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The Company We Keep
clarkkent
Posts: 51
My shoes splash in the puddles on the concrete, duplicating a game that entertains many children. I watch the ripples from the impact, see them bounce around inside these miniscule ponds. I find there is something quite freeing about walking in the rain when you have finally accepted being wet. At first sensation of the water many people tense up, inching up their collars to offer a bit more protection. The cold rain dripping into a warm coat often has that effect. However, I relish that sensation, the first touch of rain, the feeling of being wet, somewhat like the first seconds in a cold swimming pool. The first few seconds are a bit uncomfortable, but once you let go and accept the cold water, it becomes quite exhilarating. I love to look up at the rain as it falls, zone in on one droplet as it heads right for my eyes, and feel it wash over my face. There is something altogether cleansing about the experience.
My clothes look as if they’ve endured a downpour when I finally arrive at Rombasky’s Deli. This eating establishment is just a few miles from my apartment, and the rain isn’t falling very hard, but I have meandered my way here, explaining my soggy condition as I tromp my shoes in the door. I wriggle out of my drenched coat, hang it on the long empty rack, and seat myself as the lunchtime sign directs me. I plop down on one of the wooden bench seats, slide the legal pad to my right side, push my hair back from my eyes, and pull out one of the conveniently placed menus. It is old and worn, held together by just enough tender loving care that all the handling and time hasn’t been able to pull it apart. In fact, I already know what I want to order, but I enjoy the feeling of holding the menu in front of me with a world of choices at my fingertips.
The place is all but vacant, a sad state for a workday lunch hour, a fact which gives me all the more reason to visit such an establishment. I am not a big fan of crowds or crowded spaces, and I am even less of a fan of crowded fast food chains which spring up across the country like dandelions in an unkempt yard. I see all the McDonald’s, Burger King’s, Taco Bell’s, Subway’s, and Wendy’s as homogenizing yellow weeds drowning out all the local color that comes from places like Rombasky’s. During a road trip across America, it is hard to tell in which state or geographic location you are located simply from sizing up the eating establishments and stores, now devoid of any local flavor, architecture, or charm. I like to eat in a place with the owner’s name on the sign, for I’ve never met a Mr. McDonald once when ordering a Big Mac. I’m sure it has happened by coincidence at some point in that restaurant’s illustrious history, but that is now just a distant black and white photograph used as a marketing tool for the giant corporation.
My waiter zips over from behind the bar and plants right next to my table. He’s a young man with long red hair hiding under a “Rombasky’s” hat, a short frame, dark glasses, and a freckled face. He is definitely is more of a Jimmy Olsen than a Clark Kent, and I know he doesn’t think I’m any man of steel.
“Hello. My name is David,” he says with chirp in his voice. He seems to mean it more than one of those kids locked behind the counter at a fast food joint. I am positive he does. “How can I help you?”
He has seen me before and knows that I am not a big fan of being the audience while the server rolls through the specials like a tired vaudeville performer, so he gets to the point. I appreciate his effort. I order a plate of biscuits and gravy and a cup of coffee, making sure Dave knows that just because I ordered coffee doesn’t mean I don’t want him to keep my glass full of water. He jots down my order on a tiny pad of paper with the glee of an officer writing a ticket and zips off, disappearing through the swinging double doors behind the bar.
I ordered a coffee with my meal. Unfortunately, I can’t really be called a coffee drinker. This is why like my water glass filled. I love the smell of coffee, and I like the idea of drinking it, but it’s bitter taste has never bonded well with my palette. I thought my tastes would change as I aged, for I acquired the taste for beer and asparagus and red peppers as the years rolled by, but the taste of coffee just has never latched on. I normally end up adding enough creamer and milk until the drink itself is the color of brown sugar, and the original taste has transformed to the point where it is hardly recognizable. Still, the idea of lurking around a coffee house with the strong aroma in my nostrils while people share stories and decipher art is quite romantic indeed, especially to an aspiring writer on the trail of inspiration. Plus, I simply love the image of flipping over the cup on its saucer, tapping it with my finger as the waiter swings by, and then watching the ivory white china filled to the brim with near-boiling chocolate brown coffee.
I slide my slightly moist legal pad over in front of me and pull out a pen from my pocket. The first few pages received most of the water damage from my sea voyage down West Street, so I tear them out, crumple them up, and throw the giant yellow spitball down on the bench where I am seated. I don’t have to worry about throwing away any previous thoughts that had been scribbled down, because this pad is as blank as the snowy white page in my typewriter. A few legal pads have indeed been filled by my hand, usually starting with masterful plans to write something brilliant, but they normally transform into a competent utensil on which to jot a grocery list, which diminishes the original artistic intent and glory of my vision. I tell myself this pad will eventually be filled completely with story ideas and passages from my anticipated novel, but I can’t help but think it might someday find a meaningful afterlife residing next to the refrigerator…but for now, I’ll try and give it a purposeful infancy.
