A Rose by Any Other Name

 

Funny how some customers stick in your brain. One Friday night I was working the late shift at Mike’s Grill, serving grease to sloshed Wheeling Jamboree fans. Bobby “Fats” Sloakum and Little Randy Tubbs were singing at the Capital Theater. Their last show, mostly packed with rowdies and die-hards, had just let out. Trailing black clouds of exhaust, the tour busses dragged their asses up Main Street and on to the Interstate. Dregs is what we get at Mike’s—leg traffic.

“What’ll y’have, hon?” I asked this old cowboy whose head bowed so low that the brim of his dented Stetson nearly touched the countertop.

Up crept his head by inches. For awhile he just stared at me, his red-veined eyes struggling to focus.

At that time of night I knew to be patient, so I ran my cleanup rag in little circles on the counter. A glance at my watch made my heart sink, made me think that shift would never end.

I handed him a yellowed plastic menu. “What you want?”

Quicker than I thought this wrangler could move, he plunked his elbows down and lurched in close. “You!”

Nary a smile or wink or nothing. But I’ll tell you, the whiff of his bum wine gasoline breath nearly knocked me out. “Sorry?”

“You,” he repeated.

“Uh, sir, I’m not on the menu. How ‘bout a coffee? Free sugar,” I added with my sweetest “forget about my swollen ankles, I’m here to serve you” smile.

“Nah, cut the crap, Ginger. I been watchin’ you from the window. You need to come home now!” He grabbed my left hand. “Where’s my wedding ring, girl?”

“What the—?” No, I thought, not the time to cuss a customer. With a tug I yanked my hand free. Rubbing the angry mark his grip left behind, I got my own back. “Hey bud, take a gander at this name tag—Rose! That’s my name. Now order or leave. I got other customers.”

When he reared back, I feared he’d crash to the floor. Wrong! The old bronco buster righted his seat, took off the hat, and jammed it on the counter. A mop of grizzled hair tumbled onto his face.

As if to signal vast undercover intelligence, he rubbed his nose.

“Oowhee, Ginger and her little games,” he said with a tongue cluck. His lip curled as he grabbed the menu. “I’ll play your game.”

You know the smile, lips turned up but eyes turned mean. He pointed a broken-nailed finger in my face. “But you’re coming home with me!”

What followed shouldn’t have surprised me, a veteran of the “bus your own table” wars, but it did. A whisper. “I love ya, Babe.”

I glanced down to the end of the counter at the thirty-something, wearing a Nashville wannabe wig and leaning into her big spender. Ah yes, love was in the air at Mike’s.

“Ginger!” cried my cowboy. With that he lit a cigarette and inhaled, calling up a gurgling cough from black depths. Smoke escaped his mouth in spurts.

Oh my God, I thought. Not a cowboy! A miner.

I looked from his work worn hand, fingers stained orangey-yellow, to the countertop. In front of the guy lay a pack of cigs, matches, and a newspaper clipping.

“Com-on, Babe! Wha-da-you say?” He kept it up. “Com-on home to daddy. I been missin’ you. Knew I’d find you up here in the big city.”

At the end of a long night with few tips, I was bone weary, but something in his eyes hit one of my last good nerves. “Sure, sure . . . ‘daddy,’ how ‘bout some coffee? I got a nice piece of apple pie with your name on it. By the way, what is your name?”

“Wha-da-you mean, name? Same’s always, Jake!”

“I got that pie coming up, Jake, honey.”

By the time I got the coffee and pie back to him, his head had fallen to the counter. He sighed and began to croon “he stopped . . . loving her . . . today.”

I peeked at the scrap of paper, an obituary for Mrs. Jake Coulter. Her picture didn’t show red hair, but you could tell. I’d been born a redhead but switched to blonde—better tips.

He looked up and smiled. “Always loved you, Ginger!”

Didn’t I blush red as that ketchup by the napkin holder?

“That’s OK, Jake,” I said. “The pie-n-coffee’s on me, Rose. Rose Campbell.”

L. N. Passmore

 

L. N. Passmore bids you to come visit Lisnafaer and her other green worlds.