Naomi’s running late – again! – so I’m covering her station until she decides to wander in. I’m not as young as I used to be but I work with speed and efficiency. I remember names, faces, and orders. I know immediately which customers are friendly versus those who just want to eat and get back on the road. We’re the final food and fuel stop for truckers and tourists before they hit an endless stretch of lonely highway.
Leon’s Diner is what’s known as a “greasy spoon.” The food is fast, filling, and cheap. Only takes two very organized waitresses to run tables when the place is full. I was expecting eight tables when I arrived for the afternoon shift. Thanks to Naomi, I’m juggling all 16 and with the noon rush, the place is filling quickly.
She’s late most days and I think Leon would fire her if he could. But no one’s beating down the door for this job. Young people around here flee as soon as they can. Not many options if they stick around.
Lord, help me…
A teen-aged mother in booth six is watching her toddler amuse himself by spitting pieces of his hot dog bun on the floor, punctuated every few minutes by a piercing scream that could wake the dead.
The two women at table five cleaned their plates half an hour ago but can’t stop flapping their jaws. Probably won’t leave much of a tip either.
A middle-aged trucker I’ve never seen before is seated at the counter, flashing butt cleavage at the family of regulars in booth one. I comp them an order of fries to give the kids something to do while they wait for their burgers and giggle about the strange man’s hairy backside.
Where? Is? Naomi?
Two burly guys have just seated themselves at table 13. As I’m approaching with a fresh pot of coffee in one hand and menus in the other, I overhear a snippet of their conversation.
“My wife took out a loan in my name while I was in prison,” the bigger one says.
I pause for a nanosecond, assessing the situation. Popeye muscles. Lots of time in the yard lifting weights. Heavily tattooed. Branded is more like it. Not very friendly looking either, now that I see him up close. She must have really needed that loan.
Both men eye me peripherally as I greet them with a forced smile and a chipper hello. Turns out they already know what they want and place their order. As I’m walking away, Prison Guy asks a question directed at my back.
“Isn’t this Naomi’s station?”
Naomi is five feet nothing and weighs 95 pounds, mostly attitude. For whatever reason, I feel protective of her.
“Um, normally,” I say. “But I don’t know if she’s working today.”
As if on cue, Naomi breezes through the door in her usual “I’m-so-important” manner and heads towards the back of the diner, where she deposits her denim jacket and cheap designer knock-off purse in a locker.
She ignores me as I approach her at the counter while she’s tying her apron. Probably assuming I’m angry about her being late again. She’s right. But I need to warn her about Prison Guy. I worry about her around some of the rough trade we get.
“Listen,” I hiss, my voice low enough so Plumber’s Butt can’t hear. She glares back at me. Okay, so I shouldn’t mind that she’s 20 minutes late for the lunch rush.
“Those two guys on table 13…. One of them was in prison and he asked about you. Be careful.”
“Why?” she replies, not bothering to look their way.
“I overheard him saying his wife took out a loan in his name while he was locked up. He looks about as happy as a wounded bear.”
“I can handle it,” she says.
With that Naomi turns on the charm and sashays over to Prison Guy’s table. The toddler lobs a piece of masticated hot dog bun her way, which she deftly sidesteps while ignoring the mother’s half-hearted apology.
I’m too busy to babysit Naomi so I get back to work. There’s a loud commotion behind me. Chairs overturning, people scrambling. I whip around to see Prison Guy and Naomi facing off. He’s holding both of Naomi’s clenched fists in the air. She releases the dull dinner knife she’s clutching and settles for spitting on Prison Guy’s bulging left pectoral. It’s the highest she can reach.
“Don’t hurt her,” I blurt, as if that will help the situation.
He looks over at me. Then, suddenly and without warning, Prison Guy’s face dissolves in laughter.
“This is my husband,” Naomi says, slightly breathless from trying to wriggle free of his grasp. “We’re having a little misunderstanding.”
“My wife and I need to talk,” says Prison Guy, winking at Naomi. Winking?
They leave without paying for Prison Guy’s coffee.
After Leon realizes his girlfriend is married to a muscle-bound ex-con, they break up and he begs her to quit his diner. Naomi actually likes the job and claims Prison Guy appreciates the extra income. But she promises to keep their secret and tries to show up on time more often.
Business picks up thanks to gossipy locals. Even the tips improve. For a while.