The Alumni Grill, Volume 2

by Tom Franklin

  It was probably not entirely sensitive of Phil to drag Bob over to their booth to watch how deftly they were able to turn around utilizing the buffer at the front of the building that they’d mentioned earlier in the morning.

  But Bob wasn’t offended. Well, hell, he said. What was I thinking.

  Stop swearing, Bob.

  I’m sorry, he turned around and confessed to the Waffle House staff for about the 2,500th time. I’m such a big dummy.

  Bob could be exceedingly self-deprecating, something that never failed to endear him to Constance, not even after almost fifty years together. His now-leisurely lifestyle in only his early 60s was built on mechanical skills learned in a high school shop class, a class Bob had had to take because he couldn’t begin to master the science or the mathematics that had accounted for Mr. Hewlett and Mr. Packard’s astounding success. Mimeograph drums, he would say, which for him, meant the same thing as a lottery ticket, a thousand to one shot, a jubilee.

  Other drivers, not as savvy as that first one perhaps, or more likely victims of the same sort of stubborn agitation that had started the whole trouble in the first place, what with all the hassles of trying to get vacationers up and out early in the morning, trying to load the car with all the dirty laundry that took up so much more space, not to mention all the leftover food that had been packaged up and foisted upon them, insisted on trying to make the situation at the Waffle House work. The Phils had the best view of each successive arrival, where the driver seemed to be saying to their significant others in the passenger seat, You wanted waffles, we’re going to the Waffle House! They parked on the buffer zone, even though Phil sat there shaking his head knowing what a complete logjam that would create. Then they parked along the driveway itself, all the way down to the shoulder of the Jubilee Parkway. That was when the Penelope police finally showed up, lights flashing, siren tooting, to not much avail.

  One officer stationed himself at the bottom of the driveway waving people away from the scene. Drivers slowly cruised on by, rubbernecking, trying their best to figure out what the commotion was. Most of them, seeing only the traffic jam along the driveway of the Waffle House, assumed that there must be some kind of unbelievable promotion going on, and were either curious enough or so driven by the possibility of free food, that they parked wherever they could find open space within a quarter mile radius of the Waffle House and walked back to the restaurant to find out what they were missing. It’s the same kind of thing that happened after most substantial jubilees. Word would pass through town that there had been a bonanza jubilee the night before and people would flock to the beach, looking for any evidence–the dead eels that would also beach themselves–just so they could testify that yes they’d been to a jubilee.

  The second officer walked up the driveway and past the gathering crowd. It didn’t take him long to figure out the problem, asking Bob, once he’d identified the owner of the Super-Coach, Got stuck, huh?

  Yes sir, Bob confessed, wagging his head. There was absolutely no limit to how apologetic he could be. It didn’t matter how many times people asked if he was stuck or told him he couldn’t park there, Bob confessed his failure, admitted his stupidity, and offered his apologies again and again and again. The Phils, among others, found Bob as endearing as Constance did by the end of the ordeal.

  Anybody called Tony? the policeman asked next.

  Tried to, Phil answered, but we haven’t been able to reach him.

  Dispatch, dispatch, this is number four, come in please, he said into his radio.

  Go ahead four.

  Get a hold of Tony and tell him we’ve got a situation down here at the Waffle House and he needs to bring his big rig with a sled just as soon as he can get here, over.

  Copy.

  Up until that point it had been a pretty festive, even if chaotic, affair. Most of the diners that had arrived on foot elected to stay and eat, since they’d already made the trip, so the management was not unhappy. They had run out of tables though and turnover would be very, very slow, what with tired walkers or the earliest arrivals hopelessly blocked. Bob was trying to help, buying coffee and taking it out to the patrons lining up outside and now clogging the one functional entrance. It was at that point that the police made the unpopular announcement that the establishment would have to close, the driveway be cleared, so that Tony could work his magic and restore something like order.

