Diner Deeds Done Dirt Cheap - an Aspie Girl in Massachusetts

by Mary Rae

day and never came back. So my mother, whose religious upbringing has folded her into origami over this situation, is stuck in limbo. Not with the man she is legally and morally tied to. Not able to wed the man she’s lived with for nearly twenty years.

  Life has its rules.

  Red-head nudges the Chinese man in the side. His elbow impacts something crunchy and he chuckles. “So, that wife of yours gonna like the crusty rolls? Man, I don’t know how you eat those things. I tried taking the leftovers home once or twice. They get as hard as baseballs.”

  Chinese man grins broadly. “She’ll eat anything that gets in front of her. Sometimes I see her eyeing the fancy goldfish in the tank!”

  The men chuckle in appreciation.

  I shiver at the thought of his wife gobbling down their pets. I know he’s joking, of course, but still, I can’t distance myself from the vision. I’m not quite sure why they would find the thought funny.

  Red-head looks over at the elderly man and his brow wrinkles. “Man, what’s up with that jacket and all its pockets? Think you have enough?”

  The elderly man reddens. “It’s a photography jacket.”

  Red-head bursts out laughing. “What, you think cameras are that tiny? And how many of them do you need, anyhow?” He pulls out his iPhone. “I’ve got this one and it can do anything I want it to!” He aims it at the barrel-ceiling, presses a button, and grins. “Look! Pretty cool, huh?”

  The elderly man flushes. “The pockets aren’t for cameras. They’re for film.”

  Red-head stares at him as if he’s spoken Swahili. “Film? Like you stick a colored film over the phone lens to do something to it?”

  The elderly man barely holds in a sigh. “Film, like you put film into the camera and take photos onto it. Then you send the film out to be developed. They send you back the photos.”

  Red-head leans back in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. And I bet they charge you every time they develop them, too.” He shakes his head. “Utter insanity.”

  The elderly man puts a hand to his pocket. “It’s my hobby. I enjoy it. And I’ve got quite a savings account. I might as well do something I enjoy with it.”

  Red-head shrugs. “If you say so. I still say you should just get an iPhone and use some sort of a make my photo look like crap app. You’ll get the same result.”

  Their boss shakes his head. “I still don’t get why Jimmy would have stolen the black truffles. He was doing great. I was going to give him a raise. He had all sorts of plans. Why screw it all up with petty theft?”

  The cook/waitress arrives to hand around the plates and drinks, and the talk subsides into noises of crunching and slurping. Usually it bothers me immensely to hear that sort of thing. For some reason that I don’t understand it upsets me. But I find I am distracted tonight. Ruminating over what they said.

  The diner woman comes over to me to take my empty plate and glass. “Pay whenever you’re ready, hun.” She pauses for a moment. Usually this is where I reach into my pocket, put out the exact change plus tip, and leave. I don’t like to hang around once the meal is complete.

  I sit, my mind whirling.

  She blinks, then smiles in encouragement. “You stay as long as you like.” She moves back to clean the grill.

  The Chinese guy looks over at the red-head with his mouth half full of burger. “So how’s the kitchen renovation coming? Your wife still insisting on marble countertops imported from Tuscany?”

  The red-head groans. “And now she wants to toss out our entire cookware set. Wants us to get AllClad. Do you know how much that stuff costs?”

  He shakes his head. “Plus she saw this infomercial about this two-thousand-dollar bread machine and has decided we have to have it.” He looks over at the Chinese guy. “You should be thankful your wife has celiac. Saves you from some of this kind of mess.”

  The Chinese man gives a wry smile. “You haven’t lived with a Chinese woman. She needs eight hundred kinds of herbs and then five thousand spices. All fresh. And then steamers, broilers, grillers … we’re using one of the spare bedrooms as a storage area. And still it’s not enough. We’ll be bankrupt and she’ll still insist we need more stainless steel skewers.”

  The elderly man takes another bite of his chili. “You all are looking at life the wrong way. You need to get rid of all that junk. Declutter. Throw it away. Get yourself down to the basics. That’s where you find happiness.”

  Red-head snorts. “Right. You and your film, grandpa. If you really wanted to declutter, you’d be shooting digital.”

  “Soulless millennial.”

  “Ancient luddite.”

  I speak up. “I want to see your buns.”

