It has been a while since I took time to write. This right foot of mine has drawn me away from the computer while I battle the infection. The medications do not make things any easier. Considering how my mood shifts when I don’t write I suppose I should listen to my wife, children, and friends and simply throw myself into writing full-time. Given a chance to so much as punch out a few words a day I am a much better Bull to live with on a daily basis.
One of the things I love to do is to observe people, watch their interactions, and then write about them. Usually what I write is kept separate and very private. Perhaps the best place I know to study people is that Southern highway icon, Waffle House (hereafter WH). When I think of the number of hours I have spent in either one of those elevated stools at the bar, or in one of the booths to the right of the entrance, (that being the non-smoking section in apparently all Waffle Houses), I almost cringe. Just almost, though. Too many wonderful stories have been told over glasses of iced tea, too much romance, (yes, romance!), has blossomed over hash browns – scattered, covered, and smothered, of course.
Yesterday morning I stopped in at one of the local Waffle Houses for a bite to eat. There was a tad of guilt on my part as I normally would never go without Lady Beth. Still, I was hungry from waiting on the Dept. of Veteran Affairs to dispense more antibiotics for the afore mentioned infection. I’ve visited this particular WH several times since I adopted Mobile, AL as my new pasture. Hobbling through the two glass doors my nose was first to warn my body systems of almost sinfully taste ahead as well as the most certainly sinful amounts of fat and cholesterol that would soon be slamming my arteries shut. The air is thick with the scent of grilled meat, melted cheese, eggs, and onions. Hash browns seem to have no real scent of their own, just the wonderful things they are topped with like onions or jalapeños. Behind it all is the smell of coffee. Always. Personally, I’m happy to report that I’ve made it to the age of 45 never having tasted coffee. I don’t know why, just never even wanted to try it. Same for smoking tobacco or pot. Simply no desire. Then again, I adore haggis – especially when made with deer parts.
To the right of the door all of the booths were full. No matter as it is kind of rude to take up a booth for only one. In the first booth were two men, white and in their sixties, debating Life, the current war, marriage and anything else that came to mind. Behind them was another couple. Black, middle-aged, and very well dressed. It was the manner of their dress that drew my attention, but it was the way the looked at each other that held it. It was obvious that they had eyes for no one but each other. Never had, never will. During my meal they said very little yet communicated with each other continuously. Yes, they wore matching wedding bands. Behind them, against the back wall, were three young women. Two white, one Japanese. Asian women, I must admit, have always caught my attention. As I moved towards the empty bar to take a seat I heard the Asian woman speak, though softly, in a definite Japanese accent. New immigrant or student? Student. And she appears to be no stranger to the grilled hash browns!
I prop my staff against the bar and climb stiffly into my stool. It gives me a chance to scan the back of the room. In the booth just beyond the juke box there is another black couple, young – perhaps twenty or so – with an infant. They are just beginning their meal, both with waffles. Their conversation is of Christmas shopping with interjections of comments about the child. Ah, a girl! No one else occupies that end of the room save for one elderly white man at the shorter bar in the back. His plate is empty. It may have been eggs. His coffee cup is full and he stirs it in an absent-minded manner as he reads the Mobile Press-Register. He adds more sugar without even tasting it. Reminds me of my Grandpa Homer.
Two faces greet me from behind the bar as I take my seat. I’ve met both of these employees of WH at my prior visits with my family. As I have come to expect, they recognize The Bull. Yes, I’ve come to expect to be remembered, but it is still a bit of a mystery to me as why. It is true that the septum ring in my nose is most definitely different, however facial piercings are just not as unusual as they were seven years ago when I got this one. Long sleeves covered my tattoos so they could not be part of the equation. Well, no matter. It sure isn’t my pretty face getting attention! The older woman ask for my order while the younger ask of my wife and children. How nice! Then I look lower and see that she herself is with child. Due in February she tells me. She plans to stay on the job until the very last moment. Her fingers gently caress her belly in a manner I’ve seen many times before. The love of a mother for her child. Something the male will never know.
On the grill the meat for my order sizzles while the thin blond cook dumps a measured pile of shredded potato next to it. Without any wasted movement she moves to eggs she is frying to perfection, then an omlet, and then three strips of bacon go under a press. To my the left the older waitress puts batter into all four waffle irons. She then turns, just in time to greet two men entering the door. She tells them that their waffles will be ready soon. That is why I love WH so! Like the days gone by when I spent far too many hours without sleep and kept vigil for the dawn in a WH in Simpsonville, SC, this waitress knew what to put on the grill as soon as she saw their truck drive up. With me it was always a glass of iced tea and a plate full of hash browns – scattered, covered, and smothered, of course.
The younger waitress again has a moment and refills my tea. I ask how long she has worked with WH. “Eight years”, she replies. I am slightly shocked as she looks too young to have been there that long. Pam, the older waitress chimes in that she has been there two years. The next thought in my mind was how they feel about their job. Pam says she loves WH and simply can’t imagine working anywhere else. The pregnant waitress says that it pays the bills. That statement draws a laugh from Pam, the cook, the old man reading his paper, and the two gentlemen awaiting their waffles. The old man ask her “If that’s all you get, why in the world do you keep hanging on year after year?” Odd, I didn’t expect that man to speak with such an inflection. He sounds very well educated. She took a moment to refill the drinks of the young women before answering. She then stopped, flexed her back, and then said this: “I guess I stay at this because I’ve just come to like meeting people.”
Pam places my plate in front of me and takes my tea glass to refill. I pour a little ketchup on my hash browns and pick up my fork. A new customer takes seat two stools to my left. “I suppose”, I reply, “that is why I keep coming back to Waffle House.” I take a delicious bite from my Texas Double Pattie Melt, savor the flavor, and swallow. “Certainly isn’t to improve my cholesterol level!” That brings a little laugh from every occupied table, and especially from the staff. As I continue to eat my meal my mind is taken back to sleepless nights, after work dinners, and two young women that I loved if but for a short while. My! How I have grown in the years since then!
Soon my meal is done. I pay with plastic, (something new to Waffle House but very convenient), and turn to go. Just as I reach the door I say to all, “Merry Christmas!” Every soul responds. Just as the door closes behind me I hear Pam say “Come back soon, Bull. Bring the family.” I wonder if they know that – if just for the moments we shared – they were all my family too.
