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An Occurrence at Angie's Cafe
An Occurrence at Angie’s Cafe
by Jim Walter
As he peered into the plate glass window for a glimpse inside, all he could see was the reflection of Main Street behind him. A passing pick up truck, a lone pedestrian on his way somewhere. On the other side of the street, there were a few empty cars parked along the curb in front of a low, gray sandstone building that housed Johnson’s hardware store, McIntarver’s Drugs, and a small grocery.
He slid his hand into his front jeans pocket and fingered the ten dollar bill he had put there earlier today. It was good to feel a little cash there again. Looking up above the glass door, he read “Angie’s Cafe” and the red and white Coca-Cola® logos on either side. This place looks all right, he thought. A tiny bell jingled over his head as he pushed the door open and took two steps inside. “Just sit anywhere,” a voice said from behind the cash register. He jerked his head in the direction of the voice and stammered, “Y-Yes, ma’am.” The bell sounded again as the door closed behind him. He looked up at the bell and then stared straight ahead.
Angie’s was a small place, longer than it was wide. Three fans spaced evenly on the ceiling above were rotating slowly. Dull fluorescent lights lit the walls, which were painted in a flat gray. A solitary cook was busy at the grill, a puff of steam rising up as he flipped a burger patty. Ah, now that smells good, like real food, he thought to himself. In front of the beige Formica® counter on the left stood seven shiny stainless steel stools, cushions covered in dark red vinyl. At the near end of the counter sat two middle-aged men wearing billed caps and dusty blue overalls. Their murmuring conversation was occasionally overtaken by the clink of the forks on their plates as they leaned in to consume their homemade apple pie. Planting must be over by now, he figured as he glanced away from them. At the counter’s other end, next to the cash register, sat a dowdy younger woman in brown, her mouse-colored hair made into a bun that sat at the back of her head where a pony tail should have been. A teacher, or a librarian, he guessed. She was nursing a cup of black coffee and making small talk with the waitress, who was lazily closing the cash drawer.
To his right was a series of five square booths, each empty and done in the same dark vinyl as the stools. He stepped up to the second one and sat gingerly on the bench seat nearer to him. The vinyl squawked as he inched over toward the center and then sank into the cushion. “Be with ya in a minute.”
The bell over the door jingled again. He snapped his head over his left shoulder as two women in crisp office attire entered in animated conversation and strode toward the last booth on the right. As they passed by, he caught the eye of one of them and tried to smile, but she quickly broke contact and kept walking. Must be some law offices nearby. “Have a seat, girls. I’ll be right over.”
He looked down at his fingers, which had started drumming quietly on the table. Man, everyone in this place has someone to talk to but me, he thought. Look at those guys over there. Probably friends for years. Or maybe they’re brothers or neighbors. I’ll bet they married each other’s sisters or at least know how the other one spent the last two or three Christmases, or maybe spent them together. Maybe here. And look at that woman by the register. Sure, she may have walked in alone, but it didn’t take her long to start up a conversation. Who knows? She may have come in here just to get away from something. Or somebody. Or maybe not.
But then, maybe it’s better like this. What would I have to say, anyway? My mind is a blank. Try as I might, I can’t remember a thing. I’m not even sure how I got here today. And look at that pair in the corner. They haven’t stopped clucking since they walked in. It’s possible that some people have too much to say to each other. Yeah, that’s it. Who cares if everyone here has got someone else? I’ve got my own private little compartment here, all to myself.
He scanned the table, his eyes lighting on each different object in front of him: the salt and pepper shakers, the plastic squeeze ketchup bottle, the paper packets of sugar in a white bowl, and the lone blue flower in its own dry bud vase. He reached out and felt the petals. Silk, he said to himself. It’s probably been on this same table for years. In the ashtray sat a matchbook folded into a triangle. He picked it up and read the message on the red cover. “Angie’s Cafe. 458 Main Street. Connetton, Illinois. Come in a stranger, leave a friend.” Catchy slogan. He sat wondering how many others had spiced up their food with those shakers or squirted their French fries or home fries or whatnot from that same bottle. Maybe I’m not so alone after all, he mused.
