A couple months ago one of my favorites, SUM FLUX, put out a call for stories set in a Waffle House. At that time, I had taken a step back from my weekly posts to focus on my cafe, but something about this competition felt like it was made for my voice and I found myself drawn back to the old Google Docs screen. Sandolore Sykes invited all participants to mass-post our contributions today, and I look forward to checking out what the other writers created!
I drew on my twenty years of restaurant work to write this story, and I hope that shines through when you read. I chose to share a scene from the perspective of a waitress with a dangerous and delicious secret, and I reserved a seat at one of her tables just for you. Please, dig in and enjoy.
Check out the original prompt here:
Benny and Lolo
Rock ‘N Soul slaps onto the Wurlitzer, and “Cry to Me” fills the Waffle House. Benny on the grill’s in a sentimental mood today, and it’s his turn to run the jukebox, so it’s been this shit all afternoon. I don’t have the heart to tell him to change it to something we actually want to hear. A tense family of four gathers themselves from the table in the back and leaves in an earthquake of angry whispers. Gotta wipe that table.
Golden hour filters Benny’s cigarette smoke, which mingles with the swirling trails coming from the few diners along the counter. The Owner got big ideas and drilled that new Honeywell into the wall last week, and now the smoke cloud twists over to that corner. The door jangles as Benny steps outside for a moment of sunshine.
Next on the turntable: “As Time Goes By.” Good old Dooley Wilson. I blush, recalling my first-ever date, when the boy who sat behind me in World History took me to see Casablanca at the fancy drive-in movie theater at the edge of town. (I remember when Lon Detler finally agreed to sell part of his land to Mr. Philip Smith so his company could build the Orwell Ozoner. The op-eds in the weeks before flew fast and thick.) I forget my date’s name now, but I remember the panic and curiosity foaming inside me as his hand slid up my thigh in the backseat of his old Super Deluxe. The seat was beige velour in my own left hand as I braced underneath him. I turned my head to the left and stared at my fingers, watching them stroke the fabric’s pile back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t know I was a virgin, and I didn’t know how to tell him. I didn’t know so many things. How long have I been staring out the window?
Benny tries to sweep me up into a two-step as he comes back inside from his cigarette break, but I dodge his grasp. Cut the shit. Customers are watching. I know he has a crush on me, and Mom always tells me not to encourage the boys. (I have no intention of encouraging them anyway, but for a different, curvier reason than Mom’s approval.)
I twirl to Dooley’s croon as I head to check the coffee pot. The sad puddle in the bottom won’t do for the dinner rush, so I start another batch. Coffee filters are running low. The same week we got our smoke-eater, we found ourselves with a new percolator that came with a bright orange coffee pot. The Owner knew Barbara Goette from their time studying at Freiburg, and in the days leading up to the arrival of the new coffee setup, he told anyone who would listen how radiant Barbara had looked when he first spotted her across the glowing green quad. None of this meant much to me, of course, never having had the chance to leave Orwell, much less the state, very much less the USA.
This is all to say that passion is the reason The Owner insists on serving Nazi decaf, which should not surprise you, since coffee is a major and ongoing point of contention here. Maxwell House is a nonstarter as long as Benny’s around. We found out the hard way that the sight of the blue can gives the guy shell shock, so we serve Folgers because it’s easier to change brands than it is to train a new cook to fry eggs the way Benny does. I don’t understand how he pulls it off with those shaky hands, but he keeps the regulars coming back, so he’s worth the extra cost of the red can. One thing he can’t do: scrambled eggs. Rumor says it’s because he saw a man get shot in the back of the head during the war. (I hear things a lady shouldn’t while I’m working. I like being part of the club who get to hear the real story, and I’ve learned not to repeat it when I get home. I just wish I could dress like the boys if my coworkers are going to treat me like one.) Jesus. How long has that guy in the corner been trying to get my attention?
My uniform feels hot, but not the way my nylons boil. Every minute, my skin pushes away the crisp Dacron dress like some strange magnetism, but the hands of God himself always seem to wrap it back around me. I see Benny’s button-down, slacks, and apron, see his body covered neck to ankles, and scream inside as I wish for a shield between the world and my body, which seems to be a black hole for stares of men. I see them, sitting at the counter, how their eyes dart away, anywhere in the room but my ass, when I turn. I see the down-up-down-up flicking as they fight to make eye contact while they crave my breasts in my dress. Don’t even get me started on how they joke about the little paper hat.
Click-slap goes the jukebox, and Chet Baker croons “Everything Happens to Me.” Jesus. Benny’s really in a mood today. I know it’s his turn to pick the music, so something has to be done. I check to see if the coffee I started earlier is ready. Just finished. God, I’m good. I pour a fresh cup with a dose of cream, no sugar. Wipe the table in the corner when you get back out. I paste on my most motherly smile and walk back through the narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen, where I find Benny pouting over the flat-top as he watches an egg fry. “The lunch rush was long today. Brought you a cup.”
Benny eases a spatula beneath the over-medium and slides it onto butter-slick white toast waiting on a corner of the flat-top.
“What do you want, Lolo?”
“Checking in, bud. What’s up with the sad songs today?”
“Oh nothing, I’m just going to die alone.”
“Benny…”
“No, really. I asked her to the mixer they’re having at the Legion next week and she laughed. She laughed, Lo.”
I work to keep my expression neutral. Benny has been in love with Rachel, the girl who works nights and weekends at the ice cream shop, since before the war. In my most honest hours, I can admit that I have been too, only I don’t get to put on torch songs and make it everyone else’s problem. (The last time I went to the shop, she gave me an extra scoop in my root beer float and winked. I thought I would fall off my stool.) Benny sees something flash across my face and decides it’s a critique.
“You think she’s too young for me.” This is so far afield that it makes me physically tired.
“No, I’m just having a long day.” It’s too much to hope that he’ll ask a follow-up question. “Drink up. The next rush will be here soon.”
I nudge the cup closer to him and head out to the counter, my mind ablaze with two thoughts: she didn’t want him for the mixer, and my shift ends in ten minutes. I try to stay busy. Fill the napkin dispenser. Shine the soda machine. Wipe that table. Don’t think about Rachel’s perfect lipstick on her perfect lips.
Finally, the dinner server arrives, and I win my freedom for another night. I spend a little extra time cleaning the grit from under my nails as I wash up in the employee restroom, and I even take a swing at a cute ponytail. Don’t make eye contact on your way out the door or someone will want something from you. Benny’s day be damned, I slip a nickel in the Wurly and Helen Forrest sings “Mad About The Boy” in my wake. Time for dessert.
