WAFFLE HOUSE BLUES

Butter floats in the mound of grits.  Shondra freshens the coffee and Frankie spouts off his philosophies about the current administration as he flips patties on the grill.  The mountain man next to me is obviously a regular, knows everybody by name and seems to have a very large heart and a very healthy appetite.  The double and triple “thank yous” between the help and the customers is halfway between sweet and nauseous to me, but I miss it in a sincerely sick way. 

 

The Waffle House is as packed as I’ve ever seen it.  No one makes mention of the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and that’s the way I want it, I guess.  But this was no Christmas Eve.  Not to me.  I pick at the waffle when it comes, in the shadow of the mountain man.  No one but Shondra talks to me, freshening my cherry Coke and soon bringing me the bill.  Silence is broken, apart from the clinking of dirty dishes and the hiss of the grill, as a denim be-speckled truck driver type, on the other side of me from the mountain man kindly says, “Mind if I sit here?”

 

“Go right ahead,” I mumble as I take my piss-yellow bill and get up from my seat at the counter.  I ignore his “thank you,” passing the bill to Shondra, who glances at my license and debit card while asking what I’m doing in “this neck of the woods.”

 

“Just family,” I reply.

 

I sign the receipt, give a 20% tip and head for the door as fast as I can, eyes closed.

 

“Have a Merry Christmas,” Shondra lets out as my hand grasps the handle.

 

“You, too,” I say, leaving briskly.  I wish that were true.  I wish I meant it.  And I wish my mother was still here to give me a real excuse to come back to this town.  To be anywhere but the Waffle House on Christmas Eve.




-SLL