But right now I had a mouthful so I did not respond. I couldn’t. I could tell by Kate’s face and the way she was squeezing my thigh that I was not alone in feeling like his remarks were deliberate, but his girlfriend did not seem to have a clue. I wanted to know if he was like that guy driving down the road that flips off another driver and motions for him to pull over, and then acts shocked when he gets slugged in the jaw. I wanted to know if I was misreading things. It was possible. I knew I had a financial insecurity. I genuinely wanted to know if he was trying to insult me, or if he was just stupid. My insecurities were horribly inflamed. He had embarrassed me enough already, but I had to know. So, I asked.
“Um,” I said. But that was it. Silence. I had to think. I had to be very specific with my question to him in order to get the right answer, or I knew that I would crack that douchey fuck right there at the table. And please don’t do that, because good stock would never do that. I wished that I could have controlled my emotions and just thrown some witty comment back at him, but I was far too literal even then as a senior in high school. And in that moment of insecurity, I was only capable of asking him a very honest question, even if it made me look pathetic. I knew that I could destroy this kid in any arena. Any arena, that is, except the pocketbook. And that’s where he was choosing to retaliate for that fucking John Deere hat. I hated feeling helpless, but what he was doing to me at that moment was a lot like shooting the finger at a man without arms. I wanted cool, but I did not have access to any. There was never any cool in me during those moments. Grandaddy’s cool could have helped me, but I could not muster it.
“Usually something follows an ‘Um,’ unless you’re stuttering. Spit it out boy-o,” said Jonathan, and right then my blood started to curdle like cream. I could feel my bottom lip start to tremble, my cheek twitch and my fingers twitch just a little bit, the same way they always did when all of my faculties were called on and rallied together at once to keep me from erupting. But, God, please don’t cry. The last thing I wanted in that moment was to fight away tears like a fucking pussy, but I guess it’s just my design.
“Can you stop talking for just a minute, please?” I said. “I just need to know if you’re trying to hurt my feelings on purpose, or if you’ve done it on accident?” I took Kate’s hand off my thigh and brought my shaking hand with a napkin in it up to my mouth, less to wipe chili off my face and more to have it close and ready to make a fist to slam into that glider’s face depending on how he answered. But he said nothing. That’s just what gliders do. “You know, if you were trying to hurt my feelings I’d rather you just say you wanna go outside and fight than beat around the bush. But if you’re not, that’s okay. Just apologize and we’ll be done ’cause I’m getting the feeling that you’re not actually being nice to me. But if I’m wrong, just tell me.”
“You can’t be serious. Good hell, look at you. You look like you’re about to cry. If you don’t want to go, just say so. But, in the meantime, when you fetch your car from valet, get mine, too, will ya? I’m gonna hit the closet.” He spun his valet ticket onto the table and I watched him wind his way around the corner and straight into the men’s room.
The closet? Yep, the fucking closet.
I heard Kate spout something about not really wanting to go to Marisk, and that we could just stay here, and blah, blah, blah. But I just stared at that restroom door until I finally looked down at my plate and cut off a bite of my last hot dog. Anything to not look up. I didn’t want anyone to see my eyes, because they would tell more about me than I wanted anyone to know…anyone except Jane. I could feel Kate’s sympathetic eyes on me, but I just wanted them to go away.
Finally, Jonathan’s girlfriend drew Kate into a much more important conversation about utter nonsense. She was carrying on about reservations, and who was to be there, and then giggling, and then pointing out the window at someone cool that just arrived, and then more giggling. I wanted to vanish, but my pugilistic hatred rooted me to the spot. Also, Kate had me wedged into the inside of the booth against the wall. I sneaked in an “Excuse me, could I slide out real quick? I’m just gonna run to the restroom—be right back” in between cheerleading gossip and Jonathan this and Jonathan that.