Around the restaurant not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse; well, hopefully not even a mouse. It’s hard to be sure. Rombasky’s is an old establishment, making its home in an even older building that has most likely seen many other names on the sign and many other eras, so I wouldn’t rule out various rodents lurking unseen in these ancient walls. However a small mouse wandering unchecked in a place like this has a far more romantic “Stuart Little” feel than would the same occurrence at a fast food establishment.
There is an elderly couple across the restaurant seated in a booth against the opposite wall. I know their names, Robert and Mary, but not because I have actually ever had a conversation with them. No, I have seen them here before and I have heard the waiter speak their name. I know theirs; I am sure they are unaware of mine. I don’t really know why, but I normally sit in places like this and try and let my senses be sort of a sponge for all the bits of information I can possibly gather. Perhaps so that if any interesting tidbit does happen to come my way, I will have the chance to use it as storytelling fodder some where down the line. Perhaps.
The couple seems quite content with one another. However, they speak not a word to each other, a sign that perhaps some words have been spoken so often in their relationship that there is no need to reiterate those constant thoughts into the life-long conversation. They seem quite happy without blatantly letting it be known via a smile or a laugh, eating their meals, glancing at each other from time to time, trading glances in-between gazing at the artwork on the walls.
Robert is wearing an old flannel shirt and jeans, his wet coat draped over the seat behind him. It is a costume he often wears. By his expressions, I can tell he has lead a meaningful life, and he is happy where he sits now, out of the rain in a comfy diner that serves good food, sharing a meal with the one with whom he chose to share his life. By the way he softly smiles as he eats, he seems to have already written his “novel” and is now enjoying the spoils of his life’s hard work. The scene is one which would be perfectly suited for a black and white photograph in an old worn frame, placed somewhere on one of my end tables to remind me when I’m down that there really is enough happiness to go around in this world, if we just look right in front of our faces. Or perhaps the picture would make a good marketing campaign, like a staged photo of Mr. McDonald turning over one of the first burgers in the illustrious chain’s history. To each his own.
The waiter slices through my unimpeded stare at the couple, stopping with a pitcher of coffee, flipping my cup on its saucer, and topping the white dish with the steaming beverage. I am staring at this small yet wonderful act, the hot coffee pouring into the white cup, lost in my own fascination of the ritual when I realize that good old Dave has been speaking to me.
“Hmm?” I respond casually as I blink out of my haze like wipers on a windshield fending off the fog. I shake my head to try and show that all the rainwater has perhaps not had the chance to properly escape from my ear canals. I seem to have played it pretty cool.
He looks at me with his ivory smile, undistracted from the action of shifting the contents of the large pitcher into my small cup, and repeats, “I said your omelet will be right out, sir.” He rocks the pitcher back at just the right moment as not to overfill the cup and splash all over the table nor to leave empty space in the cup. I am amazed at how much I am enthralled with this simple act of pouring a cup of joe, but make sure not to zone him out once more.
My clothes look as if they’ve endured a downpour when I finally arrive at Rombasky’s Deli. This eating establishment is just a few miles from my apartment, and the rain isn’t falling very hard, but I have meandered my way here, explaining my soggy condition as I tromp my shoes in the door. I wriggle out of my drenched coat, hang it on the long empty rack, and seat myself as the lunchtime sign directs me. I plop down on one of the wooden bench seats, slide the legal pad to my right side, push my hair back from my eyes, and pull out one of the conveniently placed menus. It is old and worn, held together by just enough tender loving care that all the handling and time hasn’t been able to pull it apart. In fact, I already know what I want to order, but I enjoy the feeling of holding the menu in front of me with a world of choices at my fingertips.
The place is all but vacant, a sad state for a workday lunch hour, a fact which gives me all the more reason to visit such an establishment. I am not a big fan of crowds or crowded spaces, and I am even less of a fan of crowded fast food chains which spring up across the country like dandelions in an unkempt yard. I see all the McDonald’s, Burger King’s, Taco Bell’s, Subway’s, and Wendy’s as homogenizing yellow weeds drowning out all the local color that comes from places like Rombasky’s. During a road trip across America, it is hard to tell in which state or geographic location you are located simply from sizing up the eating establishments and stores, now devoid of any local flavor, architecture, or charm. I like to eat in a place with the owner’s name on the sign, for I’ve never met a Mr. McDonald once when ordering a Big Mac. I’m sure it has happened by coincidence at some point in that restaurant’s illustrious history, but that is now just a distant black and white photograph used as a marketing tool for the giant corporation.
My waiter zips over from behind the bar and plants right next to my table. He’s a young man with long red hair hiding under a “Rombasky’s” hat, a short frame, dark glasses, and a freckled face. He is definitely is more of a Jimmy Olsen than a Clark Kent, and I know he doesn’t think I’m any man of steel.
“Hello. My name is David,” he says with chirp in his voice. He seems to mean it more than one of those kids locked behind the counter at a fast food joint. I am positive he does. “How can I help you?”