  Seven pairs of eyes swivel to stare at me as if the very walls of the diner have come to life to issue a proclamation. The cook looks like she might fall back against the soda fountain.

  I hold out a hand to the Chinese man. “Your buns. I would like to see them.”

  He opens and closes his mouth in surprise. “Who are you?”

  The cook hurries over. “She comes in regularly. One of the locals. She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just a little … unusual.”

  The words irritate me. I’m not unusual. I am me, and I’m just the way that I should be. Don’t I dress properly? I made sure my socks matched and I’m in a simple t-shirt and jeans. My hair is neatly combed. Why am I pegged as unusual?

  The boss nudges the Chinese guy. “I think she means the rolls you have, from the restaurant. The day-olds that you brought home. You were talking about them earlier.”

  I nod. “Yes.” My hand stays out.

  The Chinese guy reddens. “But why should I –”

  The elderly man stares at him. “Jeez, the girl just wants to see them. Maybe she has a thing for looking at rolls. Is it going to kill you to let her take a look?”

  The Chinese guy fumbles at his pocket and draws two of them out. He holds one in each hand. “Here. They’re leftovers. They would have just been thrown away. So I take them home.”

  I snatch one out of his hand.

  He cries, “Hey!”

  Red-head laughs. “They’re junk bread! Are you that worried about stale rolls? Heck, I can get you more, you know.”

  I stare at the roll, turning it in my hands. “You take these home for your wife.”

  The Chinese man nods, his eyes on the bread. “Yes, that’s right.”

  I see it now. The seam has been expertly blurred, maybe with a combination of water and cornstarch or something. I am not an expert in culinary subterfuge. But now that I see where it is, I know how to grip the roll.

  I give it a twist.

  The top lifts off.

  Nestled into the hollow within are a pile of large, fragrant truffles.

  I look at their deep brown, dirt-dusted forms. “Pigs find truffles,” I state. “You can’t grow truffles on farms. There’s something special about the mushrooms. So they grow in the wild, and pigs can smell them. The pigs burrow around the roots of oak trees. They can sniff them out.”

  The men are still staring at me in shock.

  I hold up the open bun with its truffle-treasure. “Truffles cost almost $100 per ounce. If both of these buns hold truffles, and he’s been taking them home regularly, that would be …”

  I begin doing the calculations in my head.

  The boss stands and walks over, staring down at the thief. “That would be illegal,” he states coldly. “How could you? Not only to steal from our restaurant – but to let poor Jimmy take the fall for it?”

  The Chinese guy wraps his arms around himself. “It was just one, the first time. It’d fallen on the floor. I couldn’t use it anyway! And when that worked, I thought I’d take one home the next week. It was so easy to sell them. And then my wife wanted a whole greenhouse built so we can grow our own ginseng …”

  The elderly guy looks at red-head. “Put that phone gadget of yours to good use. Call the police.”

  The Chinese guy drops his eyes t
o the floor.

  The boss turns to smile down at me. “You’re quite a detective. How’d you know about the buns?”

  I hold out the bun. “Buns have gluten. He said his wife had Celiac disease. And he said the buns were for his wife. She can’t eat them.”

  His eyes sparkle. “Wow, you’re quick! In thanks, we’d love to have you come eat with us for free. We’re the beer hall down the road with the tin ceilings –”

  I shake my head, putting the bun down on the counter. “No. No.”

  The cook speaks up, turning to the boss. “How about you put a credit on account for her here. She likes it here. It’s … it’s quiet.”

  The boss nods in understanding. “Of course. I’ll do that.” He gives a smile. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want anything else? You just saved the restaurant a fortune, never mind that poor kid his career.”

  I drop my eyes and give a low shrug. “Eating here is what I like to do. That is all I want.”

  His voice holds great warmth. “Then I will make sure you eat here whenever you wish.” He holds out his hand. “My name’s Nathan.”

  Tension runs down my back. I don’t like to shake hands. But I have just helped him. We are sort of friends. And I do appreciate his offer to pay for my tuna melt sandwiches. It is very nice of him.

  I put my hand into his. “I am Willow.”

  His teeth shine as if they are sparkling stars in the sky. “Well then, Willow, I am very glad to have met you.”

  An unfamiliar warmth glows within me, and I take back my hand. I’m not sure I’ve ever had this reaction before.

  He was glad.

  * * *

  Thank