A voice gruff from half a million cigarettes stabbed through his reverie. “Ya know whatcha want or d’ya need ta see a menu, honey?” He jerked his head upward and saw the tallish waitress standing over him, holding her order pad in one hand and pulling a yellow pencil from behind her right ear. Her faded blond hair was piled in loose curls on top of her head and held in place by a band that looked like a paper tiara. The plastic name badge pinned on her yellow uniform read “Angie.” Recovering from the incursion, he croaked, “Huh? Oh, that burger sure smells good. I’ll, I’ll have one of them. And a cup of coffee.” “Ya want it dressed—cheese, lettuce, onion, tomato, mayo?” “No, just plain. I’ve got everything else I need right here,” he said, nodding over to the ketchup. “Ya want fries or anything?” “N-Nah, that’s it, thanks,” he said, looking from side to side. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute with some water for you.”
Sheesh, that didn’t go so well. Maybe I’m not ready for this yet. Get a grip. Stuttering like a fool will be a dead giveaway. Ah, if they just leave me be, I’ll be fine, he assured himself. The bell over the door rang once again as a couple with two children, probably seven or eight, claimed the booth in the middle, just next to his. He fidgeted in his seat a little and looked over at the counter as the young boy rested his chin on the top of the booth and began to stare blankly at him. The mother quickly spun her son around in the seat and told the boy to behave.
Angie returned with a glass of ice water and set it down in the center of the table. The bell over the door jingled again as four more lunch customers passed behind Angie to load the counter to capacity. Then, the booths on either side of him filled up. The chatter and the clink of glassware slowly engulfed the whole place. “Your burger’ll be coming up right away. You sure all you want’re a burger and coffee? Maybe some pie later, huh?” “Ummm, I’ll think about it and let you know.” “All right, hun,” she smiled. “Coffee’s comin’ right up.”
He looked down at the glass in front of him. Drops of condensation gathered and trickled down the sides and made a small puddle. Angie returned and placed a white cup and matching saucer on the table right under his nose and filled the cup perfectly. “There ya go, hun.” The steam hit his face and the warmth made him smile. He carefully pushed the coffee away a few inches toward the center of the table. “Thanks, Angie,” he said. He reached for a packet of sugar and shook down the contents. Then he gently tore the top off and dumped the sugar into his cup in one motion. He reached for a spoon and as he began to stir, the aroma carried his thoughts off and away from Angie’s.
“Hey, you got some room, here. Okay if I sat down?” a new voice asked, coming out of nowhere. Startled, he dropped the spoon and spilled some coffee into a brown ring in the saucer. “Wha?” he said, lifting his head. The stranger, dressed in a green plaid shirt and a pair of neatly pressed khakis, stood right at the end of the table, just a little too close. “Mind if I join you here for a little while?“ the stranger said. “Uhhh... I sorta wanted to be alo...” “The place is full up,” he interrupted. “You’ve got the only empty space here.” Feeling crowded all of a sudden, he said, “Well, I don’t know...” “Aw, c’mon. Just till the place clears out a bit,” the stranger pleaded with an enthusiasm that was a little nervewracking. He wiped his palms on his pantlegs and looked around and said, “All right. Go ahead. Sit down.”
The stranger sat down across from him and grabbed the glass of water and took a long swig. “D’ya mind? My name’s Chris Logan.” “I’m...uhh, I’m...” he stammered. Without missing a beat, the stranger went on, “...and I am one happy man. You see, today, they let me out. I’ve spent the last two years of my life with the white coats and the shrinks at the Upper Illinois Psychiatric Hospital here in town. And today I got to go out on my own for the first time in two years. Two years! I feel like I just finished a sentence for armed robbery or something! And now I’m gonna be free, yippee!” Geez, he thought, what’s up with this guy? He has got to be on medication. C’mon, somebody leave. I’m sitting here with some sort of lunatic.
He squirmed in his seat, causing the vinyl to squeak again. A few people at the counter looked his way and then went back to their lunches. “Well, that’s very nice, but why are you telling...” The stranger went on, chattering like a wind-up toy with the spring a little too tight. “You see, a couple of years ago, I was traveling through here on the Interstate on my way to a new job in California. I never made it, though, because it was November and there was a helluva snowstorm that came right off the lake, but I was so excited about this job that I wanted to get out there as soon as possible. I must’ve been crazy, ’cause I decided to drive straight through the night. Well, all of a sudden, I started to skid, and before I could see what was happening, WHAM! I slammed right into a bridge abutment. They had to pull my car off the beams of the bridge before they could pull the door off me with their ‘jaws of life.’”