  It would be well into the afternoon before that happened, though. Tony was as shrewd as Hewlett and Packard were brilliant. He knew that by the time anyone ever called him into a situation, it wasn’t likely to change before he got there. It’s like telephoning catfish, he might say, which is something not entirely unlike a jubilee, but it is completely illegal. Tony has learned how to operate in that gray area between honest and dishonest and managed to both maintain his favorable relationship with the Penelope police and still not abandon all of the other calls he’d had that morning. He just took the calls that were on his way to the Waffle House, so that he could honestly say, each time dispatch checked on his progress, I’m on my way.

  It took quite a while to clear the parking lot anyway. It was like unraveling a very complicated puzzle. If any one car couldn’t be removed, none of them could. And if the occupants of the minivan down at the bottom of the driveway happened to include a hyperactive toddler, whose eating efficiency would rate near zero, there wasn’t much the Penelope police could do about it.

  Now what are we waiting for, Dave? Agnes the assistant manager asked the policeman, watching her jubilee morning tick inexorably away.

  Dave, sitting comfortably at the counter, enjoying his free coffee and toast, thanks to Bob, just waved back toward the minivan’s booth. Jimmy’s under the table again, Agnes. And he hasn’t finished his milk yet. What do you want me to do, arrest him for piddling?

  Do something! she pleaded.

  Let me try, Bob volunteered. Jimmy, do you like straws? Bob would end up on all fours, under the table with the child, imitating a walrus. And he would have to sit opposite Jimmy with the straws up his nose, snorting and growling so Jimmy would sit and finish his meal.

  Those remaining inside gave Bob a round of applause for the performance as the minivan family were leaving, but he waved them off, as if to say Any one of you would have done the same thing.

  There were other complications, between the dead batteries in cars with their doors left ajar by eager diners and those that didn’t have the necessary traction at their off-road parking location. Bob did everything he could to help. He lent a hand pushing and offered up his own set of jumper cables. And he bought everyone’s food. From the people waiting patiently outside to those stranded inside, Bob greeted them all, Welcome to the Waffle House, he’d say. Breakfast is on me today! That added to Dave’s difficulty clearing the place, but no one complained too much, not even Agnes. It was the first time most anyone could remember seeing the Phils actually eat in the Waffle House.

  Bob stayed long after Tony had dragged the Super-Coach back around and pointing toward the Jubilee Parkway, and then got a bite to eat himself. He stayed until he was sure he’d made all the reparations he could to Agnes and the rest of the establishment. It was the middle of the afternoon, and all the getaway travelers were either already on the road, or they would be looking for something other than waffles to eat, so no one urged Bob or his Super-Coach on their way. He even offered to clean some dishes, but Agnes told him, no, he’d done enough, really.

  He didn’t ask anyone how to get to historic Marlow. He didn’t want to be any more of a burden, he told Constance, infuriating her all over again, once back in the Super-Coach, trying to drive and decode the Triptik all at the same time.

  Burden? she seethed.

  But they found it. Right where it’s supposed to be, Bob assured her. And they liked the spot so much they made regular pilgrimages back to the area, always stopping by to see their friends at the Waffle House on their way in.

  And despite everyth
ing they experienced on their first trip to the Jubilee City, Bob still managed to get himself stuck trying to turn around the Super-Coach in the Waffle House’s restricted parking area from time to time. Most years it would be a different overnight cook that would come from around the counter to tell Bob, You can’t leave that thing there. Had it been the same cook year after year, Bob would have been forbidden from the establishment much earlier. People were more forgiving in the middle of the night, or maybe it was just the calming, organized handling of the crises the Phils displayed that forestalled Bob’s banishment. They knew exactly what to do, of course.

  Call dispatch, they would inform Walter or Brian or Maria or whoever the cook happened to be at the moment. Have them locate Tony and be sure that he brings his sled.

