Free Decency by Rex Fuller Page A

the place to stop. It was quiet inside. The old boys in their ball caps, coveralls, flannel shirts and mud spattered boots sipped longnecks, said little, and kept their voices low. Nodding to them, one or two, expressionless, nodded back to the lanky, middle aged blonde with shadows in her eyes.
    Empty booths lined the left wall. Two of the regulars were at the bar. The others lounged back, legs spread, in small, vinyl covered, steel chairs scattered around tables between the bar and the front window.
    From a long opening behind the bar came a hiss, probably hamburgers, sizzling on the grill. There was a faint smell of grease and a little tobacco.
    Pick a booth where you can slide all the way in, rest your back to the wall.
    A woman in her sixties, or maybe older, came out of the kitchen, filled a tumbler with water - they must still do that here - and brought it to the booth. She was attractive, auburn haired, hazel eyed, and when younger must have been striking. She had a clean, well-pressed look, and an air of responsibility, as if you should not mistake her, the owner, for a waitress.
    “Would you like a menu, Ma’am?”
    “Please. Why is everyone so quiet?”
    “Corn’s down.”
    She turned back to the bar, took a menu and laid it on the table.
    “Corn must be down big.”
    She paused, then glanced out the window at the car.
    “You must be from out of state.”
    “Yeah. Washington.”
    “The state, or D.C.?”
    You quickly forget people ask that, without realizing someone from Washington state almost always says “Seattle” or their town and adds that it’s near Seattle, or Spokane, or one of the borders.
    “D.C., the Virginia side. But my grandfather had a farm south of here.”
    She softened just slightly, cocking her head of gray-touched hair to one side.
    “Must’ve been a long time ago.”
    “Too long.”
    “Well, you were too little then to get some idea about the price of corn.”
    “I guess I was.”
    A look, quizzical, and a bit unforgiving, crossed her face, like a cirrus cloud brushing past a cold moon. She lowered her voice.
    “We’ve had three years of near drought. Still, they say, the market won’t support this year’s crop. These men are all thinking about whether to try to stay in business another year.”
    She turned away, leaving her point too well made. She did not have to add that if they decided to go out of business, or their bankers decided for them, she would likely be out with them.
    The menu was a classic. Typewritten in Courier on plain bond sheets cut to size and slid into a plastic window pocket formed by sewn-on black borders. It listed what most people think of as real American food under “Breakfast,” “Lunch,” and “Dinner.”
Breakfast.
    Two eggs, over easy…$2.98.
    Pancakes, stack…$3.10.
    Bacon, 2 strips…$.99.
    Steak and eggs (2)…$7.99.
    Toast (2)…$.89.
    Lunch.
    Hot Beef Sandwich…$5.99.
    BLT…$4.99.
    Soup of the Day (Bowl)…$4.99.
    Hamburger…$3.99.
    Dinner.
    Chicken Fried Steak…$8.99.
    Spaghetti…$6.99.
    BBQ Ribs…$7.99.
    Fried Chicken…$6.99.
    Chicken Dinner…$8.99.
    Steak Dinner…$10.99.
    No marketing effort here. Just trying to hold down prices. Nothing like, “Light, Traditional Curry Sauce,” or, “Raspberry-Thyme Glaze,” or some such come-on listings you find in the city. Of course, most people coming in here probably don’t need to even look at the menu, having grown up reading it.
    It would be nice if the menu specified a few things like whether the “Toast” was white, wheat or rye, and the “BBQ Ribs” were pork or beef. Then again, if you individually type the menus, maybe you minimize detail so you don’t have to redo them very often.
    The woman returned, order pad and pencil at the ready.
    Slightly smiling, she acknowledged, “Not very complicated is it?”
    “No, but that’s okay. It’s what I was looking for, actually.”
    “If you want something not listed, we can usually whip something