I saw his feet when I walked in, flung open the door to his stall, and found Jonathan sitting down peeing like a girl. He looked up at me as I waited for him to zip up and stand. My first punch grazed his eye, and the middle-finger knuckle on my right fist actually impacted the sharp Formica corner of one of the walls of his stall. It opened up, just like his face. I don’t remember how many times I jackhammered Jonathan’s jaw, nose, and eyes, but I certainly felt better, contrary to what my watering eyes were indicating. I left him and that stupid fedora in a puddle of pee just like I had found his hat years earlier, and stared into the mirror as I pressed a wet paper towel on my knuckle to stop the bleeding. He was a glider then, and he is probably still a glider today. I knew puppy love was bullshit, but he made me realize that so is puppy hatred. So, Jonathan…thank you.
His girlfriend did not even stop her mouth for a tiny beat when I arrived back at the table. I had not been gone long, but it could have been an hour and I do not think Mint Girl would have noticed a thing if it was outside of her immediate sphere. Kate started to get up to let me slide in, but I dragged my plate with half of a chili cheese dog on it to the outer side of the booth and quietly told her to just scoot in. I finished my food with my left hand, but I could tell that Kate knew something was wrong. Her eyes went from what’s-her-name to me repeatedly, until, “Kate, are you listening?” would drag Kate’s focus right back to that irrelevance.
Finally, I felt Kate’s eyes go down to my lap and rest on the knuckle that I was trying to hide. It had to be the last cubic centimeter of air from her lungs that spit out that “Hoh,” because it sounded like a mixture of desperation and revile. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. I didn’t want her knowledge of my actions to put me in the “bad stock” category. Still, I could feel that she never took her eyes off me as she pulled a paper napkin out of the dispenser and gently wrapped that torn knuckle while that Tourist continued to spew their glorious night’s itinerary. I finished my plate, and I swear I tried to wait for a pause in that girl’s diatribe, but it just wasn’t there. So, I let “I think I’m prolly just gonna head home, Kate, but it was really good seeing you tonight” roll right over her friend’s sustained prattle.
“Stay, please,” Kate blurted out as I started to slide out of that booth. I told her that I really just wanted to go home, and I rose and finally turned to face her. Only then did her eyes tell me that I was right about the “desperation,” but categorically wrong about the “revile.” Kate’s face that night was the first to show me that those violent primal instincts, publicly denounced but still hidden at the core of just about every boy I’ve ever known who was worth a shit, were actually privately adored. I turned and walked out as I heard Kate telling her friend, “Will you please just shut up…and go get your boyfriend outta the bathroom? He’s an Asshole, and I want to go home!”
Yeah, fuck good stock.
* * *
From early on, my Grandaddy had taught me to have compassion for all, but to always be ready to not have any as soon as a situation required it. The situation with Jonathan required none. I am ashamed of nothing I did that night, except not holding that car door open for Jane. My Grandaddy never once told me how to live my life, he just lived his correctly…and he let me watch. And I remember the exact day that he showed me what both having and not having compassion was—the lesson that Jonathan probably wished I had never learned. It was at my favorite cafeteria in the world, which might not have meant much since I had only ever eaten at one. But in my Grandaddy’s opinion, there was only one cafeteria worth going to, and we went just about every week. Next to my Grandaddy’s porch, that cafeteria came in a close second place as far as wisdom delivery locations with him were concerned. It’s why just a little part of me, despite their heavenly cho
colate, resents Baskin-Robbins—because that is what replaced my Grandaddy’s Piccadilly Cafeteria when it got knocked down.
I was eight. It was early summer, just before I discovered Jane, and my Grandaddy had given me a bloody pocketknife as a little gift resulting from an altercation he had had on the job. While we were sitting there, me examining the dried blood on the blade, Grandaddy looked up, sensing something in the air. Now, only once was I ever allowed to have two helpings of macaroni and cheese, and when I was, it was not the extra dish that stayed with me—it was my Grandaddy’s message. It always was. On the odd Sunday every now and then, after church, the men and women went in different directions, so it was just Grandaddy and me. This was necessary, he said. He spoke differently. He painted different pictures. And he always closed with, “Now don’t tell your Mamau.” I never did. Nor did I tell my parents about the double helping of mac and cheese.
