackenthaler called from cross the dining room.
I looked around to locate the man Flo called “Oxygen Tank Geezer.” I found him setting at a crowded table with his usual morning coffee group. Everyone at the table smiled as if they knew something I didn’t. This didn’t worry me as these guys were always fun to kid with. Like so many of the people I met since coming to town, they were basically good-hearted. A few surly individuals who came by regularly never failed to let the world know how badly put upon they felt having to put up with the liberals, foreigners, welfare bums, hijackers, terrorists, and of course, high taxes only to list a few of their complaints. These guys were not those guys.
“Morning gentlemen. Good to see all of you here this morning. What can I do for you, Mr. Crackenthaler?”
After taking a hit from his oxygen tank, the gentleman began to speak, “We’re all real excited you’re going to be part of the big debate, Will. Last year it was not much more than Mary June calling Cecil Wonkers an ‘ignorant little prick,’ and him calling her one of those ‘heathen socialists.’ That went on for quite a while until Mary June dared him to go outside so she could kick his ‘lying ass.’ That’s when Cecil got scared and went home. Hopefully this year, we’ll get to hear why you socialists want all the working folks to give you all their hard earned money. I hear most of them don’t even believe in Jesus. Anyway, we’re all glad you’re gonna do it. I’m sure the whole town’s going to be there.”
Oh my god! I remembered. She did say that. How could I have forgotten that? I must have been exhausted. I am not a Democrat. I can’t waste my time debating one of those political Neanderthals about politics. They aren’t politically adept; they’re just brainwashed. They don’t have ideas. They have prejudices.
I excused myself and practically ran to where Mary June stood behind the counter sorting a big platter of rolls for the food bar. “You’ve got to go over there and fix this right now. I am not going to participate in any stupid debate. Do you hear me? Go and fix it now.” My voice went from its normal baritone to a falsetto range as I pleaded with a now puzzled looking Mary June to make this nightmare go away.
Mary June’s look of innocence belied her complicity in this badly written melodrama that I suspected she concocted to destroy what modest amount of sanity I had left.
“I did not agree to participate in any debate. Go over there and fix this. Do you hear me?” As I concluded my demands, I let her know the degree of my irritation by placing my hands on my hips and leaning in towards her with eyelids raised, nostrils flaring, and possibly even with smoke coming out of my ears.
“My, my, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning, didn’t they?” came the unworried response from Mary June.
The sudden realization that she chose not to respond to my obvious fit of great displeasure at her for involving me in more local nonsense caused my hopefully serious countenance to morph into something more sinister. Mary June stepped back away from the register with a look of concern, turned, and called for Flo. “Flo, will you explain to Will why he has to participate in the debate?”
Flo didn’t bother to look up from her present chore of resupplying the food bar with rolls and muffins. “Cause we already ordered the posters. I gave all the info to Burt Hofferheifer when he stopped by this morning on his way to work over at the Gazette in Justice City. He’s also going to give the information to the local radio station. Everybody in town is talking about it so we can’t up and change everything.”
I immediately knew it was useless to go any further with my pleadings. I experienced a sensation of being trapped within a very bad silent movie where the actors moved their lips and the dialog appeared at the bottom of the screen. No one could hear the words passing beyond my moving lips. Perhaps if I gesticulated as the old time actors did in their pantomime performances, then someone in this seemingly never ending tragic-comedy might understand me. Right then another crazy idea bulldozed it’s way to the forefront of my barely functioning brain. Maybe there is a God after all. And there is a hell, and I’m in it. That’s it! I’m being punis
hed. I’m in hell, and this will go on forever.
As far as Mary June, Flo, Burt, and all the others were concerned, it was a done deal. I, a non-Democrat, a transient, a most unwilling participant, and the one individual in town who didn’t have a dog in the coming fight, must stand up before an entire community of God fearing, Liberal and Democrat loathing Republicans and try to persuade them that their slavish devotion to a political party controlled by elitist corporate big wigs who desired nothing less than complete control of all the country’s wealth, including the means of production, did not advance their best interest. Not yesterday, not today, and, certainly, not tomorrow.
All of a sudden it came to me, I’m not in control. Not exactly the most reassuring thought to come to a control freak. Yet, at least, a modicum of relief came from knowing the truth. The truth certainly didn’t set me free, but it saved me from expending a lot of angst and energy attempting to influence matters beyond my control. The truth screamed at me to yield to the inevitable. I was not in control.
