Passing through Linden Corners was happenstance, of course, as I could have taken any number of rural roads in my quest to cross out of New York and into Massachusetts. So the fact that I found myself drawn to the quiet charm of this hidden gem, beckoned first by its neighboring windmill, I wondered if something spiritual had pulled me in this direction. Seeking quiet contemplation, I decided here was as good a place as any to rest.
I imagined little Janey Sullivan sitting down for her midday meal, and my stomach grumbled. I’d already been on the road five hours today, having left Rochester around seven o’clock following a quick breakfast. The idea of a sandwich, maybe grabbing a bench in the village park to eat it, pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. Trouble was, this wasn’t New York, where delis occupied every corner.
So I began to look for a suitable lunch spot and saw, a short distance away, a plastic sign overhanging a small building. It read MARTHA’S FIVE O’CLOCK DINER, an interesting name. Doubt crept into my thoughts, though, since there were just two other cars in the graveled lot. Hunger overrode my concerns, and I stepped out of the car and breathed in the fresh air.
My fears were unfounded. I liked the bright and sunny decor immediately and was overwhelmed by the most incredible smells coming from the kitchen. Old ’50s music played on a jukebox, and a young woman behind the counter bopped along—until she caught sight of me. She gave me a welcome wave and offered me my choice, counter service or a booth. I noticed there was only one other customer, a lone guy sitting at the counter.
“The lunch rush is over, so it’s your call,” she said. Her nametag read SARA.
“Thanks, Sara. A booth will be fine.”
“You’ve got your choice there, too.”
Indeed I did. There were six empty booths along the far wall. I chose the one closest, with Sara following close on my heels, a pad and pen at the ready.
“Do you know what you’d like?” she asked.
“A menu?” I ventured.
“It’s not very tasty,” she said, to my surprise. “Would you like fries with that?” And then she laughed at her own joke. She called out to the kitchen. “Hey, Martha, I finally got to use the menu joke, the one you were going on about when I started.” She turned back to me. “Six weeks, I’ve worked here, waiting to get my first good joke in.”
And still waiting, I could have added but didn’t.
From the kitchen door emerged a short, stout woman who was probably fifty years old at best, with short black hair and green eyes that reminded me of a cat’s. “Sara, leave the nice man be. Honestly, that joke is older than my coffee.”
The look on my face must have revealed a sudden fear, because both women howled with laughter, slapping each other on the shoulder. I offered up my best helpless look and they laughed again.
“You two are funny. You could take the routine on the road.”
“We have. Where do you think we find the meat for our stew?” And again they were lost in a tempest of laughter. As amusing as they were, roadkill jokes on an empty stomach wouldn’t bring out my personal laugh track.
The woman named Martha then held out her hand, I guess as a peace offering. “I’m Martha Martinson, proprietor, chef, frustrated stand-up comic.”
“Hi,” I said. “Brian Duncan. Just passing through.”
“Faster than my oatmeal,” she said, quickly adding an apology. “Sorry. I promise—no more food jokes. Sometimes I just can’t control myself. It’s just not often I get the chance to let loose, ’cause usually when strangers drop by, it’s peak cooking time. No time for Martha’s shenanigans. So, do you really want a menu? I can whip up anything you like.”
“Half a grapefruit, a BLT on toasted wheat, and an iced tea.”
“Coming up,” Martha said with a smile, only to retreat then to the kitchen, leaving Sara the waitress with me. She looked about twenty and wore a lot of makeup.
“As long as I’m waiting for my food, can I ask you a question?” I said.
She winked at me. I noticed the guy sitting at the counter was watching this entire exchange with bemusement. “I’m legal, if that’s what you’re wondering, and I sure hope you are. How long you planning on staying?”
“Sara!” came an admonishing sound from the kitchen.
Sara blushed, then leaned in and whispered, “Eagle Ears.”
“You got that right!” replied Eagle Ears.
“Back to my original question,” I ventured. “I was just curious—why is this place called the Five O’clock? It’s an unusual name for a diner, don’t you think?”
“Nope. It’s simple really; just gotta know our routine around these parts. Most of the workers here are early risers—farmers, factory workers—and at that hour, they’re hungry. So we’ve got a morning rush at five, and then the dinner rush twelve hours later. Oftentimes it’s the same folks, too lazy to cook for themselves. So we call it the Five O’clock ’cause the other hours just don’t matter.”
“Hah!” came a voice from behind us. The man from the counter had ventured over to join us; guess conversations were fair play in this town and folks could stick their two cents in. He was probably closing in on fifty, but a weathered fifty, and was dressed in faded jeans.
“They call it the Five-O because five minutes after you eat the food, your body says, ‘Uh-oh.’” He guffawed at his tasteless joke.
“Chuck, shut up and get out. Don’t you have a store to run?”
Chuck started off, then turned back, looking squarely at me. “Don’t get too comfortable here. Town like this will suck you dry. Look at me.”
Truth be known, he looked like he could use a dry period. I waited until he left, and then turned my attention back to Sara. “Anyway, the Five-O? Five o’clock seems awfully early in the morning.”
