The stranger wasn’t even sure the Cafe was open, but the door moved inward with a shove. It was warm, clean and smelled nice. The usual garish overhead florescent lights had been muted to a glow and all the Formica and chrome tables were set like a crowd was expected. He found himself a comfortable spot in the rear, by the front window with his back to the wall.
“Coffee,” asked a woman’s voice. Her stealth like approach had startled him.
“Yes, please,” he replied in as normal voice as he could manage.
She filled the new looking maroon mug in front of him. It advertised the services of a local excavator. “We’ll Do the Hole Thing,” it promised. Candy handed him a menu and he watched her leave. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties. He guessed from “Candy” on her name tag, she was the owner. And, from the new white floor tiles, fresh inside paint and the general look of a meticulous top to bottom cleaning, a new one. Other than that he was relieved to know absolutely nothing else at all about this woman. No insights, hint of yearnings, future plans, glimmer of regret, hopes or anything else. Candy of Candy’s Café was a blank slate. His headache was suddenly gone.
He decided on the Special and as Candy approached and held up the menu, pointed and said “over hard”. She nodded and disappeared. It was a nice moment.
He turned his attention to the two page Java Junction News stuck between the napkin holder and the sugar. And for the next ten minutes focused the Otter Lake Junior High baton twirling competition, Ottisville basket ball team, ice fishing report and the Catholic Church clothing drive. It seemed curious to him, all this activity, in a place so empty. It was like a sci-fi story where the news paper kept coming out in a town with no people.
Candy brought his breakfast. It was three eggs, ham, two sausage patties, three pieces of bacon, pancakes and two slices of white toast drenched in butter. Suddenly the lack of people made more sense to him.
He lingered over breakfast for at least an hour and, when it came time to pay, found he had three dollars and three credit cards. He selected a card and handed it and his license to Candy. “Travis Caribou” from Virginia it read. She did not think he looked much like a Travis Caribou.
“Coffee,” asked a woman’s voice. Her stealth like approach had startled him.
“Yes, please,” he replied in as normal voice as he could manage.
She filled the new looking maroon mug in front of him. It advertised the services of a local excavator. “We’ll Do the Hole Thing,” it promised. Candy handed him a menu and he watched her leave. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties. He guessed from “Candy” on her name tag, she was the owner. And, from the new white floor tiles, fresh inside paint and the general look of a meticulous top to bottom cleaning, a new one. Other than that he was relieved to know absolutely nothing else at all about this woman. No insights, hint of yearnings, future plans, glimmer of regret, hopes or anything else. Candy of Candy’s Café was a blank slate. His headache was suddenly gone.
He decided on the Special and as Candy approached and held up the menu, pointed and said “over hard”. She nodded and disappeared. It was a nice moment.
He turned his attention to the two page Java Junction News stuck between the napkin holder and the sugar. And for the next ten minutes focused the Otter Lake Junior High baton twirling competition, Ottisville basket ball team, ice fishing report and the Catholic Church clothing drive. It seemed curious to him, all this activity, in a place so empty. It was like a sci-fi story where the news paper kept coming out in a town with no people.
Candy brought his breakfast. It was three eggs, ham, two sausage patties, three pieces of bacon, pancakes and two slices of white toast drenched in butter. Suddenly the lack of people made more sense to him.
He lingered over breakfast for at least an hour and, when it came time to pay, found he had three dollars and three credit cards. He selected a card and handed it and his license to Candy. “Travis Caribou” from Virginia it read. She did not think he looked much like a Travis Caribou.
1 comment:
Hi Doug,
Looks like you have a talent for writing too - like cousin Bill. I had to create a google account before I could leave my comments. Good seeing you at Easter too.
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