Synaptic

Writing Objective: Write an essay in the spirit of William Least Hean-Moon’s Blue Highway

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It was around 11 a.m. on a cloudy Sunday when the town square caught my eye. I had been driving for hours and decided to stop for lunch in the town of Osceola, I A. The town square was a run-down mass of buildings, grouped closely together. I looked around for a restaurant. I wanted something new — no Hardees or McDonalds would satisfy my curious appetite today. I surveyed my surroundings — a dental office, a post office, and straight ahead a Hallmark store. Looking to my right, a bright yellow sign caught my eve: “Redmans: Seafood and Steak.” My stomach growled as I pulled into the parking lot.

I walked into the dimly lit restaurant and was greeted by thick clouds of smoke. A bell affixed to the door clanged a loud welcome. Eyes burning, I surveyed my surroundings. The restaurant was empty- except for one elderly man sitting alone in a corner booth — evidently the source of the smoke. He took long puffs on his cigarette and nodded in my direction. I smiled at him. His expression was kind, yet complacent. Looking around for a waitress, I chose a circular booth near the window.

Time passed slowly and even- sound seemed to be amplified by the intense silence. The smell of coffee wafted from behind two metal doors which I assumed separated the kitchen from the dining area of the restaurant. 1 shifted in my seat and the vinyl material underneath me squeaked in protest.

Ten minutes passed, according to the round Miller Genuine Droit clock on the wall, before a woman slowly emerged from the metal doors. She was in her early fifties with gray streaks in what seemed to have once been dark brown hair. Carrying a coffee cup in her right hand, she walked over to the old man sitting in the booth.

“Refill Marx ?” she asked in a hoarse voice, gesturing with her coffee pot.

“Sure thing, Phyllis. I thank ya kindly,” said the old man with a smile.

“Looks like you’ve gotten another unto help, added the old man, gesturing toward me with liis hand.

“Huh? asked Phyllis, jerking around to look at me. “Oh, hey there. Be right with ya.”

She returned moments later with a pad of paper in one hand and a menu in the other. Handing me the menu, she eyed me suspiciously. Her deep blue eyes burned into mine searchingly.

“I don’t recognize ya. Ya new around here er just passin’ through?”

“Just passing through. I’m on my way home from school and needed some lunch. I said, a bit intimidated by her inquisitive eyes. “I’m glad to see that I came early enough to beat the lunch rush.”

She snorted. “I lonely. ya are the lunch rush. We don’t get much business around here for lunch. Just dinner on Friday and Saturday event. If my husband had it Iris way. my husband’s the cook, we’d shut ‘er down except for dinner.”

“Oh, so this is your restaurant?” I asked, opening my notebook.

“Yeah. Both mine n my husband. Its been ours for going on fourteen years. I worked here even before it was ours. Back then it was called Gus and Tom’s. We changed it to Redmans -bein’ that’s our last name’s all. How come? You a reporter er sunshine ‘?” she asked as I wrote a few notes down.

“No. Just something I’m doing for a class,” I said reassuringly

“Well, damn!” She said loudly. “This place could use some ‘sposure. Know what I’m savin’ to ya? Once this guy came in to write a story for the Tribune and this place was packed for weeks to come. They put my name in it and everything. My daughter thought I was famous. I dunno.” She pushed a piece of gray ban out of her eyes.

I opened the menu.

“What’ll ya have?” asked Phyllis.

“Uh…” I said, surveying the contents quickly. “How about the filet steak.”

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Nope. We’re out.”

“Oh, well, O.K.” I said. ” I guess I’ll go with the chicken salad.”

“Gotcha. Be right back,” Phyllis said as she scribbled on her pad of paper.

“And a Sprite please,” I called after her as she disappeared through the swinging metal doors.

I turned my attention to the old man in the corner booth. He was already looking in my direction and our eyes met.

“Nice day ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yes. I thought it was supposed to be cooler today.” I said.

“Yah. You never can tell. Those jackasses on the news don’t know what is happenin’. I never did watch and still don’t. Just a bunch of bad stuff ya can’t do nuthin’ about…” he trailed off, looking the other way.

Silence.

The low rumble of a male voice came from the kitchen area. I was tempted to go open the metal swinging doors, just to see what it looked like in the kitchen. I also wanted to see Phylis s husband, the cook.

“He slaps ‘er around, ya know,” commented the old man in the corner-as if reading my thoughts. “What?” 1 asked, looking alarmed. “Jon. Phv Hiss husband. Ya know, lire cook. He roughs ‘er around sometimes.”

“How awful,” I said, eyes wide.

“Ah, nah. She deserves it half the time, anyways it’s no matter of mine,” he said unsympathetically.

“Why doesn’t she get away from him?” I asked.

“Oh. she does. She leaves then comes back then leaves then comes back.”

“I would have never guessed. I feel so badly.” I told him.

He avoided my eyes. “Lots of people got bad stuff they gotta carry with ’em. That’s ut makes ’em human.”

I didn’t say anything. I looked out the window instead. I didn’t want to hear any more about Phyllis and her mean husband. I just wanted to eat my lunch.

“Where is my lunch anyway?” I asked myself silently.

I drummed my fingers on the wooden table, gazing at the world outside of the restaurant. Through the window’, the town square looked a bit hazy. Across the street, a store with the words “Shoes and Shirts” painted on the windows sat quietly. I watched several people walk up to the door, grab the handle and pull before realizing that the store was locked up for the day. One man had a particular problem grasping the concept and pulled several times on the door handle before he finally stomped away, red-faced and fuming.

After starting out the window became boring. I resorted to studying the condiments sitting on my table. Heinz ketchup, A1 sauce, salt, and pepper.

The doors swung open and Phyllis sat the salad and glass of pop on the table.

“That’ll be $14.28.” She held out her hand. “You can just leave your lip on the table when you leave.”

I dug in my purse and pulled out my checkbook. Writing out a check, I asked her how late she had to work.

“Likely, I’ll be here until ten o’clock tonight. Ya alright over there Marx? ”

“Fine. Fine,” mumbled the old man before erupting into a fit of coughing.

“There you go,” I said kindly as I handed Phyllis the check.

“O.K. Well eat up then. See you around.” Phyllis left, going back into the kitchen.

I ate my meal in silence. It was a good salad and it didn’t take me long to eat. Looking over. I realized that the old man was gone. I hadn’t heard him leave. I guess I was too involved with my salad to pay attention, I was alone now in the dining area of the restaurant. I pulled out my purse and left a five dollar tip.

I lingered by the front door of the restaurant, hoping to catch a glimpse of Phyllis s husband, the angry cook. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to see him so badly, but it was strangely like the feeling of wanting to look at the accident site of a car crash as you pass by in traffic. However, my morbid curiosity went unsatisfied, as the kitchen doors stayed shut and only the sound of clinking dishes and running water reached me. Swinging open the front door, the bell clanged a loud good-bye and I exited the restaurant, glancing back only once before getting into my car. 1 wondered if Phyllis ever looked back after leaving at night. I doubted that she ever did.