Chapter 1
I scraped the gravel and mud from my shoes before I walked in. Sandy's Place is a block from my house, and I usually take the alley to get there. It saves me a few minutes in the morning, and the smell isn't much worse that some of the houses in my neighborhood.
The food here wasn't great (but what restaurant has great food these days?) but the joint had the advantage of being located next to my bus stop.
A table was free and I took it.
A rumpled copy of today's Morning Transcript was on the table top, mine for the taking. I turned to the funnies and started reading. I didn't bother with the front page. I already knew what was there anyway, having worked the copy desk the night before. One of the articles was to carry my byline -- "By James A. Hanssler" -- not that I considered that any great accomplishment.
"We're out of eggs."
Susie, the waitress, interrupted my train of thought. She knows I usually order bacon and eggs, and a glass of milk -- I long ago gave up on getting fresh orange juice.
"How long are you going to be out of eggs," I asked.
"Until Andre lowers the price, or the Feds stop being so stingy with the stamps." Susie wasn't a ray of sunshine on most mornings. Don't ask me know I know this, and I'll tell you no lies. But she was more grumpy than usual.
"Hey, hun, everything OK?"
"Fine. You want the oatmeal?"
I said OK, and let it go at that.
I wasn't about to press her. Her bad moves wasn't my problem anymore. I'm not the sort of guy who won't help a damsel in distress. But she made it perfectly clear to me that her interest in me was strictly financial. 'A girl has to eat,' she said to me ... after the fact. There's a lot of that going around.
Still that quivering lip was enticing. As well as the other bubbly parts of Susie.
I put it out of my head and ordered the oatmeal. I also made a mental note to get up earlier to eat at the restaurant a little further down Sheridan Road. They have to deal with Andre -- the local black marketeer -- too, but I was time I moved on.
I definitely didn't need to get more involved with Susie than I already had, and besides, the food here didn't taste good anyway. Not since they came for Old John. He fondly remembered the ribs John would fix up whenever he could find a suitable slab or two on the black market.
John's ribs were a local legend 20 years ago. But that made at least of his white competitors jealous, and someone ratted him out to the Community Benevolence League. They closed down his small shack and the proud man eventually ended up cooking ham and eggs at this crappy diner.
And that was fine for a while. After what happened in Detroit, the CBL started rounding up all the trouble making Negroes in their records, and this good-natured elderly man who wanted nothing than to make sure his customers had enough to eat was put on a truck and sent to one of the work work camp. I'm guessing the one in Ipava.
The charge was gambling, although I can' recall the last man to get his sorry ass busted for playing cards in the basement of the Apollo.
Well, better safe than sorry. Heaven forbid the man be allowed to poison someone's cole slaw.
Susie brought over my oatmeal. I was allowed just one pat of butter, for which I compensated by extra sugar. That'll show them.
Filling my stomach usually improved my mood. But it didn't do the trick today. And that is happening more and more.
I should be a happy man. Or at least happier than most. Five months after I graduated from college, I'm working in the field in which I was trained. I would never get rich working for the Morning Transcript ... unless I started taking cash from the Outfit or being a fink for the Feds. But I lived in the home my parents left me, and my salary is just big enough to keep me from having to rent out a room.
I have more space than most young professionals can afford, and more privacy. Which comes in handy on those rare occasions I can convince a lady to pay me a visit.
As long as I keep my nose clean and don't do anything to put my license at risk, I have no right to complain. I have a cousin who's been on the public dole for more than two years. I've caught vagrants going though my trash for food twice this month. Even people with jobs sometimes find themselves doing things they wouldn't normally, like poor Susie. I'm sure she didn't grow up thinking that she would be working in a diner, selling her ass to customers.
I have to put this chick out of my mind. I wouldn't have fallen in love with her, even if she hadn't asked for cash that morning. She was a bit of a racist, which I find distasteful. She wasn't CBL-type bad, just overly judgmental about Jews and Negroes, and absolutely certain that there were Commies lurking behind every door.
No, Susie was never anything but a distraction. I doubt that I'll ever want to have a serious relationship, let alone marry. That would be an incredibly creative and hopeful act, and I didn't know why anyone wanted to deliberately bring someone else into this bleak world.
I became aware that someone was looking at me, and trying hard to not be noticed. I think she was here when I walked in, but I wasn't sure. No. I was sure. If someone has walked in, I would have felt a cold blast of air.
Her hair bright red and tied up in a bun. The skin of her face was like porcelain and her eyes were green, I think, behind her odd eyeglasses with the thin square lenses. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and matching jacket that fit her frame quite nicely. And there wasn't any part of that frame that looked out of proportion with the rest.
I would have pegged her for a librarian, but she might have fit in pitching drinks down at Al's Speakeasy. She seemed intent on reading that same page of her paperback.
A woman like that had no business staring at me. I'm not being falsely modest. I have too much around the middle and too little on top to be considered a catch by anybody.
Women who look like that -- especially if they have more than two brain cells to rub together -- tend to do well in life. It's not fair, but what is? And by "do well," I mean work for the government or someone connected to it.
I put her out of my mind. She might have thought I looked like someone she knows, and was embarrassed to be caught looking and doesn't want make eye contact.
