Free SK01 - Waist Deep by Frank Zafiro
Authors: Frank Zafiro
Café was nearly empty by the time I arrived. The thick smell of syrup and grease hung in the air . An old rock song I couldn’t quite remember the name of was playing through tinny speakers. The sign next to the register directed patrons to seat themselves, so I chose a small booth in the corner where I could watch the door. My feet ached from walking in cowboy boots.
A bony-hipped waitress with sagging jowls brought a glass of water and a menu. I put her in her fifties and her poofy hair had the thin, frail look that matched my guess. Her name was sewn on a patch above her left breast. It read, “Phyllis.”
“Anything to eat, hon?” she said, her voice warmer than I expected.
“Coffee,” I said.
She jotted a quick ‘C’ on her notepad and looked up at me expectantly. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Special today is pretty good.”
“What is it?”
“T wo eggs, bacon & toast .”
I shrugged. “Sure.” It’d work for a lunch, too.
“How you want those?”
“Scrambled.”
“And your toast?”
“Sourdough.”
She scrawled my order and tipped me a wink. “Be right back with your coffee.”
My initial image of her as a sourpuss quickly dissipated.
I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. It’d been about thirty or forty minutes since I’d called Katie. Even if she’d received my message shortly after I left it for her, it’d still take her time to decide whether or not to help, then some more time to run the names I sent her. More yet if she decided to print anything off or pull a report. Then the time to drive down here.
The clock on the wall above the cash register read 10:14. I said on my message I’d wait through lunch. That meant one o’clock at least.
I opened my eyes again as Phyllis put a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. “Food’ll be up in a few minutes, hon,” she said.
“Thanks.” I sipped the hot brew. It was a lot better than what I had in my apartment. “Is there a newspaper box around here?”
She held up her finger and walked away toward the breakfast bar. When she returned, she plopped a newspaper on my table. It had be en folded and re-folded and the sections were out of order.
“Customers leave ‘em behind all the time,” she said. “You’re welcome to it.”
I thanked her.
“Not a problem, hon,” she said and hurried back to the kitchen.
I sat and drank my coffee while reading the paper. I started with the sports section and read the local writer’s take on the River City Flyers’ chance of making the playoffs. After the game I went to, they’d traveled up to Creston the next night for the second half of a home a nd home and dropped another game. That one was a more respectable 3-1, but it still counted the same in the standings. The local sports writer blamed the coaching and called for the head coach’s dismissal if the Flyers didn’t make it into the post-season.
The reporter played Monday morning quarterback with the coach. Here he was, in the midst of the good fight, and someone on the sidelines was filleting him in the press. I knew how it felt. After the shooting at the Circle K, there were a couple of articles that suggested racism on my part. As if I had somehow chosen to have a gangbanger attack me. But logic didn’t seem to matter much to the press when it got in the way of their agenda.
And it wasn’t just the press. A number of letters to the editor accused me of the same thing. Later, when I really had messed up in the Amy Dugger case , these same people were able to say “I told you so.”
I moved from the Sports section to the Entertainment section and found I was unfamiliar with more than half the celebrities that were being written about.
Phyllis returned after a few minutes and slid a hot plate of food in front of me. I surprised myself by being hungry and I ate while I read. The eggs were too soft, but the bacon was crispy and the sourdough wasn’t soggy with butter.
I made my way eventually to the front
A bony-hipped waitress with sagging jowls brought a glass of water and a menu. I put her in her fifties and her poofy hair had the thin, frail look that matched my guess. Her name was sewn on a patch above her left breast. It read, “Phyllis.”
“Anything to eat, hon?” she said, her voice warmer than I expected.
“Coffee,” I said.
She jotted a quick ‘C’ on her notepad and looked up at me expectantly. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Special today is pretty good.”
“What is it?”
“T wo eggs, bacon & toast .”
I shrugged. “Sure.” It’d work for a lunch, too.
“How you want those?”
“Scrambled.”
“And your toast?”
“Sourdough.”
She scrawled my order and tipped me a wink. “Be right back with your coffee.”
My initial image of her as a sourpuss quickly dissipated.
I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. It’d been about thirty or forty minutes since I’d called Katie. Even if she’d received my message shortly after I left it for her, it’d still take her time to decide whether or not to help, then some more time to run the names I sent her. More yet if she decided to print anything off or pull a report. Then the time to drive down here.
The clock on the wall above the cash register read 10:14. I said on my message I’d wait through lunch. That meant one o’clock at least.
I opened my eyes again as Phyllis put a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. “Food’ll be up in a few minutes, hon,” she said.
“Thanks.” I sipped the hot brew. It was a lot better than what I had in my apartment. “Is there a newspaper box around here?”
She held up her finger and walked away toward the breakfast bar. When she returned, she plopped a newspaper on my table. It had be en folded and re-folded and the sections were out of order.
“Customers leave ‘em behind all the time,” she said. “You’re welcome to it.”
I thanked her.
“Not a problem, hon,” she said and hurried back to the kitchen.
I sat and drank my coffee while reading the paper. I started with the sports section and read the local writer’s take on the River City Flyers’ chance of making the playoffs. After the game I went to, they’d traveled up to Creston the next night for the second half of a home a nd home and dropped another game. That one was a more respectable 3-1, but it still counted the same in the standings. The local sports writer blamed the coaching and called for the head coach’s dismissal if the Flyers didn’t make it into the post-season.
The reporter played Monday morning quarterback with the coach. Here he was, in the midst of the good fight, and someone on the sidelines was filleting him in the press. I knew how it felt. After the shooting at the Circle K, there were a couple of articles that suggested racism on my part. As if I had somehow chosen to have a gangbanger attack me. But logic didn’t seem to matter much to the press when it got in the way of their agenda.
And it wasn’t just the press. A number of letters to the editor accused me of the same thing. Later, when I really had messed up in the Amy Dugger case , these same people were able to say “I told you so.”
I moved from the Sports section to the Entertainment section and found I was unfamiliar with more than half the celebrities that were being written about.
Phyllis returned after a few minutes and slid a hot plate of food in front of me. I surprised myself by being hungry and I ate while I read. The eggs were too soft, but the bacon was crispy and the sourdough wasn’t soggy with butter.
I made my way eventually to the front