My Grandaddy was a creator. He told me at a very young age that most of the people who could not find what they wanted in this life just had not had the system explained to them properly. He was the deputy sheriff of Lake Charles, Louisiana, and then again in Galveston, Texas, back when that meant a lot more than handing out speeding tickets. He was a father to everyone not lucky enough to keep one around long enough. He was a real man, long before they were outlawed.
The Piccadilly Cafeteria was always a treat for me, and I loved sliding my tray in front of all that food. It smelled like everyone’s best home-cooked meals I’d ever been to on a Sunday all rolled into one. The first station after silverware was always the assorted colors of Jell-O, and I loved the look of the “lucky” green. I would only get the green Jell-O if they were out of chocolate pudding, and that Sunday they were. I was always more intrigued with the motion than the flavor, but I had to be very economical in selecting my dishes. I could get any single dish from each food group on a “men’s Sunday,” but I had to eat every single crumb. I always found myself forcing down that last cube of green wonder. Grandaddy said green Jell-O was a fashion model. It always looked great just sitting there. “Whereas compared to your Mamau,” he said, “…well, tha’ unicorn th’very best woman in all the world, y’Mamau like the entire dessert section and the hot meals all throwed in a mixin’ bowl.”
We sat in the round corner table right by the window as we always did, and I think I grew more during those hours with Grandaddy than I did the entire rest of the week. My macaroni and cheese bowl was almost completely clean as I used my honey-butter dinner roll to mop up any evidence of it ever having been there when I heard the first scream. It was Miss Shelby, the cashier, hollering for help as a man sprinted toward the exit door with a handful of cash. I had seen the man eating not five tables down from us and apparently, after his meal, he had gone to the cashier to pay and just grabbed a handful of cash from Miss Shelby’s open drawer and run.
Now, The Piccadilly Cafeteria was a bit of a maze to navigate, and probably a firetrap, too, by today’s standards. The front door just brought you into a breezeway, which was like a little glass box of about fifteen feet wide and about eight feet deep that ended with two doors to the cafeteria. So, when you entered, there was a door to your left that took you into the cafeteria, and a handleless door to the right that was an “exit only” by the cashier. Well, this man had run from the cashier with a fistful of money all the way around to the door by the entrance that was handleless on the inside, and only opened inward. He was frantically banging on the door, as if it would open if he just ran at it harder.
“Open the goddamn door, nigga-bitch,” the man screamed at Miss Shelby, who was black.
“Git yerself another macaroni, boy, I’ll be right back,” growled my Grandaddy long and low. Never taking his eyes off the thief, my Grandaddy walked calmly to the correct exit, slowly folding the napkin that had been in his lap, and handed it to Miss Shelby. “Miss Shelby, don’t you listen that now. He a thief. And you’s a lady. Hear?” She smiled gratefully at Grandaddy and let him take the keychain that was clipped to the belt on her pantsuit.
The man immediately saw my Grandaddy exiting into the breezeway and started sprinting around to the only exit that allowed freedom. The man came busting into the breezeway just as my Grandaddy pulled the key out from the dead bolt that locked the final door to the parking lot. I made my way to the entrance, where the thief initially tried to exit, and watched as my Grandaddy sat Clint Eastwood the fuck down, the way he dealt with this man. Now Grandaddy was in his fifties at the time, and this man was fit, and in his early twenties, and had just screamed at Miss Shelby to “Unlock these fuckin’ doors NOW, nigger!”