Except that I caught her looking again.
Shit.
The food here wasn't great (but what restaurant has great food these days?) but the joint had the advantage of being located next to my bus stop.
A table was free and I took it.
A rumpled copy of today's Morning Transcript was on the table top, mine for the taking. I turned to the funnies and started reading. I didn't bother with the front page. I already knew what was there anyway, having worked the copy desk the night before. One of the articles was to carry my byline -- "By James A. Hanssler" -- not that I considered that any great accomplishment.
"We're out of eggs."
Susie, the waitress, interrupted my train of thought. She knows I usually order bacon and eggs, and a glass of milk -- I long ago gave up on getting fresh orange juice.
"How long are you going to be out of eggs," I asked.
"Until Andre lowers the price, or the Feds stop being so stingy with the stamps." Susie wasn't a ray of sunshine on most mornings. Don't ask me know I know this, and I'll tell you no lies. But she was more grumpy than usual.
"Hey, hun, everything OK?"
"Fine. You want the oatmeal?"
I said OK, and let it go at that.
I wasn't about to press her. Her bad moves wasn't my problem anymore. I'm not the sort of guy who won't help a damsel in distress. But she made it perfectly clear to me that her interest in me was strictly financial. 'A girl has to eat,' she said to me ... after the fact. There's a lot of that going around.
Still that quivering lip was enticing. As well as the other bubbly parts of Susie.
I put it out of my head and ordered the oatmeal. I also made a mental note to get up earlier to eat at the restaurant a little further down Sheridan Road. They have to deal with Andre -- the local black marketeer -- too, but I was time I moved on.
I definitely didn't need to get more involved with Susie than I already had, and besides, the food here didn't taste good anyway. Not since they came for Old John. He fondly remembered the ribs John would fix up whenever he could find a suitable slab or two on the black market.
John's ribs were a local legend 20 years ago. But that made at least of his white competitors jealous, and someone ratted him out to the Community Benevolence League. They closed down his small shack and the proud man eventually ended up cooking ham and eggs at this crappy diner.
And that was fine for a while. After what happened in Detroit, the CBL started rounding up all the trouble making Negroes in their records, and this good-natured elderly man who wanted nothing than to make sure his customers had enough to eat was put on a truck and sent to one of the work work camp. I'm guessing the one in Ipava.
The charge was gambling, although I can' recall the last man to get his sorry ass busted for playing cards in the basement of the Apollo.
Well, better safe than sorry. Heaven forbid the man be allowed to poison someone's cole slaw.
Susie brought over my oatmeal. I was allowed just one pat of butter, for which I compensated by extra sugar. That'll show them.
Filling my stomach usually improved my mood. But it didn't do the trick today. And that is happening more and more.
I should be a happy man. Or at least happier than most. Five months after I graduated from college, I'm working in the field in which I was trained. I would never get rich working for the Morning Transcript ... unless I started taking cash from the Outfit or being a fink for the Feds. But I lived in the home my parents left me, and my salary is just big enough to keep me from having to rent out a room.
I have more space than most young professionals can afford, and more privacy. Which comes in handy on those rare occasions I can convince a lady to pay me a visit.
As long as I keep my nose clean and don't do anything to put my license at risk, I have no right to complain. I have a cousin who's been on the public dole for more than two years. I've caught vagrants going though my trash for food twice this month. Even people with jobs sometimes find themselves doing things they wouldn't normally, like poor Susie. I'm sure she didn't grow up thinking that she would be working in a diner, selling her ass to customers.
I have to put this chick out of my mind. I wouldn't have fallen in love with her, even if she hadn't asked for cash that morning. She was a bit of a racist, which I find distasteful. She wasn't CBL-type bad, just overly judgmental about Jews and Negroes, and absolutely certain that there were Commies lurking behind every door.
No, Susie was never anything but a distraction. I doubt that I'll ever want to have a serious relationship, let alone marry. That would be an incredibly creative and hopeful act, and I didn't know why anyone wanted to deliberately bring someone else into this bleak world.
I became aware that someone was looking at me, and trying hard to not be noticed. I think she was here when I walked in, but I wasn't sure. No. I was sure. If someone has walked in, I would have felt a cold blast of air.
Her hair bright red and tied up in a bun. The skin of her face was like porcelain and her eyes were green, I think, behind her odd eyeglasses with the thin square lenses. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and matching jacket that fit her frame quite nicely. And there wasn't any part of that frame that looked out of proportion with the rest.
I would have pegged her for a librarian, but she might have fit in pitching drinks down at Al's Speakeasy. She seemed intent on reading that same page of her paperback.
A woman like that had no business staring at me. I'm not being falsely modest. I have too much around the middle and too little on top to be considered a catch by anybody.
Women who look like that -- especially if they have more than two brain cells to rub together -- tend to do well in life. It's not fair, but what is? And by "do well," I mean work for the government or someone connected to it.
I put her out of my mind. She might have thought I looked like someone she knows, and was embarrassed to be caught looking and doesn't want make eye contact.
Except that I caught her looking again.
Shit.
posted by Billy Dennis at
8:21 AM
