What Dough Men Are Cut From
by John Davis Collins @1999 All Rights Reserved By John F. Clennan, Esq.
"Waitresses convey the messages of the gods, carrying orders
of other's design;" I reflected aloud as I poured a cup of
coffee for Doc Wynn, my first and perhaps my only customer this
wretched evening. "We stand by and pray that right will win out."
The dark coffee accented Doc's mocha complexion. "I say the
same about medicine. I advise, counsel and comfort, but the
doing part, that's up to the patient." Doc plunked down his
coffee cup and jumped off the stool, leaving five dollars on the
counter which I grabbed quickly.
The owner's resonant European toned voice bellowed throughout the
diner. "Jane, Kiplo Kafe, parikalos!"
"The Greek gods summon." My laugh forced Dr Wynn into a departing half
smile.
Bill Gagakos stood up from his chair in the corner booth and
looked out the window of his Temperance Diner at the rain, driven
by a glum sky. A pallor had spread across the Southern New
England town of Prudence.
Across from Bill sat Jimmy Blades, the name university
graduate who worked as a caddie at the local golf course.
"Lively fellow for someone so short," Jimmy shot a glance up from his
gothic novel to face the frigid damp gust in Dr Wynn's wake.
With 40 days and nights of rain, no one needed caddies. Having
inherited wealth Jimmy enjoyed the time off sitting in the diner
with Bill reading books. Most other locals in the foothills of
the Berkshires weren't as lucky.
Earlier at 3 p.m. when the day shift had changed. Sandy, my
heavy set matronly counterpart told me, " 9 hours on my feet and
I only make $5 and some change in tips."
"Doc Wynn came in for lunch, maybe he'll be back for
supper." I said anxiously.
"No money, no customers and no tips. Sandy replied. "who is this Dr Wynn
anyway?" Why would a real doctor settle down in this Yankee rust bucket?"
"Some say he walked away with South Vietnamese gold .... but most likely
he took up with some hill woman.... Any event," I looked at Sandy with a
grin, "he keeps things to himself.... like a Yankee should."
Bill's quandary required more finesse. "Cut off provisions,
" Bill told suppliers, " Someone else will stock me and get paid
Memorial Day Weekend." Most went away with a token payment.
"And," turning to me, Bill remarked, "You think you Yankees
know how to fully dispose of creditors."
"Yankees," I snapped, "invented dickering."
The town of Prudence hadn't been so depressed since a
surveyor put it in New York instead of Connecticut or
Massachusetts where good Yankees belong.
Looking at huge droplets exploding on the pavement, Bill
Gagakos, scratching a black beard curled in dampness, had lost a
sense of that missionary zeal to introduce the lower Berkshire
Mountains to spicy Greek treats. Bill's long dark hair curled
back in a European style, had lost some of its luster.
"The weather will improve," he said reassuring himself in the melody of
alien resonance, "It must!"
Beginning with raging 'Nor'easters and ending in drizzle,
weeks passed as our precious few customers dwindled away. When I
came on duty at 3 p.m. Sandy, a heavy set woman who worked the
day shift remarked as she left, "Thirty-five cents in tips; Doc
Wynn must have had an emergency."
I shuddered, "Night shift usually does better than day."
"And," Sandy continued,pointing at Bill Gagakos, "He's," she
was emphatic, "moved in here. He's living in his office. Found
him propped in his chair when I got here at 6:30 a.m."
While the number of guests dwindled, Bill burrowed himself
in the restaurant. He wouldn't join Jimmy Blades for a short
walk to the barber.
"What if people come in ?" Bill asked. He stood erect when
he talked and held his head high.
Jimmy laughed. "You think that as soon as you walk out the
door, a bus loaded with happy tourists is going to break-down
outside and..."
"We'd serve then like we always do. Getting or not getting
a hair cut won't change anything," I interjected.
"If I walked out the front door, everything would collapse."
Bill laughed. "Americans at the first sign of trouble go off on
vacation."
Doc Wynn swiveled on his chair at the counter to face Bill.
"There's only so much a body can take before it takes its own
vacation."
"You've Americanized, my freind, far too quickly," Bill retorted.
"I can only advise and counsel. The doing part is up to
you." The Doc replied with an enigmatic smile. Dr Wynn's accent was slight.
Unlike many foreignors who tried to imitate American slang, he never over-did
it.
When the Doc left, Bill muttered, "and Doc Wynn thinks of
himself as Wynn. What is he really ? A Nguyen Vietnamese or a
Filipino."
"A friend," I replied, "perhaps."
"I thought," Bill retorted, "Yankees stand on their own two feet."
While the rain thumped against the roof, I marked time on
Friday, usually our best night, counting the seconds stirring a
cold cup of coffee. I glanced at Bill Gagakos and Jimmy Blades
at the table across from me. Bill stared at the rain pellets
dancing on the pavement outside, while Jimmy yawned as he closed
yet another pulp novel.
Turning away from the window, Bill nodded with
self-assurance, commanded "It'll turn around. Memorial Day
weekend is coming."
Eternal perdition could not have been more punishing.
Then at 9 p.m. Sandy swung through the door and sauntered to
a table with a lively bounce. Her daughter, a wide eyed teenager
who might one day tend toward weight followed in her wake.
Cramming herself into a booth, Sandy said with glee, "If Bill
can't pay in full, I'll eat as much of it as I can."
Even Bill forced a smile.
