two eggs and bacon

“What are you thinking about?” the waitress asked me.

“I’m not really sure. I was trying real hard to remember the way something sounded. Something from a long time ago. But I can’t.” I said after putting down my laminated menu.

“Honey, don’t. If you can’t remember it, that’s the way God wants it to be.”

I’d never really thought of it that way. God wants me to remember something or not. I always figured it had something to do with my screwed up brain cells. Too many years of drinking beer, smoking pot and a few nitrous canisters, right?

“God, huh?” I finally said.

“Yes, honey. God,” she smiled. Her teeth were crooked and stained. Just like mine. She was skinny. Very skinny. I’d hazard to guess she’d dabbled in heroin at least once in her life. But now she’d found God. And serving waffles at 3 in the morning. Certainly, she was doing better at the whole “life” thing than me.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked her.

“Certainly, honey.”

“Do you call everyone honey?”

“Can’t says that I do,” she said. “I can stop if you don’t like it.”

“No, no, no. I like it. A whole lot, actually. It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”

“Goes back to that trying to remember thing, don’t it?”

“Yep. I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”

“Honey, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.”

“You sure are an optimist.”

“No other way to live.”

I’ve known a couple of women like that. Ever believing in everything. Seeing the good all the time. Funny thing about them – they all left me too.

I looked at her nametag. It said “Wendy. Here to serve you.” She saw me looking at it.

“My name is Missy, by the way.”

“Lying to the customers, huh Missy?”

“It’s more to keep a safe distance.”

A first crack in the armor of good. This Missy could be worth taking a chance on, I started to think.

A couple of drunk rednecks came into the place. Loud and full of booze. Trouble for sure.

“You going to order?” she asked with a grimace. “If you don’t soon, I’m going to have to go take their order and Maurice will get them first.”

“Who’s Maurice?”

“The cook,” she said pointing at a fat, greasy guy behind the counter. He smiled at her pointing and grunted a little bit.

“I’ll wait. You should go tend to the drunks.”

“Those guys are trouble,” she said. “You might want to leave.”

“I’ll stay.”

She nervously tip-toed over to their table. Missy had great legs. Almost as pale as a polar bear’s fur. A bruise behind her left knee was old, but still pretty ugly. I wondered how it got there. I didn’t have to wonder very long.

“Wendy!” one of the drunks yelled. “I need my Wendy!”

My inner rage level jumped a few points. I watched the drunks closely. They were both huge. Definitely manual laborers. If I tried anything with either of them, my head would most likely be bashed against the front counters.

“Luther, John, you boys have been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” Missy said. I looked at her eyes, there was fear in them. Not a lot. Certainly not enough for Luther and John to notice. But, me, I noticed it.

John, a hulking pig of a man wearing a ripped Bon Jovi “Slippery When Wet” shirt, put his grimy meat hook of an arm around Missy. Pulling her to his lap. She slapped him.

“I love it when you get rough Wendy,” he said with a cackle.

Luther then proceeded to lunge for her too. He missed, falling to the floor as she deftly stepped out of the way. Even wearing way-too high heels for the gig, Missy was like a ballerina with her moves.

I chuckled just a little. Luther, on the ground, must have heard.

“You got a problem, buddy?” he yelled at me. My smile shrank a little, but stayed on my face. I’ve never been a good hider of facial expressions. It’s why I never could be a poker player. I’ve got too many tells.

“Nope,” I said. “Just enjoying the show.”

Missy winced at that. She knew it was a challenge. She knew Luther would take it as such.

“Fuck you, buddy!” he replied, scrambling to his feet. He started to walk over to my booth. I got a little nervous.

“Stop right there, Luther,” a voice, almost like what I would imagine Thor’s would sound like, rose from the background.

We both looked behind the countertop. It was Maurice.

“I ain’t having no trouble. Sit your dumbass back down and I’ll start cooking your chocolate chip waffle.”

“Uh, um, Maurice, that guy’s a prick.”

“How the hell do you know, Luther? He’s been real nice to your cousin.”

I felt a bit strange now. But, in a sort of way, it all made sense.

Missy looked at me with sad eyes. She knew what Maurice’s statement meant. I wouldn’t be pursuing our conversation any further than “I’ll take two eggs and bacon.”

I was sad too. But, her eyes were right.