  After a while everyone involved, the Phils, Tony, Penelope PD, referred to the drill as Big Bob’s return. All they had to say in those pre-dawn phone calls was, Big Bob’s back, and everyone would know exactly what to do, a lot like a jubilee. Before it was all over, it came to resemble a jubilee more and more, with a growing list of the curious and the luminous wishing to be notified when Bob made his annual southern migration. Even on years when he didn’t get stuck, the Phils would still make the phone call to dispatch and inform them, Big Bob’s back. But we don’t need the sled this time.

  It had to end some time, of course. That happened on an early Friday evening when someone other than Bob got himself stuck trying to turn around in the Waffle House’s parking lot. Big Bob was involved, though. Bob’s other retirement hobby, besides traveling around the country with Constance in their Super-Coach, was short-wave radio. He found he could keep up with Penelope PD, dispatch, and countless other acquaintances they’d accumulated on their travels, late at night, while Constance slept back in their house in Boise. Bob had an office he’d created out of some space beneath one of the gables of the high slanted roof where he would sit and gaze out at the stars and test the airways, This is 9-HPB-64, anybody on tonight? Over.

  He’d chanced to strike up a relationship with a trucker that drove the southeastern routes, Atlanta to Miami to Jacksonville to Houston to Memphis, and soon. Crawdaddy, he called himself. Crawdaddy drove as many hours a day as he could get away with, seven days a week. He slept in his truck. He took care of his hygiene and ate all his meals at truck stops.

  What about family? Bob asked him.

  Who needs family? Crawdaddy shot back.

  Everyone needs someone, Bob tried.

  All I need’s a ticket, Crawdaddy told him, meaning an invoice for a load of something that had to be trucked somewhere else.

  Most of their conversations went that way. Crawdaddy was as recalcitrant as they come, and Bob never pushed, which is probably the only reason Crawdaddy answered Bob’s calls.

  Bob caught him at a vulnerable moment once, though. Crawdaddy never told him exactly what was bothering him that evening but Bob knew something wasn’t right. CD, as he called him, wasn’t his usual cocksure, self-reliant braggart. He was complaining, almost whining, about the food he ate, his health, the boredom of endless hours on the road, how every other driver on the road hated truckers, because of their size, or their bulk, their splash, everything. Makes a guy lonely, you know?

  Bob had always told him to stop by if he’d ever found himself in Boise. But CD had always answered, Not much chance a that, so Bob didn’t repeat the offer that night, when CD really seemed to need something, or someone. Bob figured it had to be a birthday or anniversary or some other reminder of the life he’d left behind that was affecting his mood, so Bob simply offered, CD, if you ever need anyone and you’re anywhere near Mobile Bay, stop on the eastern shore, at Penelope. Go south on 98 to the Waffle House. Tell them you’re a friend of Big Bob from Boise and ask for Phil. They’ll take care of you.

  So he did. He drove up the hill and tried to get an angle back amongst the employee’s cars so he could turn the rig around and leave it idling, and in his distraught frame of mind, got himself stuck. CD tried for the better part of an hour to disentangle himself, knowing he’d gotten out of spaces a lot tighter than the Waffle House, but his confidence was shot that particular evening for reasons he never divulged, and all he managed to accomplish was wedging himself against the entrance, actually damaging the door before it was all over.

  Is there a Phil here? CD asked when he finally gave up and came inside.

  Right here, they all said, raising their hands.

  Agnes was working her customary evening shift. She started to say, You can’t leave that thing there, but CD looked so stricken that she guided him to a seat, poured him a cup of coffee and asked if he’d like to see a menu. Then she went ahead and made the call to dispatch.

  Out of habit, she signaled a Big Bob drill, even before CD had mentioned their connection. Getting a Big Bob call at dusk on a summer’s Friday evening caught everyone off guard and ill prepared. The dispatcher on duty didn’t know to alert Tony about the sled, so he didn’t go back to the yard and switch to the industrial rig. He, like everyone else listening in assumed it was a social call, and took his time responding. Dave, and all the other off-duty municipal workers who’d grown fond of Bob and Constance, leisurely made their way to the Waffle House, unaccustomed to a Friday evening appearance. When they all got there and saw that it was a real live situation, well they didn’t know what to do except ask if anyone’d called Tony.

