The Meteor Hits

Personal Yummy #12

Following is the fourth excerpt that I’m sharing from my coming-of-age novel—set in the nineties—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.

Have any of you waiters or waitresses ever experienced a situation like this?

The Meteor Hits

Mel is a white-haired, short, wide, hunched-over man in his early seventies, I’d say, who constantly wears a ball cap, baggy pants, and an expression on his face like Dopey’s. He drinks way too much, and he talks way too much. Except, in the midst of all the mumbling, I can never figure out what it is he’s saying. Of course, maybe he can’t either.

Other than that, I don’t know much about him… But then again, there is one more thing: He likes Remmy, the new waitress.

How do I know?

Well, not just because he chatters at her all the time, and not just because he follows her around while she works—but because of what happened last week.

I was getting two bottles of Killian’s Red from the cooler—grooving a bit to “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” as I did so—and Remmy walked quickly past me, laughing, and said (while Mel trailed behind her), “He goosed me! Can you believe that?”

Actually, I really almost couldn’t. Who knew he had it in him? I surely didn’t.

But when I glanced up at him in his quest after her, he wasn’t looking down at the floor—for once—but was focused on her, eyes ablaze.

It all proved to be way too much for him, however.

Instead of following Remmy to the front of the restaurant, where she had fled (she was really way too far in the lead), he changed his course (not voluntarily, I suspect) and scuttled into the narrow, short corridor that leads to the front exit.

But he didn’t quite make it out.

He had been traveling rather crookedly and unsteadily, brushing the walls with his shoulders, when BOOM!: The entire right side of his body, led by his right shoulder, hit the interior wall—which is made up of milky-colored glass squares connected by fashionably smoothed-out cement—securely and squarely.

I swear I felt the whole place shake. But nobody felt it more than the couple who was sitting at the table that lines the other side of this wall. And you know what? I was so lucky to be the one serving them two fresh beers at just that moment, as chunks of plaster and concrete toppled onto their Cajun chicken salad and bacon cheeseburger.

Yes, the meteor had hit—but I was about to experience the fallout.