Non-verbal

Even before the Wuhan Scourge, it was difficult for Imogene to get help in her diner.  Has been since I stopped in five years ago for a cup of coffee.  Impressed by the quieter, certainly saner pace of life here, I sold all I had in the city and took a too-long delayed retirement from the Metro Detective Bureau.  Five years enjoying life as a gentleman farmer has done wonders for my blood pressure.

We’re not much more than a wide spot in the road on a secondary highway.  It’s a highway used mostly by long haul truckers who know how to cut sixty-odd miles off their routes. May not seem like much, but that amounts to an hour and a quarter less windshield time on the trip to and through Big Berg down the interstate on the way to the coast.   Idiots in the highway department forgot to account for the double oxbow the Big River rearranges every ten to fifteen years.  For the number of tourists passing through, and especially during flood season, it takes less time to do a lot of gear shifting on our “slow” stretch of two-lane than it does sitting in miles of backed-up traffic on the interstate “expressway.”

I didn’t see the man enter the diner.  Didn’t see him dawdle at the front window either, but that would have been natural for a first-time visitor – to read the menu posted there right next to the ever-present “help wanted” sign.  He looked a little down on his luck.  Hell, some mornings when chores take a little longer than I expect or I have to scout one of my missing heifers, I look as rugged as he did.  Imogene doesn’t stand on any dress code. Farmers, truckers, and lost tourists all get the same sterling service and fine dining – breakfast, lunch, or supper.  He wasn’t what you’d call derelict.  Clean and neat, but shabby.

He sat at a table close to the long counter. You’ve seen them in every movie diner.  Genuine Naugahyde-covered swivel stools at a Formica-topped counter littered with cakes and other pastries hiding under glass domes.  Facing a wall one-third mirror, one-third a display of touristy knickknacks probably left over from 1950, and the center third a passthrough window to the kitchen and the domain of Max, the roadhouse Michelin chef.

I focused on my coffee.  Coffee worth a stop at Imogene’s even if you’re not there for breakfast. I wasn’t there for breakfast.  Just coffee and a chat with whoever else happened to just drop-in.  No local dropped in that particular morning while I enjoyed my Joe.  Christmas was fast upon us, so locals were occupied with trips to the city snatching-up seasonal goodies for gifting and entertaining visiting kin. It was just me, Imogene, Max, and two or three road-weary truckers. 

Imogene explained later he didn’t talk.  She assumed him mute. Obviously then, so did I.  Didn’t say if she thought he could hear or instead, read lips. According to Imogene, he pointed to items on the menu. Ordered two eggs sunny, hash browns and a double order of link sausages.  I wasn’t privy to how he managed to communicate sunny-side-up or a double order of links. Then, Imogene’s not really much of a talker either, so maybe there’s a thing non-verbal folks have.

He thoroughly enjoyed breakfast.  Imogene presented his check the same time she poured him a third cup of coffee.  Getting ready to leave myself, I watched the exchange.  While Imogene politely waited for payment, he turned his trouser pockets inside out, shrugged, and smiled. Imogene looked to me for help.

We, Imogene and I, were on the same page. It being the season of good will toward men, I thought to pay for his breakfast.  Imogene spoke before I made my thoughts known.

“Why’d you come in here, order breakfast when you knew you couldn’t pay?” she asked, quite calmly, I thought. She continued, “Well, it being Christmas time and all, I suppose this one is on the house.”

He glanced at me, then smiled up at Imogene. Reaching over into the seat next to him, he pulled out the sign reading “Dishwasher wanted – apply within” that he’d borrowed from the front window.

That was a year ago.

He’s shown up every day at 4 am to help with prep, works like a fool at washing and stacking and garbage management. Once when Max nursed too much of the valley’s recent Cabernet harvest, he donned an apron and did a passable short-order tour.  He gets breakfast, a bite of lunch, and a few bucks extra.  He’s spent a few of those bucks on new clothes making him appear less the transient.

Imogene’s not a woman you’d expect to be willowy inside.  This morning he showed-up with a small package wrapped in angels-and-cherubs paper.  Presented it to her.  Imogene got a bit weepy. I dunno what he’d bought, but it sure impressed Imogene.

He still hasn’t spoken a word.

Then, if you’re doing it right, there’s no real need to actually say, “Merry Christmas!” is there?

© spwilcenski 2022