“The early bird gets the worm,” Sara remarked.
“But we don’t charge extra,” came Martha’s quick retort, along with a plate full of food that could have fed three people easily. The bacon was piled high under a thick slab of homemade bread.
“That sandwich come with heart surgery?” I asked.
They found that funny. I was kind of serious but let it go and began eating, tentatively at first but eventually with gusto. The food was delicious, the bacon crisp and laced with a hickory maple flavor that brought my tastebuds alive. Both women watched me eat from behind the counter, and neither tried to act discreet. When I was done, they cleared the plate away and Martha came by with a slice of a warm raspberry pie.
“On me—on account of the bad jokes. And don’t let Chuck Ackroyd get you. His wife left him a while ago and he’s been bitter ever since. We ignore him and so should you.”
“Thanks,” I said, realizing I couldn’t eat another bite. Still, it would have been rude to refuse. Martha was so damned pleased with my appetite—and so hospitable—she joined me in the booth, sitting opposite me.
“So, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through, how long you staying?”
“With food this good, maybe years.”
“Now that’s a fine compliment. You come back tomorrow morning, I’ll fix you scrambled eggs like you’ve never tasted.”
“That would require an overnight stay.”
“So? You in a hurry to get somewhere? Some woman waiting for you?”
At first I thought this was just harmless conversation, but her expression told me otherwise. She was serious—about the eggs. Was I in a hurry? I had no set plans, no idea where I would be tomorrow, much less two hours from now. So I shook my head, no hurry.
“Then it’s settled. Sara, call Richie over at the Solemn Nights and book a room for our new friend, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through.”
“Well, wait . . . I was only—”
“Hush up, you. Some good cooking for a couple of days will do you good. Put a smile on your face—looks like you could use one.”
I gave her a surprised look.
“I know a broken heart when I see one,” she said. “Least I can do is keep the
stomach full and content. That’s truly how to make a man happy.” And she smiled again, her penciled-in eyebrows raised as if daring me to contradict her.
So I paid my tab, left a healthy tip for the comic duo, and listened as Martha gave me directions to the motel. On my way out, she yelled, “See you bright and early. Five o’clock.”
Even though the door had closed behind me, I could still hear their raucous laughter.
As I returned to my car, the events of the past couple hours ran through my mind. If the windmill had gotten me to Linden Corners, then Martha’s old-fashioned cooking and hospitality encouraged me to stay, for a little while at least.
Linden Corners had a plan for me, and it was gently tearing at my defenses. I guess I was staying.
There was no better example of just how small Linden Corners was than when I pulled into the empty lot of the Solemn Nights Motel, a short half-mile outside of the village limits. The owner, a man who was very tall, very thin, very pale, stood in the door frame of the office, waving at me and smiling a grin full of crooked teeth. Obviously, not only had Sara called ahead but she’d also been generously forthcoming with details. I shut off the engine and shuffled out of the car once again, the third time in as many hours. Linden Corners seemed to have a lock on my actions. As I ventured up the stairs, the lanky fellow welcomed me to his inn.
“Won’t find a better bargain for miles, Mr. Duncan.”
“Looks very comfy.”
“Oh, it’s that and more,” he said. “I’m Richie Ravens. I own the joint.”
“Nice to be here,” I said, taking in the lay of the land.
The Solemn Nights Motel was one oblong building with ten rooms, not unlike many roadside motels. But although some looked poorly kept, the Solemn Nights had a nice sheen and polish. It looked freshly painted, and there were small tables and chairs on the elongated deck set before each room. I was encouraged. Martha Martinson’s unavoidable mothering influence, no doubt. Or maybe they treated all strangers this way. Or maybe yet, the windmill had indeed transported me back to a simpler time when people were nice and looked out for one another. Whatever, the Solemn Nights Motel lured me in. Even Richie Ravens, as odd as he appeared, proved agreeable.
He got me checked in, giving me a good rate for one night and a better one for two, and I found myself accepting the two-night deal without a second thought. What I planned to do for two days in this town hadn’t yet occurred to me, but wasn’t that what my trip was all about, going with the flow, taking situations as they came and exploring their possibilities? Richie talked a mile a minute during the entire checkin process, not really about anything in particular, mainly spouting off about the busy season, where he had to keep a waiting list.
“Weekends in the summer, forget about it. Booked solid. But it’s slow these days, especially the weekdays, so I’m glad to have the company. How ’bout room nine? It’s close to the ice machine.”
I said that was fine, and we finished up our business and he handed me a key. I felt a momentary pang of regret leaving him alone, since he seemed to enjoy having someone to talk to. I was having separation anxiety from myself. This was the most I’d conversed with people since leaving New York, save for a few days spent at the end of March with my family in Philadelphia. (My parents, by the way, hadn’t exactly looked on my plans with favor, but they did notice that my worry lines had dissipated, though I looked too thin from the hepatitis. Good with the bad, a mixed blessing, they claimed.)
