OFF OUR MENU

Darla and I met by chance at Milt’s lunch counter. We sat on white padded swivel chairs between two husky, broad shouldered men who were grabbing a quick lunch. The one on my right smelled of oil. His hands were lavaed but not well enough. Aside from that, his hair was neatly combed and just a bit of stubble showed on his chin. I was surprised to hear him order a tuna melt on an English muffin with tomato and slaw, plus a glass of chocolate milk. His glance towards me evoked a small smile and batted eyelashes.

I managed to say, ‘That sounds tempting. I think I’ll try it.’ The waitress appeared quickly. All I told her was ‘Ditto but change the milk to strong black coffee.’ Darla tried to kick me, missed and almost fell off her stool. She rolled her eyes at me suggesting I shouldn’t have started up with that guy. ‘De nada, de nada,’ I whispered to her.

All I was able to see of the man next to her was clean white hands coming out of a tan linen jacket. For a moment I would have gladly switched seats with Darla. My tuna melt and her lean corned beef sandwich came at the same time. The oily man did not get his tuna melt. Well, that left me feeling funny as he did order his first and probably had to get back to work. I offered him mine as I was in no hurry but he said, No, I’m not in a hurry either. My mechanics can handle the shop. They don’t need me except on pay day.’ Lying or showing off?

My cheese was crispy on top and softly melted over the tuna. It needed a little pepper as did my life. I adjusted my feet on the foot bar and let my purse fall to the floor. That ruse I’ve used many times. Without getting up he reached down, picked it up, handed it to me and told me to be more careful.

The waitress brought his lunch and a grimace fell over his face. It was easy to see the cheese was burned, the tuna had slopped off the muffin. He was angry and I didn’t blame him. Gruffly he told her to take the garbage back and bring him what that lady over there was eating. He pointed his finger at Darla. ‘And be sure the bread is fresh. How about my chocolate milk. Did the cow die?’

Darla had finished as much of her lean corned beef as she could get down. The pieces she couldn’t eat were wrapped in two paper napkins that she pushed into her purse. By that time her sympathies and mine were all with the waitress. Poor thing was blamed for what wasn’t her fault. She returned with our check and a glass of chocolate milk that splashed a little on the oily hands.

Darla and I tore our eyes away from the scene, left without any kind of acknowledgment. Lunch was a disaster that taught us something we should have known long ago.

Patience is it’s own reward. We will not sit at the counter again and will wait next time for a table.