“I’m the nigger y’gon’ talk to right now, boy,” said Grandaddy as he clipped the keys to his own belt. “Now y’gon’ go back inside, and apologize to that beautiful woman in there, that’s Miss Shelby. Then pick all the money you dropped while you was runnin’ the Piccadilly, hand it nicely back to Miss Shelby, and then we gon’ talk about how you can pay fer yer meal.” I had my face smashed against the glass watching as Miss Tillman, one of the servers, tried to pull me back to the safety of the kitchen, but I would not budge. The man took a moment to think about it. I knew that he was about to do the right thing…just as he did the wrong thing. He leapt at my Grandaddy, and was met by a huge left hand that latched on to the front of his collar and held him at a safe arm’s-length. The man tried in vain to release the hand as we both heard, “Well, what’re you gonna do, son?” The man then seemed to relax for a brief moment, sizing up his options. He stared into my Grandaddy’s eyes, and then exploded, throwing wild punches that were just out of reach. Grandaddy balled up his empty hand, held it by his right ear, and yanked the man’s face toward him by his collar as he threw that giant right fist. They met in the middle with a violent crack. My Grandaddy repeated this three more times. Blood flung onto the window right above my face as he dragged him by his collar to the corner of the breezeway right in front of me and dropped him with all his stolen money in a heap.
Grandaddy turned and walked back into the cafeteria. I was back at our table before he was, and Miss Shelby and Miss Tillman were in a panic next to me. He sat down, asked Miss Shelby for his napkin back, and told her, “Tell that boy when he wakes up to come get the keys from me and he can go.” He palmed his big glass of ice water over the rim and turned it upside down over my empty bowl of macaroni and cheese. After all the water drained out, he dumped the ice into his napkin, twisted the edges, and wrapped his knuckles saying, “Your Mamau sees the swellin’ otherwise,” and threw a spoon into his pinto beans. My last cube of green Jell-O swiveled as my Grandaddy finished his beans, and I watched Miss Shelby and Miss Tillman talking to that man through the glass. He finally stood up and entered through the door he initially tried to beat down, and walked up to our table. My Grandaddy unclipped Miss Shelby’s keys from his belt, held them up without looking at the man and said, “The gold key in the middle open the front door. You can put that money back in the register and let yourself out, or you can sit here and talk to me.” I jumped in my chair as the man grabbed the keys in a whiff and bolted to the front. He fumbled with the keys until he found the one that finally unlocked the door while sporadically looking back to make sure that my Grandaddy wasn’t coming after him. He then ran out into the parking lot.
My Grandaddy just looked over his shoulder and said, “That just really hurts my feelin’s. Boy’s garbage. Garbage’s what’s wrong with the world.”
“Charlie!” Miss Shelby yelled. “He’s coming back in.”
We both looked up to the front door and sure enough, the man was back in the breezeway looking right at us with two fists full of dollar bills. My Grandaddy pulled out his huge index finger and threw it looping over his head indicating for the man to come over to our table, and went right in for another spoon of beans. Miss Shelby beat the man to the table and offered to take me away, when my Grandaddy said, “Not necessary, boy’s gonna stay, he needs to hear this. Boudin for my great-granbabbies.”
She just looked at him kind of shocked and slinked away. The man arrived coated in defeat and blood and opened his mouth to speak when he was met with, “Have a seat, son.” The man slowly took a seat, and my Grandaddy removed his soaked napkin from his knuckles and handed it to the man and said, “Go on, clean yerself up.” The man began wiping off his face with wells of tears in his eyes as Grandaddy asked, “You steal ’cause you ain’t have money to eat, or you steal ’cause you’s an ass?”
“Bit of both I s’pect. I’m sorry, sir. Woman in the lot says you’s the law,” the man said. I had just seen this man violently throw himself into a glass door to try to escape The Piccadilly with a handful of stolen money, curse out and attack my Grandaddy, but I truly felt horrible for him. He hurt. He hurt badly.
“I can fix the job, but you gotta promise me you gonna fix the ass,” said Grandaddy. “You gonna clean up here at The Piccadilly, then you gonna clean up next door at the Piggly Wiggly till they tell ya you done every day for a month, then you’ll be clean. I’ll have Miss Shelby give ya’ three hot meals a day here and I’ll tell ’em to keep you least for the thirty days, but if you really wanna rid youself of the ass, then you make them wanna keep you.”
Jane Two Page 19
