Personal Yummy #23
I seat a well-known local TV news reporter and her gentleman friend in booth seven, the second booth in the nonsmoking section. Right after that I grab the check and money from the elderly couple sitting in booth six, ask Adam to make change for me, and then return it to them.
Now this isn’t just any elderly couple—it is an elderly couple who comes in often to eat and whom I’ve waited on many, many times before. And they are quite intriguing. They walk in together very carefully, the tall, thin, white-haired, practically blind man shuffling across the floor like the well-loved Tim Conway Carol Burnett Show character, his attractive, classy, black-haired, somewhat-younger wife walking behind him with her right hand clasped around his right arm, her left hand clasped around his left arm, peeping around him to guide the way. Earlier, when they arrived, they ventured up the two steps into the nonsmoking section (they usually sit in booth thirteen, the first booth in the smoking section, which is much easier to get to). “I’m…feeling…eager today!” Albert commented, his voice patterns reflecting the way he walks.
When they finally sat down, I handed a menu to Gretta only—Albert always already knows what he wants, the same thing every time. “I’ll have…a…burger, well-done…it…has…to be…well-done,” he emphasized to me in a gruff voice, with a pointed, crooked index finger shaking in the air. (I’ve heard this a hundred times before, but he always insists on re-enlightening me.) “Just the…burger, though. Roll lightly…toasted…and put on…a separate…plate… And don’t forget the pickle!” he added, which reverberated like a cymbal in my ears.
He never has any trouble with that pickle part. He loves those juicy, flavorful, dill pickles. And thanks to him, I’ve learned quite a bit about them, because he just had to know who made them so he could get some for himself.
“They’re the Boar’s Head brand,” I told him, after having searched, shivering, all over the walk-in freezer in the basement one afternoon, looking and looking for a container of them so that I could read the label. (I had never thought to notice before. Anytime I need them, they are already sliced and placed within the multi-dish plastic container in the kitchen, along with the sliced onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, olives, and scallions.) “But, you know what?” I continued, regretfully. “The general public isn’t able to buy them in the grocery stores.” (Mary Ellen told me this.) “They usually only sell in bulk, you know, to restaurants and businesses.”
A cloud covered his face but, just as quickly, a smile reappeared. “Well!” he began. “That just…means…the wife and I will have…to…come…here more often!”
And Gretta just sat there gazing at him, the fingers of her right hand gently grasping the classy, silver cat frames, with the shiny silver chain, that always adorn her beautiful, contoured face.
Albert particularly enjoys asking me about my dancing, and is especially curious about all of the clubs I frequent on the weekends (and sometimes during the week!). He sits there relaxing as I talk about the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, the dances I dance, looking not at me, but straight ahead, his hands folded and resting on the table. Still, there is no doubt he is giving me his complete attention. Try as it might, the glaucoma invader hasn’t completely won, has failed to hide the clear blue sparkle of wonder and happiness—of younger, easier, freer dancing days. Glenn Miller, blaring trumpets, fancy suits and bow ties, sophisticated ladies, flirting, unbearable attraction: It is all there…on fire…magnetic. As I talk, he feels…and dances. Waltzes across the floor. Holds in his arms a beautiful young thing who smells of lilacs. Jitterbugs and sweats. Moves his hips and spins around.
When I finish talking, he says in response, almost completely to himself, a melancholy smile approaching his face, a longing not entirely hidden in his voice, “Yeah…I am…I mean I was…quite the…rug cutter…in my…day…as well.” And then he sits there quietly for a few seconds, the look on his face saying that he is not yet ready to leave that place again, that wonderful, fabulous, carefree place.
But when he returns, he says (obviously making an effort to lighten things up a bit), “Yeah, maybe…after you get…off of work tonight, we can meet up…and…tear…up…the floor together!”
And I laugh in response, saying that I just can’t w—
“WAITRESS!”
I’m not even able to finish my sentence.
“There are other people waiting to be served, you know!”
Who else could it be but the TV reporter, glaring at me, completely turned around in her seat, shooting me all kinds of nastiness. Reality has not only hit my elderly friend, but me as well.
How dare you be so rude! I can’t help thinking, as my head jerks in her direction. But I manage to say, and as evenly as possible, “I’ll be right there.”
Part of me does understand, after all, where she is coming from. I have been talking to my friends for quite a few minutes now, and I had noticed her glancing restlessly at me. But the other part of me is furious, furious at her for not recognizing the importance of allowing me to complete the ritual, the reminiscing, the comforting.
“I think I better go now,” I mouth to my friends, who don’t say anything but just look down and nod.
Before going to the reporter’s table, however, I place my hand on my friend’s shoulder, bend down a bit, and whisper in his ear, “Don’t you worry yourself a bit, okay? Things were cut a little short today, but we’ll definitely dance again together next time…”
And we do—countless times—again and again and again.
******
(The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue—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.)
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