He has seen me before and knows that I am not a big fan of being the audience while the server rolls through the specials like a tired vaudeville performer, so he gets to the point. I appreciate his effort. I order a plate of biscuits and gravy and a cup of coffee, making sure Dave knows that just because I ordered coffee doesn’t mean I don’t want him to keep my glass full of water. He jots down my order on a tiny pad of paper with the glee of an officer writing a ticket and zips off, disappearing through the swinging double doors behind the bar.
I ordered a coffee with my meal. Unfortunately, I can’t really be called a coffee drinker. This is why like my water glass filled. I love the smell of coffee, and I like the idea of drinking it, but it’s bitter taste has never bonded well with my palette. I thought my tastes would change as I aged, for I acquired the taste for beer and asparagus and red peppers as the years rolled by, but the taste of coffee just has never latched on. I normally end up adding enough creamer and milk until the drink itself is the color of brown sugar, and the original taste has transformed to the point where it is hardly recognizable. Still, the idea of lurking around a coffee house with the strong aroma in my nostrils while people share stories and decipher art is quite romantic indeed, especially to an aspiring writer on the trail of inspiration. Plus, I simply love the image of flipping over the cup on its saucer, tapping it with my finger as the waiter swings by, and then watching the ivory white china filled to the brim with near-boiling chocolate brown coffee.
I slide my slightly moist legal pad over in front of me and pull out a pen from my pocket. The first few pages received most of the water damage from my sea voyage down West Street, so I tear them out, crumple them up, and throw the giant yellow spitball down on the bench where I am seated. I don’t have to worry about throwing away any previous thoughts that had been scribbled down, because this pad is as blank as the snowy white page in my typewriter. A few legal pads have indeed been filled by my hand, usually starting with masterful plans to write something brilliant, but they normally transform into a competent utensil on which to jot a grocery list, which diminishes the original artistic intent and glory of my vision. I tell myself this pad will eventually be filled completely with story ideas and passages from my anticipated novel, but I can’t help but think it might someday find a meaningful afterlife residing next to the refrigerator…but for now, I’ll try and give it a purposeful infancy.
Around the restaurant not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse; well, hopefully not even a mouse. It’s hard to be sure. Rombasky’s is an old establishment, making its home in an even older building that has most likely seen many other names on the sign and many other eras, so I wouldn’t rule out various rodents lurking unseen in these ancient walls. However a small mouse wandering unchecked in a place like this has a far more romantic “Stuart Little” feel than would the same occurrence at a fast food establishment.
There is an elderly couple across the restaurant seated in a booth against the opposite wall. I know their names, Robert and Mary, but not because I have actually ever had a conversation with them. No, I have seen them here before and I have heard the waiter speak their name. I know theirs; I am sure they are unaware of mine. I don’t really know why, but I normally sit in places like this and try and let my senses be sort of a sponge for all the bits of information I can possibly gather. Perhaps so that if any interesting tidbit does happen to come my way, I will have the chance to use it as storytelling fodder some where down the line. Perhaps.
The couple seems quite content with one another. However, they speak not a word to each other, a sign that perhaps some words have been spoken so often in their relationship that there is no need to reiterate those constant thoughts into the life-long conversation. They seem quite happy without blatantly letting it be known via a smile or a laugh, eating their meals, glancing at each other from time to time, trading glances in-between gazing at the artwork on the walls.
Robert is wearing an old flannel shirt and jeans, his wet coat draped over the seat behind him. It is a costume he often wears. By his expressions, I can tell he has lead a meaningful life, and he is happy where he sits now, out of the rain in a comfy diner that serves good food, sharing a meal with the one with whom he chose to share his life. By the way he softly smiles as he eats, he seems to have already written his “novel” and is now enjoying the spoils of his life’s hard work. The scene is one which would be perfectly suited for a black and white photograph in an old worn frame, placed somewhere on one of my end tables to remind me when I’m down that there really is enough happiness to go around in this world, if we just look right in front of our faces. Or perhaps the picture would make a good marketing campaign, like a staged photo of Mr. McDonald turning over one of the first burgers in the illustrious chain’s history. To each his own.
The waiter slices through my unimpeded stare at the couple, stopping with a pitcher of coffee, flipping my cup on its saucer, and topping the white dish with the steaming beverage. I am staring at this small yet wonderful act, the hot coffee pouring into the white cup, lost in my own fascination of the ritual when I realize that good old Dave has been speaking to me.
“Hmm?” I respond casually as I blink out of my haze like wipers on a windshield fending off the fog. I shake my head to try and show that all the rainwater has perhaps not had the chance to properly escape from my ear canals. I seem to have played it pretty cool.
He looks at me with his ivory smile, undistracted from the action of shifting the contents of the large pitcher into my small cup, and repeats, “I said your omelet will be right out, sir.” He rocks the pitcher back at just the right moment as not to overfill the cup and splash all over the table nor to leave empty space in the cup. I am amazed at how much I am enthralled with this simple act of pouring a cup of joe, but make sure not to zone him out once more.
tank you veddy much
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