With my garnet nails rattling against the linoleum counter, a lithe figure slots in front of me. And effortlessly raises a gray plastic tub filled with red plastic coffee mugs and plates, he lifts it with practiced ease– like a forklift. My gaze reaches his– his eyes gray just like the plastic tub, and his face cracked with wrinkles. The hat covering his salt and pepper scalp is black– proudly showing off an embroidered eagle with an american flag.
He speaks- voice rough with daily cigarettes and a kentucky accent. But I can’t understand it.. But I smile and nod! Occasionally adding in a little hum.
My gaze turns over to the kitchen as my hands play with the cutlery when the vietnam vet turns to converse with my grandpa.
Scott, the chef, occasionally waves at us and asks how we’re doing. He’s reminiscent of an awkward– but friendly neighbor who you wave and smile at through the backseat while he’s pushing a lawnmower.
There is no soup of the day. Like last week, maybe they don’t serve soup on Saturday mornings? A smile on my face grows as I watch the dyed haired girl scurry over to a booth of three people. She hauls three filled plates on one arm, dropping them gracefully in front of the smoking customers with a small kathunk.
She then scurries in front of us, flipping through a miniature sketch pad and pressing down the bum of the pen, letting out an artificial click!
“Hello Daaarrrlinns!” Her voice exaggerates optimistically, already jotting down our usual 2 coffees and two ice waters and she turns to grandpa,
“Twenty four seven special?” she enquires with the tilt of her head
“Yup, overeasy..” He continues, his hands pulling off his glasses and looking longingly at the plate in front of him while his hands cradle his silver glasses, an odd routine he does every time he orders.
After giving her a second to write, she meets my gaze next. “French toast? Side of sausage patties?” she questions, her head turning to the side, letting me get a view of her side profile. Today the eyeshadow she’s wearing is the vivid green I complimented about two weeks ago. I’ve never seen a green eyeshadow as vivid as hers,
“Mm-hmm!” I nod, my fingers gently unfurling the napkin now in my lap. A few seconds after she writes down my order, a figure apologizes silently as they walk past the woman. Soon enough an unfamiliar tune rings through the restaurant. Something folk.
Two plastic mugs, the size of espresso cups are set and filled in front of us. My fingers crack open a little half and half container. Whenever it’s just me and my dad getting breakfast, He recites the story of when he’d take my sister to breakfast. Like any child waiting for their food would– they stack the creamers to their parents coffee. Then flick them to watch it topple over. After rebuilding the tower, The waitress looked over at my sister and narrowed her eyebrows.
“You better not start smashing those!” She scolds. I can clearly imagine my dads annoyed expression while reciting that story. ‘What kind of butthead kid would smash coffee creamers?! I know it’s indiana but come on!”
After a conversation about what books we’re reading, new restaurants, plots of movies they see at the esquire every friday night, Our full plates get pushed in front of us and I smile and give her a thank you.
The french toast is crunchy at the edges, a great sign. And.. when no ones looking, I dip the bite of sausage in the little plastic container of maple syrup.