As we reached the Memorial Day weekend, rain and drizzle
continued to blanket Prudence. Bill became more withdrawn;
suppliers, more demanding. "You may have heard," Bill told them,
"Memorial Day weekend brings us up to date."
Memorial Day weekend began with the damp Friday drizzle we
had become used to. At change of shift, Sandy commented, "Not a
plug nickel. Doc Wynn was off delivering a baby. "Our slowest
day yet." Her look was grim.
The evening started slow. By the time Sandy bounded through
the door for dinner, I had served only a couple of customers.
While she attacked the feast, something startling happened, the
door began to open and close, first a handful then a deluge of
hungry travelers with that whinny New York City accent all of us
in Yankee country detest bound for here, there, and everywhere,
many to country houses in Western Massachusetts. "We'd wait for
the sun to shine, but we might have to wait forever."
Bill was busy in the kitchen. I had too many orders all at
once. Sandy handed her car keys to her daughter and took over
helping me with the customers.
Doc Wynn had dropped by for supper almost unnoticed, I
overheard him talking to Sandy, "You've already been on your feet
all day... Night and Day, you can't mix." Doc stole away,
reminding her, "I'd prefer to see you in Bankruptcy Court than
consoling your daughter..."
At 1 a.m. when the restaurant closed, Sandy and I collapsed
into Bill's corner table for a few minutes of rest before the
clean up. "Why you didn't go home ?" Bill asked Sandy.
"Would have wasted my time in front of the TV. Tips are
good on holidays," Sandy replied.
Tips were good on holiday weekends. Tourists from New York
City in a good mood leave nice tips. That's why I was surprised
early Monday when Bill called me in. Sandy had not shown up for
work after working extra shifts on Saturday and Sunday.
"Must've tired herself out, poor dear," I told Bill.
Bill had asked me to stop by her house to see if everything
were alright. As I passed by her house, I decided against
stopping. Tips were too good on a holiday to wake up Sandy. She
had already made extra money on my shifts. It was time for me to
catch up.
I was on my feet from 6 a.m. to the mid-morning lull.
The morning traffic had been brisk. I counted the tips with a
smile, and I felt guilty, that I had passed by Sandy's house.
At the mid-morning lull at 10:30 a.m. I collapsed into a
booth in exhaustion. I had just sat down in the booth across
from Bill when the door slammed open. I looked up and expected
to see Sandy, apologizing for over sleeping. Instead it was
Jimmy Blades. His face was ashen; he looked out of breath.
"Sandy died last night. Doc Wynn says a heart attack... She
was working too hard...and far too overweight. Funeral is for
Wednesday... 10:30." Jimmy turned to Bill, "You are coming."
Bill looked up from his newspaper. "Can't close."
I studied Bill carefully. "You're not going ? They've
scheduled the funeral with the morning lull in mind..10:30."
Blades eyes down cast added, "Sandy even died courteously,
after she covered most of the weekend trade."
"Ain't nobody coming in here mid morning, mid week," I
argued.
Bill folded his newspaper and rose with deliberation.
"People passing by can't find the restaurant closed."
"Like a bus filled with hungry tourists is going to
breakdown in front of the place as soon as you walk out the front
door," I called after Bill as he started to retreat to his
office. His pace was ponderous and he leaned forward as he
walked.
Unnoticed at the counter, Doc Wynn stopped Bill and grabbed
Bill's chin and looked straight into his eyes.
"Any funeral you go to will be your own... unless you come
into my office... You have pneumonia. You can't..."
Bill pushed Doc's hand away and continued toward his office.
At 10:15, the appointed day, Bill was looking out the window
in amazement at regular customers and the waitresses gathered in
front of the restaurant. I threw down my apron on the table in
front of him. Jimmy Blades dressed in his cleanest college
sweatshirt marked his place in the book.
"Want to join us and be a human being or..." There was no
response. I added softly, "Is this the way you'd want to be
remembered ?" When Bill looked down at his paper. I summoned
Jimmy, "Com'on, Jimmy." Jimmy followed obediently after me.
The funeral was a short affair. It was as if Sandy had
given us a final 20 minutes break between breakfast and lunch.
When we returned to the Diner, Bill was missing from his usual
perch in the window. We called out his name, but got no
response.
I ran to the register. It was untouched. Jimmy ran to the
back and I could hear him wail and yell, "Oh my God: Get Doc
Wynn."
I'm not sure exactly what happened in the back. Doc Wynn
pushed past me to take charge. When the ambulance arrived, they
took Bill away on a stretcher still as death.
"Is he dead?" I shreiked, holding my hands to my face.
Once the medics had left, Dr Wynn looked toward the door. "I gave him
a shot to stop the kicking and screaming that he didn't need any help."
A shocked pause followed.
"Medical Discretion," Doc Wynn commented, "Bill needs a vacation and I
don't need two funerals in the same week."
A week or so later, I was paying the suppliers out of the
profits of Memorial Day weekend and like a good Yankee I dickered
until they took less than they were entitled to.
Jimmy Blades now dressed in cook whites mentioned to me that
Doc Wynn thought Bill could be released in a couple of weeks.
"Bill seemed cheered to hear the restaurant was still open."
I looked at Jimmy carefully. "Slick your hair back, lean
forward when you walk. Stand erect and talk with a foreign
accent. What will the tourists think if they knew their souvlaki
came from a Yankee ?"