Oh my God, get to the point, he screamed in his own mind. He picked up a fork and turned it tines down in his hand and started to tap it lightly on the table. “I was a mess,” the stranger went on. “They said my back was broken in two places, along with my neck. My knee was dislocated and my right ankle is full of pins now, of course. At one point, they put my head in this ring with steel rods that went up from the cast and screwed right into my skull. Look,” he said, pulling back the hair from the sides of his head. “Go ahead, feel ’em. I got holes in my head,” the stranger said, laughing. “Thanks, anyway,” he said, putting down the fork and rubbing his own temples instead, in unconscious sympathy.
“So, then what happened?” he asked. The stranger continued, “Well, once they got my body back together, they went to work on my noodle. You see, I had lost a lot of oxygen to my brain and the memories took a long time to bring back. They kept trying, though, God love ’em. Day after day after day, they worked on me—with their word games and their role-playing and their pictures and everything. Just last Wednesday, I had a breakthrough. They’re calling it a miracle. I was having lunch and...”
Angie stepped up to the table abruptly with a plate in her hand. She set it down in front of him and said, “One burger, plain. Enjoy.” And she quickly spun away without even acknowledging the stranger. “Man, that was rude,” he said. “Did you want to order something? Or you want some of this?” he said, pushing the burger toward him. “No, no. I’m fine. Just a little thirsty, I guess. Anyway, I’m free. It’s time I shoved off. I’ve got a life now,” the stranger said, standing up confidently. Extending his hand, the stranger said sincerely, “Hey, it was nice to meetcha. Thanks for the water. And thanks for the company.” Rising with the stranger, he said, “But, but...” and shook the stranger’s hand. He felt a vibration like holding onto a silent pager going off. He took in a deep, startled breath and sucked the stranger into him like a puff of smoke. He sat down quickly before anyone could notice. In the confines of his booth, he relaxed and let the contents of his lungs out slowly, as if he were doing some yoga breathing exercise.
Suddenly as serene as Trappist monk, he looked out at the crowd in their places around the diner. It was business as usual—people coming, going, talking, laughing, chewing, smiling. His own thoughts and feelings melted into the lunchtime rhythm of Angie’s Cafe. Smiling to himself and, for some reason, hoping everyone could see, he pulled the plate holding his burger toward him. He grasped the ketchup container and squeezed out a small blob. He had just taken his first bite when he heard the bell above the door jingling once again.
“Time’s up, Mr. Doe. We’re here to take you back home,” said a tall, burly man dressed in a starched white linen uniform standing right at the table. His sidekick, equal in size and bulk, chimed in, “Yeah, Mr. Doe, we even gave you an extra ten minutes, so don’t give us any trouble, now.” “Okay, okay, I won’t. But you don’t have to call me Mr. Doe anymore. I know who I am. I know who I am. I’m Chris Logan. And I had a terrible accident once, but now I’m okay. Now, I’m okay,” he told them, careful not to raise his voice too much.
“Sure, Mr. Doe. Sure,” one of the men in white said as they each took an arm and gently hoisted him up from the booth. “Don’t forget to leave a little something for Angie,” they warned him, letting his arms go free. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ten dollar bill. He placed it between the plate and the saucer like he was leaving an offering at a shrine. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. One of the orderlies attending him held his upper arm in a soft grasp as the other opened the door. The bell jingled more loudly than usual and suddenly every head in Angie’s turned its way toward him. “Goodbye, Mr. Logan,” each and everyone in the place chorused. The orderlies, mouths open, looked at each other for a long moment and then led him out to the street. As the door closed behind them, the bell over the door jingled one last time.
©2007 Jim Walter
by Jim Walter
As he peered into the plate glass window for a glimpse inside, all he could see was the reflection of Main Street behind him. A passing pick up truck, a lone pedestrian on his way somewhere. On the other side of the street, there were a few empty cars parked along the curb in front of a low, gray sandstone building that housed Johnson’s hardware store, McIntarver’s Drugs, and a small grocery.