  He’s on his way, they all took turns answering.

  By the time Tony arrived it was a real mess, between the municipal vehicles clogging the driveway and CD’s jack-knifed rig blocking the few diners who’d been inside when he showed up.

  CD was beside himself, embarrassed for getting stuck, something truckers take great pride in avoiding, as well as depressed.

  The Phils kept his spirits up as best they could. This happens all the time, honest. Tony did the best he could with what he had but only blew out the transmission on his winch trying to drag the tractor around. They ended up having to call in a rig from the trucking company in Mobile to pull CD free, embarrassing everyone. Occupants of the Jubilee City prided themselves on not needing anything in Mobile, now that the new multiplex movie theater had opened. (It’s an old dispute between the communities that has to do with taxes and school systems, “bedroom communities,” the usual slurs. The issue appeared early on the Penelope Register’s list of reasons to live in Penelope, at number 2,140: Not needing anything from Mobile.)

  One of the municipal workers who showed up that evening was Cecil Hornsby, the city’s building inspector. He took a close look at the entrance to the Waffle House once CD’s truck was turned around and informed Agnes that she’d have to close down for business until it was fixed.

  This thing could pop right off its hinges and crush somebody, he told her.

  So the Waffle House was closed for the weekend. And when it reopened late Monday afternoon, there was a new sign planted at the top of the drive that read, NO TRUCKS: FISHTRAPS. Agnes had had enough.

  The Phils were there for the reopening. They were the first to ask, What’s a fishtrap, Agnes?

  You know, she answered, spreading her arms out and trying to pirouette in the restricted space between the hot griddle and the soda fountain. Fishtraps.

  They didn’t recognize it as ballet terminology.

  Most everyone figured it had to have something to do with jubilee but no one could quite make the connection, and all Agnes ever offered by way of explanation was the same brief recital in her Waffle House uniform and white safety shoes. Well, someone needs to notify Bob, was the best response they could come up with.

  Other than that, business went on pretty much as usual. The Phils occupied their customary space at the booth in the front corner and welcomed everyone else to the Waffle House. Welcome to the Waffle House, they’d call in Bob’s absence. Bob eventually got word of the restriction and took to towing a used Labaron convertible he’d purchased so he could still visit the Waffle House on their sojourns
southward. Everyone seemed to heed the sign even without understanding what it meant, literally, so there was never another jack-knifed rig blocking the parking lot of the Waffle House in Penelope, Alabama.

  The parking lot was almost always near capacity, though. All of the municipal workers and local dignitaries who had taken to gathering there whenever there was a Big Bob still congregated at the restaurant at regular intervals. It became the unofficial off-duty headquarters for Penelope’s law and order. And then it showed up on the Register’s list at number 1,036 (the building’s address; the editors were so pleased with themselves): Our Waffle House. That sent business through the roof. It’s probably the only Waffle House in the country that you have to call for reservations on busy, jubilee kind of days, like Mother’s Day, or the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

  Surprisingly, not everyone knew it was the unofficial off-duty headquarters for Penelope’s law and order.

  Chawser didn’t, for one.

  He found out in a hurry, though.

  Found out in a big hurry, Phil said.

  What’s a big hurry? another Phil asked.

  They questioned most everything now, since Agnes’s sign went up.

  He stopped by the Waffle House at about eleven at night, on a Tuesday night. Nobody got a very good look at him, or recognized his car, a green four-door Stanza, even though he had local tags.

  He never actually came into the restaurant.

  We knew who he was, though nobody asked us.

  Nobody ever asks, you know?

  He just sat in his Stanza for a minute or so, and then started it up and backed out again, as if he’d been sitting there counting his money and didn’t even have enough for a cup of coffee.