I. MY DENNY’S “AMERICANA” ADVENTURE
Americans know Denny’s, the chain of so-so diners that in many areas are the only places to go after a night of carousing or, conversely, upon very early rising, as the only places open all night.
Once every week or two I take myself out for an early breakfast at Denny’s. But I’d never been quite as early as today. I got there at 4:40 a.m. Even the newspaper, which is usually nestled in its machine like a bird in its nest, hadn’t been delivered yet, and I couldn’t indulge in my atavistic return to the old days when paper news, of the world at least, really WAS news, and fathers at breakfast tables hid behind the tall walls of rustling pages.
I took a book and a notebook, climbed the three steps, and opened the heavy iron door anyways, rather than drive on to the next Denny’s, 10 miles farther down the freeway.
The dining room was cheerily lit, as always. No one at the tables, not a surprise because the parking lot, too, had been empty.
But I looked in vain even for the lone all-night waiter. THIS was a first! A smile of amusement played on my lips. No cook, no waiter? Did they go in back somewhere and sleep? Who could blame them? They’d likely sat without a customer since 1 or 2 a.m!
I called, louder and louder. My words echoed in the big empty dining room, and on, I trusted, into the refrigerator-whirring kitchen. I might’ve been at the North Pole. I got out my harmonica and played a tune. That didn’t rouse anyone, either.
OK, I thought. I’ll explore. Creeping into the vestibule that adjoins the main kitchen, I searched for a pot of coffee. It didn’t take long to spot half a pot of regular and another of decaf, sitting on warmers. I saw the pitcher of cream and the assortment of little white jugs. Why not? I decided. I knew this place well enough.
In a little while I’d “waited on myself,” delivering coffee, cream and a glass of ice water with a lot of ice, the way I like it, to my table. Not bad, I thought. Leave myself a tip? Briefly, I entertained the idea of going into the kitchen and scrambling myself some eggs, but that seemed both a little too complicated and a trespass too far.
I sweetened and creamed my coffee and started reading my book. This was the life. I was pondering the possibility, after this cup, of maybe leaving $1.50 on the table and indeed heading on down the road, for I was hungry, when I heard a voice shouting a cheery, “Good morning!” and saw a Hispanic man in a black Denny’s uniform putting on a white apron and advancing towards me from the kitchen vestibule. Behind him I saw the thin, pony-tailed fellow who’d been my waiter the last time I’d been here, a couple weeks back.
“Hey!” I said, smiling. “You guys been napping back there?”
“I was on my break,” the waiter said. They were both smiling at the obvious humour of the situation. He took my order, and soon brought my eggs, toast and fruit. He was a good waiter, I remembered, and a nice young man. Last time he’d also been alone on dining room duty, and a group of 20 or more dancers, out all night, I guess, had come in, and I’d watched him take it all in his stride.
Wow, I could get these guys in BIG trouble, I thought! Of course I had no interest in that.
When I paid, Luis the waiter and I talked a little about the predicted rain. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” he said.
“I like rain,” I said.
“I don’t have my own car,” he explained. “So I have to take the bus and BART.”
“Where do you live?” I asked him.
“Richmond.”
That was a good 25 miles away. I imagined him waiting for buses and trains every day on the way to and from his all-night Denny’s job.
No, I didn’t want to get him in any trouble.
II. FER DE BOIDS
Yesterday I started driving down our crazy street, down its steep hill, past the big Canada goose who nests on top of our bus shelter every spring! A little ways down I passed a woman who looked at me sternly and pointed down, as if to say “Be careful!”
“Men working,” I wondered. “On the road?” I stretched my neck but saw nothing but the usual bright green trees, azaleas and asphalt up ahead. A little farther down, though, I put on my brakes. A crowd had gathered. In the centre of the street were NOT men working, but three huge male wild turkeys “in full regalia,” if you know what I mean, their vast tail feathers fully extended in great circles, strutting around in what looked almost like a ceremonial dance. Female and younger male turkeys, as well as several human spectators, looked on, and walking up the sidewalk single file, as though residents of the Rossmoor Senior Community where we live, were a full-grown goose couple, followed by six or eight tiny yellow chicks!
What could I do? The male “chiefs” were not about to give ground to a mere Toyota Camry. But I had places I needed to get!
Finally, I saw that if I eased into the opposite lane–no one was coming up the hill—I had enough room to go around the turkeys, and everyone would be safe.
I did so, with only a minor glitch: instead of continuing to strut and dance, the turkeys felt mildly threatened and moved off to the right, onto the sidewalk and then up a little shrubby hill, to put still more distance between us.
Everyone was safe, so I thought of it as a win/win.
Then I saw the face of a lady, standing with her friend, frowning at me as though I HAD run down the turkeys…or as though she wished it was *I* who would get run down! What gives? I wondered. Then I realized what it was.
She was holding a camera. She had wanted to get a shot of the turkeys. I had ruined it for her.
Oh, well. Too bad, lady!