He slid his hand into his front jeans pocket and fingered the ten dollar bill he had put there earlier today. It was good to feel a little cash there again. Looking up above the glass door, he read “Angie’s Cafe” and the red and white Coca-Cola® logos on either side. This place looks all right, he thought. A tiny bell jingled over his head as he pushed the door open and took two steps inside. “Just sit anywhere,” a voice said from behind the cash register. He jerked his head in the direction of the voice and stammered, “Y-Yes, ma’am.” The bell sounded again as the door closed behind him. He looked up at the bell and then stared straight ahead.
Angie’s was a small place, longer than it was wide. Three fans spaced evenly on the ceiling above were rotating slowly. Dull fluorescent lights lit the walls, which were painted in a flat gray. A solitary cook was busy at the grill, a puff of steam rising up as he flipped a burger patty. Ah, now that smells good, like real food, he thought to himself. In front of the beige Formica® counter on the left stood seven shiny stainless steel stools, cushions covered in dark red vinyl. At the near end of the counter sat two middle-aged men wearing billed caps and dusty blue overalls. Their murmuring conversation was occasionally overtaken by the clink of the forks on their plates as they leaned in to consume their homemade apple pie. Planting must be over by now, he figured as he glanced away from them. At the counter’s other end, next to the cash register, sat a dowdy younger woman in brown, her mouse-colored hair made into a bun that sat at the back of her head where a pony tail should have been. A teacher, or a librarian, he guessed. She was nursing a cup of black coffee and making small talk with the waitress, who was lazily closing the cash drawer.
To his right was a series of five square booths, each empty and done in the same dark vinyl as the stools. He stepped up to the second one and sat gingerly on the bench seat nearer to him. The vinyl squawked as he inched over toward the center and then sank into the cushion. “Be with ya in a minute.”
The bell over the door jingled again. He snapped his head over his left shoulder as two women in crisp office attire entered in animated conversation and strode toward the last booth on the right. As they passed by, he caught the eye of one of them and tried to smile, but she quickly broke contact and kept walking. Must be some law offices nearby. “Have a seat, girls. I’ll be right over.”
He looked down at his fingers, which had started drumming quietly on the table. Man, everyone in this place has someone to talk to but me, he thought. Look at those guys over there. Probably friends for years. Or maybe they’re brothers or neighbors. I’ll bet they married each other’s sisters or at least know how the other one spent the last two or three Christmases, or maybe spent them together. Maybe here. And look at that woman by the register. Sure, she may have walked in alone, but it didn’t take her long to start up a conversation. Who knows? She may have come in here just to get away from something. Or somebody. Or maybe not.
But then, maybe it’s better like this. What would I have to say, anyway? My mind is a blank. Try as I might, I can’t remember a thing. I’m not even sure how I got here today. And look at that pair in the corner. They haven’t stopped clucking since they walked in. It’s possible that some people have too much to say to each other. Yeah, that’s it. Who cares if everyone here has got someone else? I’ve got my own private little compartment here, all to myself.
He scanned the table, his eyes lighting on each different object in front of him: the salt and pepper shakers, the plastic squeeze ketchup bottle, the paper packets of sugar in a white bowl, and the lone blue flower in its own dry bud vase. He reached out and felt the petals. Silk, he said to himself. It’s probably been on this same table for years. In the ashtray sat a matchbook folded into a triangle. He picked it up and read the message on the red cover. “Angie’s Cafe. 458 Main Street. Connetton, Illinois. Come in a stranger, leave a friend.” Catchy slogan. He sat wondering how many others had spiced up their food with those shakers or squirted their French fries or home fries or whatnot from that same bottle. Maybe I’m not so alone after all, he mused.
A voice gruff from half a million cigarettes stabbed through his reverie. “Ya know whatcha want or d’ya need ta see a menu, honey?” He jerked his head upward and saw the tallish waitress standing over him, holding her order pad in one hand and pulling a yellow pencil from behind her right ear. Her faded blond hair was piled in loose curls on top of her head and held in place by a band that looked like a paper tiara. The plastic name badge pinned on her yellow uniform read “Angie.” Recovering from the incursion, he croaked, “Huh? Oh, that burger sure smells good. I’ll, I’ll have one of them. And a cup of coffee.” “Ya want it dressed—cheese, lettuce, onion, tomato, mayo?” “No, just plain. I’ve got everything else I need right here,” he said, nodding over to the ketchup. “Ya want fries or anything?” “N-Nah, that’s it, thanks,” he said, looking from side to side. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute with some water for you.”
