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ICHABOD CRANE MEETS DON QUIXOTE
The gaunt and wavering cafeteria server at Fife’s Restaurant is making an occasional gesture that I do not at first understand. It is Christmastime in the nervous city, and the customer line moves steadily toward the gesturing server while other employees pile wonders upon my plate.
The fragrance of fresh corn muffins and butterbeans and meat loaf magnetically lures me into Fife’s a few times a year—but especially during pre-holiday times. This is a real diner, one that has rolled onward for decades. Loyalists return frequently for a trip to the past. A grumpy cashier plies her trade, making me aware that, were she not grumpy one day, I would know something is terribly wrong. The efficient and pleasant table servers await me.
The clientele in front of me are inching forward toward the gesturer, who dispenses water and iced tea and bread as a final act of service before we are processed by the cashier.
His gesture. With one lanky arm and pointing finger, he is calling attention to the Christmas jar above the counter. It’s a tip jar. He is making sure in his own silent way that we customers at least have an opportunity to make his seasonal family a little happier. He hopes for gratuities but never asks, never disapproves when ignored.
What draws me to this ancient eatery? The food is always hot and copious. The decor is, well, not really decor—it’s more like somebody’s old, comfortable home. The booths and tables are worn and rickety but always clean and carefully bussed.
I dig into my pocket for a few dollar bills, silently insert them into the jar as the recipient asks whether I prefer rolls or cornbread, water or tea, sweetened or unsweetened, lemoned or unlemoned. The transaction is completed. I have my loaded tray and cutlery and dinky little paper napkins. I survive the cashier. I embark upon a search for a welcoming table.
I ponder the unknown lives of diners and servers and cooks and bussers. I can’t fathom them all, but I can help myself remember the gesturing employee. He looks like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Don Quixote. Are his fears and dreams similar to those two iconic characters? What kind of child was he? How does he get home in the evening? What will he do with the paltry dollars and change he accumulates?
All is temporarily erased from imagination as I seek catsup for the meat loaf, salt and pepper for the beans, pepper sauce for the greens, butter for the corn muffin. I drown my present self in good feelings, read the juicy parts of the newspaper, leave another tip, this one for the chatty waitress.
And that’s the end of my Christmastime immersion in a place where good times past engrave themselves upon sweet memory. What remains is this little experience, for someday there may not be a Fife’s to nurture me. In times like these, there may never be another place to rub elbows and lives with such a diverse and easygoing crowd.
Attention must be paid, I tell myself. Attention must be paid
© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.