I took off work Friday, February 14th, ticking
off a “personal day” of my five allotted per year, driving out of the city
towards the emptiness of the plains. Escaping the hearts and flowers, happy couples
and miserable couples, optimistic, hungry singles and bitter brokenhearted was
my better choice if only for a long weekend.
By lunchtime, I felt hungry and had driven so far already
that my choice in dining establishments was but one: George’s Daytime Diner,
located just off a flat, long, and nearly-empty stretch of two-lane rural
highway. I parked my car alongside a brown ‘80s Ford sedan, the only other car
there, and walked in. It was like a hundred other little places I had been to: a
nondescript, clean, dated, family-run restaurant with a row of leatherette
booths running under the front windows, a few tables on the floor, and a
service counter. No one else was dining there. I took a seat in the first
booth, and opened the slightly-sticky plastic menu.
From the kitchen, a strawberry-blonde, freckled, and forty-ish
waitress appeared, wearing mom jeans and a baggy t-shirt. Her nametag read
“HELLO, I’M FOXY.” My face must have registered all the questions I had about
that, and she nodded. “Yep, that’s my real name,” she offered. “My mom named me
after the Jimi Hendrix song…you know the one, “Foxy Lady?”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “Yes, of course,” mulling even more
questions that I wouldn’t ever ask.
“You here all by your lonesome or are you meeting someone?
Want to order now?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, not really wanting to tell anyone if
I was alone or not, thank you very much. “I’ll have coffee, cream please, and
the Georgeburger with cheddar, no lettuce, and fries.”
“OK, you got it, get it going right now for ya.”
“Thanks.”
I brought my phone out of my jacket pocket to check my work
email, but there was no cell service. Frustrated, I stared out the window at
the random passing trucks, listening to the pop of my hamburger frying on the
grill. With no distractions, my spirit began to sink rapidly, as if I had
tied an iron anchor to it. Down, down, down into the newly-murky waters, a physical
feeling, a constriction of the chest. If I weren’t so damn hungry, I’d just
keep on driving, keeping busy, keeping things away, for as long as I possibly
could.
A clatter brought my attention back to the table. In front
of me, Foxy had placed a sturdy white mug of steaming black coffee, a tiny
silver cream pitcher, and a red construction paper heart, which looked hastily
cut, with “HAPPY VALENTINES DAY” written on it in blue ball-point pen. I stared
at the heart, as my own heart beat faster and time slowed to a surreal bend,
because I could not look the waitress in the face.
“Since you’ll probably be the only customer in here today, I
thought I’d give you the royal treatment!” Foxy explained. She stood and
waited, as I tried to compose myself. I don't really know how long that was.
My face, I am sure, was flushed when I finally looked up at
her. “Foxy, I’d be glad to treat you to lunch today. Please join me.” It took
everything I had not to cry. She could not have known.
“Well…my goodness! That would be so nice! I’ll be right back
with our lunches!”
The bounce in her step was sweet to see. I poured a little
cream into my coffee, took a sip, and smiled down at the small paper kindness that
came my way as another passing truck rattled by the diner without stopping,
heading east.
© Copyright 2008- Marianne Spellman