Sheesh, that didn’t go so well. Maybe I’m not ready for this yet. Get a grip. Stuttering like a fool will be a dead giveaway. Ah, if they just leave me be, I’ll be fine, he assured himself. The bell over the door rang once again as a couple with two children, probably seven or eight, claimed the booth in the middle, just next to his. He fidgeted in his seat a little and looked over at the counter as the young boy rested his chin on the top of the booth and began to stare blankly at him. The mother quickly spun her son around in the seat and told the boy to behave.
Angie returned with a glass of ice water and set it down in the center of the table. The bell over the door jingled again as four more lunch customers passed behind Angie to load the counter to capacity. Then, the booths on either side of him filled up. The chatter and the clink of glassware slowly engulfed the whole place. “Your burger’ll be coming up right away. You sure all you want’re a burger and coffee? Maybe some pie later, huh?” “Ummm, I’ll think about it and let you know.” “All right, hun,” she smiled. “Coffee’s comin’ right up.”
He looked down at the glass in front of him. Drops of condensation gathered and trickled down the sides and made a small puddle. Angie returned and placed a white cup and matching saucer on the table right under his nose and filled the cup perfectly. “There ya go, hun.” The steam hit his face and the warmth made him smile. He carefully pushed the coffee away a few inches toward the center of the table. “Thanks, Angie,” he said. He reached for a packet of sugar and shook down the contents. Then he gently tore the top off and dumped the sugar into his cup in one motion. He reached for a spoon and as he began to stir, the aroma carried his thoughts off and away from Angie’s.
“Hey, you got some room, here. Okay if I sat down?” a new voice asked, coming out of nowhere. Startled, he dropped the spoon and spilled some coffee into a brown ring in the saucer. “Wha?” he said, lifting his head. The stranger, dressed in a green plaid shirt and a pair of neatly pressed khakis, stood right at the end of the table, just a little too close. “Mind if I join you here for a little while?“ the stranger said. “Uhhh... I sorta wanted to be alo...” “The place is full up,” he interrupted. “You’ve got the only empty space here.” Feeling crowded all of a sudden, he said, “Well, I don’t know...” “Aw, c’mon. Just till the place clears out a bit,” the stranger pleaded with an enthusiasm that was a little nervewracking. He wiped his palms on his pantlegs and looked around and said, “All right. Go ahead. Sit down.”
The stranger sat down across from him and grabbed the glass of water and took a long swig. “D’ya mind? My name’s Chris Logan.” “I’m...uhh, I’m...” he stammered. Without missing a beat, the stranger went on, “...and I am one happy man. You see, today, they let me out. I’ve spent the last two years of my life with the white coats and the shrinks at the Upper Illinois Psychiatric Hospital here in town. And today I got to go out on my own for the first time in two years. Two years! I feel like I just finished a sentence for armed robbery or something! And now I’m gonna be free, yippee!” Geez, he thought, what’s up with this guy? He has got to be on medication. C’mon, somebody leave. I’m sitting here with some sort of lunatic.
He squirmed in his seat, causing the vinyl to squeak again. A few people at the counter looked his way and then went back to their lunches. “Well, that’s very nice, but why are you telling...” The stranger went on, chattering like a wind-up toy with the spring a little too tight. “You see, a couple of years ago, I was traveling through here on the Interstate on my way to a new job in California. I never made it, though, because it was November and there was a helluva snowstorm that came right off the lake, but I was so excited about this job that I wanted to get out there as soon as possible. I must’ve been crazy, ’cause I decided to drive straight through the night. Well, all of a sudden, I started to skid, and before I could see what was happening, WHAM! I slammed right into a bridge abutment. They had to pull my car off the beams of the bridge before they could pull the door off me with their ‘jaws of life.’”