The effects of my illness were mostly gone, too, but at times waves of fatigue washed over me. Now was one of those moments. So I grabbed my stuff from the car, opened up room 9, and plopped down on what turned out to be a surprisingly comfortable bed. I turned on the television, caught a bit of CNN, and fell asleep to the sound of a Larry King Live commercial. His guest was . . .
The next thing I knew, it was dark outside and a cool breeze was coming in through the open window. An alarm clock on the side table indicated it was 7:35 P.M. I’d been asleep four hours, and I felt refreshed. As such, I considered the evening’s plans. Hanging around a motel room was not high on my list, so I left the room, hopped in the car—noticing that there were no others in the lot, not even Richie’s—and drove back toward town.
I quickly discovered how it was possible this town got started at five in the morning—by nightfall, the streets were deserted and a quiet lull had settled in the air. My car was the lone one on the road, making me think that maybe it was later, like 2:00 A.M., and that the clock at the motel was wrong. The clock tower above the Hudson Valley Savings Bank, however, confirmed the time. As I drove on, I saw just one lively burst of life, at a local tavern called Connors’ Corners, which looked like it was once someone’s house, complete with a wraparound porch and a second floor. As if someone who used to have a lot of parties just gave up and started charging his friends, putting in neon BUDWEISER and SARANAC signs in the windows for ambiance. There were four other cars in the small lot, and mine joined them. I hopped aboard the porch, opened the screen door, and entered a dimly lit room that smelled just how it should—like a bar.
There were five other people inside, not counting the bartender, who was a tall older gentleman with a thick shock of white-gray hair and spectacles. He wore an apron and a smile, and he welcomed me with the hackneyed line, “What’ll it be?”
For lack of something better to do, the other patrons watched as I ordered, making me self-conscious when I asked for just a plain seltzer. I skipped the wedge of lime. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the patrons turned away, clearly uninterested. The bartender, however, seemed unfazed and poured the drink.
I took a seat, took a sip, and sampled my surroundings. Nothing much out of the ordinary. A long, smooth wooden bar, a series of stools keeping it company. Behind it, a row of colored bottles. Over it, a deer’s head. There were a couple of tables with chairs scattered throughout the room, and in the corner was a large pool table, currently being ignored. So was the jukebox, the regulars opting instead for television, which had a ball game on ESPN. The boys of summer, playing at the height of springtime.
“Who’s playing?” I asked.
“Mets. Winning of course,” said the bartender. “So, how do you find the Solemn Nights?”
For some reason, I wasn’t surprised he knew about me. Small-town life—the only thing that travels fast is gossip. A newcomer in town, even for just a day or so, caused a burning up of the phone lines. So I just replied that it was fine.
“George Connors,” he said, introducing himself.
“Brian Duncan,” I said.
“Just Passing Through.”
Then I smiled. “Let me guess—the five-o’clock dinner special at the Five O’clock.”
He nodded with approval. “You’ll do just fine here. Except those in the know just refer to it as the Five-O.”
I felt a pleasant sensation ripple down my spine. These uniquely friendly folk were doing their best to make life here comfortable for me—unusual, since just over eight hours ago I’d never heard of their town or met any of them. Suddenly, though, Linden Corners and the Five-O and the Solemn Nights and even Connors’ Corners were more familiar to me than the nineteenth-floor offices of Beckford Warfield and my apartment on East 83rd Street. Now, Martha Martinson and Richie Ravens and George Connors acted like new best friends, easygoing and approachable. Faces from New York faded from memory, as though a great deal of time were slipping by.
So we chatted, George and I, in between pitches and hits and strikeouts, and the occasional distraction of another patron wanting a refill on a draft. George pulled the tap with the style of someone long practiced in the art of serving beer, and I said so, launching George on the history of Connors’ Corners. Turned out that he was a third-generation bartender—lived his whole life in Linden Corners and took over running the bar twenty years earlier when his dad retired, only to die a year later from boredom, or so George claimed.
“Heck, I’m sixty-nine, b
elieve it or not, nine years older than my dad when he gave me the place. Nowadays the wife is bugging me to retire, but I just can’t do it. Maybe cutting back on hours someday, but until that day comes, I’m here until midnight, every night except Sunday.”
“Where’s the fourth generation?” I asked.
“Humph. Good Lord saw fit to give me four beautiful daughters, none of whom showed any interest in pouring drinks and then watching folks pour ’em down their throats. But that’s fine, since I’ve got grandchildren galore.” He paused a moment, saw my empty seltzer glass, and asked if I wanted a refill.
“Sure.”
“So, what’s the problem?” His head nodded toward the booze, and my surprised reaction must have been pretty obvious. “Oh, there are no secrets in Linden Corners, so you might as well come clean.”
“It’s not what you think . . .” I started to explain.
“Not thinking anything,” he said. “One thing I’ve learned in my years behind this counter—never assume too much about a man. And forget that ‘you make an ass of you and me’ baloney—only makes me the ass.”
“Health. Six-month sabbatical from alcohol.”
He nodded. “Liver stuff, huh? Gotta be careful there.”
And that was that. He dropped the subject and directed his attention back to the Mets. They were still winning.
Tilting at Windmills Page 7