I immediately received a dividend from my newly contrived attitude of nonresistance. As my inner demons gradually relinquished control of my emotions, my composure and facial features returned to nearly normal. Even Mary June seemed taken aback by my quick return to sanity.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You don’t have a gun or a grenade on you, do you? Cause you look really scary right now with that creepy peaceful expression.”
I merely nodded and informed her I thought it time for someone to check on Junior Junior. Then without saying another word, I turned and calmly headed for the door.
“See you, Will,” yelled Burt as I approached the door. “And thanks again for participating in the debate. We’re all looking forward to it.”
I turned and waved at the group as I headed out the door. I became the willow tree bending with the force of the wind. Bending, but not breaking. But just in case, I figured I should go and find that grenade.
After stopping by my apartment to retrieve J3 who busied himself during this time by destroying a very old and sturdy looking leather shoe, I headed for Junior Junior’s back porch. Arriving there with J3 in tow, I observed the back door standing open with only the glass storm door barring entrance. J3 beat me to announcing our presence by scratching the glass with his paw and barking loudly. Deciding I could scarcely do better, I awaited a response. Some time passed and I began to get concerned when a heavy thumping began to emanate from within. I could make out a mass moving from the innards of the residence in our direction. I wasn’t sure, but it did seem as if the mover banged into the hallway wall a couple of times before arriving blurry eyed and half awake at the back door.
“Wha…wha…ah crap!” said a thoroughly disheveled Junior Junior as he looked through the glass door towards the diner’s full parking lot. Mumbling to himself, he abruptly turned and headed back down the hallway knocking over a small table along the way.
The guy’s still drunk, I told myself as I watched him stumble away. This man needed to not show up to work in such a condition. I had to do something, but recalling a few sad experiences during my younger life where I refused to heed the advice of friends after having too much to drink, I doubted the likelihood of him listening to me. I started to turn away to head back to the diner to get some advice from Flo when I saw Chief Barley’s hub cap barren cruiser pull up to the backyard gate and stop. While I stood in place watching and wondering why the Chief would be showing up at this time, he calmly exited the vehicle and came through the gate and walked towards the porch.
“Morning, Will. Looks like it’s going to be a hot one.”
By the time he finished his greeting, he stood on the porch only a few feet away from the back door.
“Yeah, I guess it might be a hot one at that,” I replied to the Chief unsure whether to explain my presence on Junior Junior’s back porch or wait to see what transpired. The Chief made it easy for me.
“Will, I expect I know why you’re here, and if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you to go on back to the diner and let me take care of this matter. Would you do that for me, Will?” The Chief then took his Stetson off and wiped his brow with a large handkerchief and awaited my reply.
I experienced a sense of relief from the Chief’s offer. “Certainly Chief, I’ll be available at the diner if I can be of any help.”
“Thank you, Will. That’s very kind of you.”
Without saying another word, the Chief calmly opened the storm door and walked inside the house leaving me alone on the porch. Sensing things were now in the proper hands, I turned and headed back to the diner. On the way it occurred to me that this was not the first time this had happened. The only question was who alerted the Chief? My gut instincts told me Flo.
On the way back to the diner I tried to clear my mind of the Junior Junior affair. I knew instinctively the Chief had previous experience with whatever went on in the house behind me. And if worse came to worse, I’d go outside to pump gas and take the customers’ money. There were other important things to think about. I still needed to contact the Mayor. My friend, Carlton, may have someone on the way to contact me at this very moment, and in all sense of fairness, I needed to figure out someway to get back at Mary June and Flo. Maybe I was the willow tree bending with the wind, but that didn’t mean all the birds sitting on my limbs had the right to crap all over my little world!
Preoccupied with my thoughts, I almost did not notice the individual holding the door open for me as I arrived at the diner entrance.
“Why good morning, Will. How are you today?”
I looked up in time to keep myself with colliding with my door greeter. I expect my startled expression gave away my surprise at being confronted by none other than Big Bob Buford. He stood there smirking like a hyena as he held the diner door open for me. As best I could, I attempted to convey an attitude of calm disinterest towards my secret antagonist’s presence.