Oh my God, get to the point, he screamed in his own mind. He picked up a fork and turned it tines down in his hand and started to tap it lightly on the table. “I was a mess,” the stranger went on. “They said my back was broken in two places, along with my neck. My knee was dislocated and my right ankle is full of pins now, of course. At one point, they put my head in this ring with steel rods that went up from the cast and screwed right into my skull. Look,” he said, pulling back the hair from the sides of his head. “Go ahead, feel ’em. I got holes in my head,” the stranger said, laughing. “Thanks, anyway,” he said, putting down the fork and rubbing his own temples instead, in unconscious sympathy.
“So, then what happened?” he asked. The stranger continued, “Well, once they got my body back together, they went to work on my noodle. You see, I had lost a lot of oxygen to my brain and the memories took a long time to bring back. They kept trying, though, God love ’em. Day after day after day, they worked on me—with their word games and their role-playing and their pictures and everything. Just last Wednesday, I had a breakthrough. They’re calling it a miracle. I was having lunch and...”
Angie stepped up to the table abruptly with a plate in her hand. She set it down in front of him and said, “One burger, plain. Enjoy.” And she quickly spun away without even acknowledging the stranger. “Man, that was rude,” he said. “Did you want to order something? Or you want some of this?” he said, pushing the burger toward him. “No, no. I’m fine. Just a little thirsty, I guess. Anyway, I’m free. It’s time I shoved off. I’ve got a life now,” the stranger said, standing up confidently. Extending his hand, the stranger said sincerely, “Hey, it was nice to meetcha. Thanks for the water. And thanks for the company.” Rising with the stranger, he said, “But, but...” and shook the stranger’s hand. He felt a vibration like holding onto a silent pager going off. He took in a deep, startled breath and sucked the stranger into him like a puff of smoke. He sat down quickly before anyone could notice. In the confines of his booth, he relaxed and let the contents of his lungs out slowly, as if he were doing some yoga breathing exercise.
Suddenly as serene as Trappist monk, he looked out at the crowd in their places around the diner. It was business as usual—people coming, going, talking, laughing, chewing, smiling. His own thoughts and feelings melted into the lunchtime rhythm of Angie’s Cafe. Smiling to himself and, for some reason, hoping everyone could see, he pulled the plate holding his burger toward him. He grasped the ketchup container and squeezed out a small blob. He had just taken his first bite when he heard the bell above the door jingling once again.
“Time’s up, Mr. Doe. We’re here to take you back home,” said a tall, burly man dressed in a starched white linen uniform standing right at the table. His sidekick, equal in size and bulk, chimed in, “Yeah, Mr. Doe, we even gave you an extra ten minutes, so don’t give us any trouble, now.” “Okay, okay, I won’t. But you don’t have to call me Mr. Doe anymore. I know who I am. I know who I am. I’m Chris Logan. And I had a terrible accident once, but now I’m okay. Now, I’m okay,” he told them, careful not to raise his voice too much.
“Sure, Mr. Doe. Sure,” one of the men in white said as they each took an arm and gently hoisted him up from the booth. “Don’t forget to leave a little something for Angie,” they warned him, letting his arms go free. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ten dollar bill. He placed it between the plate and the saucer like he was leaving an offering at a shrine. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. One of the orderlies attending him held his upper arm in a soft grasp as the other opened the door. The bell jingled more loudly than usual and suddenly every head in Angie’s turned its way toward him. “Goodbye, Mr. Logan,” each and everyone in the place chorused. The orderlies, mouths open, looked at each other for a long moment and then led him out to the street. As the door closed behind them, the bell over the door jingled one last time.
©2007 Jim Walter
Comments and critiques on this Story.
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Permalink Reply by iScribed.com on -
Jim, nice story. You had me hooked early and finished with an interesting twist at the end. Also, enjoyed the "richness" of your descriptive writing. Can you explain the genesis of the story?
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Permalink Reply by TWalsh on -
Jim, I really enjoyed this. You made me feel like I was at the counter at Angie's. I like this story for the "Friends" book. We need to be friends to ourselves before we can be friends with others. I think Chris Logan figured that out. One small comment on format: You don't need the registered trademark symbols by Coke or Formica. Although they are trademarks they fall under "Fair Use" in writing.
Thanks for sharing!
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Permalink Reply by r. desmond robinson on -
Very interesting story, written well. Good twist at the end. I was expecting something imaginative as I read it but I didn't know what. I was even thinking he might be a shape-shifter from another planet.
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