“I’m very well, thank you,” I said calmly as I passed through the opened door heading directly for the privacy of the kitchen where I intended to gather my composure and figure out a new plan. My schedule got more crowded by the minute. I expected to hear from Carlton’s contact at any time, fill in for Junior Junior’s absence, find the time to contact the Mayor, help Flo and Mary June get through the morning rush, get back at Flo and Mary June for involving me in the town’s annual ‘let’s waste our time arguing with blind political partisans’ contest, and lastly, I needed to watch every move Big Bob made.
Once safely out of sight in the diner kitchen, I busied myself with cleaning pans, dishes, cups, and doing anything else providing me reason to stay out of sight until I had figured out a plan. I knew not to try contacting the Mayor until 8 a.m. Also, Carlton’s contact might not show up for days. As long as Junior Junior stayed away while drunk, he became a non-issue; the man was hardly needed. Finally, I decided to try to forget about Big Bob and get on with my business. I felt confident nothing would happen at the diner.
Exiting the kitchen with a tray of freshly washed coffee cups, I observed business going on as usual. Every table was occupied and most everyone looked to be in good spirits. The geezers, including newly arrived Big Bob, occupied three tables pulled together to make one long table. The group drank coffee, ate muffins and rolls, laughed, and otherwise conducted themselves as they did every workday morning.
Seeing that Mary June busied herself giving the customers free refills, I saw my chance to jump in and help. Several of the younger guys employed at the farm implement plant over at Justice City moved towards the register to pay their bills. I headed that way so Mary June would not have to interrupt her coffee refill run.
“Good morning. How are you gentlemen this fine day?” I said to the three young regulars approaching the register.
“Not good, Will,” replied one of the troubled young men. “We’re all pretty worried some really bad news is waiting for us at the plant. In case you haven’t heard, there’s lots of talk abo
ut the plant closing down. We’re afraid our jobs are heading to China or to some other chink country. Don’t know what we are supposed to do for a living then. Nobody is hiring anywhere in this area. One of these mornings when we come in we may not have to drive to Justice City to go to work. We don’t know what the hell we’re expected to do. Are they going to send every dang busted job to Mexico or to China?”
I obviously struck a nerve. I was not unfamiliar with what the young man talked about. I worked in corporate America, and I knew well their almost total lack of concern for the welfare of their employees. The corporate America I knew paid strict attention to the bottom line. Whatever added to the bottom line also added to the salaries and bonuses paid yearly to corporate management. Employees were considered expendable— simply another means of production, and if they could be replaced by a machine or by a third world labor force working for less than subsistence wages, the leadership of corporate America with the blessings of the stockholders and the nation’s lawmakers always on the prowl for political contributions thought nothing of destroying the lives of dedicated, hardworking American families.
I’m sure the worried customer standing before me had no idea he struck a nerve. I truly felt for the young man. I made myself a pest many times during my corporate career by bringing up the annoying fact that we were systematically destroying the same manufacturing base responsible for the greater part of our country’s success. “What were future generations supposed to do?” I asked. The only responses I ever received were, “We are destined to evolve from a nation of factory laborers to a nation of technology specialists,” or in some cases, I was summarily informed that corporate America’s only responsibility was to the stockholders and the bottom line. Essentially, workers were not important in any capacity outside of being tools of production.
I pondered the young man’s comments while taking several of what might be the last of their few dollars to settle their tabs. It was a noticeably less gregarious diner manager who admonished the young workers to be sure to have a nice day. How do you have a nice day when some pencil-headed accountant working for one of the many corporate CEOs, enthralled with the idea of inflating the bottom line at any cost, sat somewhere trying to figure out how to eliminate the need for your job or at least find someone offshore to do it for a much lower wage?
I looked out over the crowd of customers made up of mostly seniors with little or nothing to do who sat laughing and talking. Most of these guys worked hard for years and retired with pensions, Social Security, and medical plans. Most owned their homes and had little or no debt. For most of them life, except for the getting old part, looked pretty darn good. That wouldn’t be the case for the young men departing the diner wondering if they still had jobs. For them, company pensions, possibly even Social Security, and maybe their jobs stood to be lost. How much longer before some of them saw the futility of their predicament and got real mad?
I looked at the clock. It was time for me to call the Mayor.
Chapter Seventeen
