Turly supposed his pop would be considered a Late-LateMorninger. He didn’t really get up though. They gave his food to him through a tube over at Cresten Care Center. After mom had died, he had deteriorated pretty quick. Seemed like just a few months and he was in the Center. It was hard to watch. He went from alive and vital to a lump within the year. And it wasn’t like a disease that incapacitates you. It was like he was broken. Like he was withering away from the spirit out. He didn’t go out much, even for his walks after mom died. He slept a lot. Turly would go over and try to talk and play checkers and such, but they didn’t have the closest of relationships. Still, it’s no sight to watch your pop go down like that.
Ding! Sausage and biscuits; one egg. Marty swished it away. Probably the last meat for an hour or so thought Turly.
His pop used to like the meats. He’d have a hearty breakfast on Saturday in the morning. That’s where Turly learned to cook so good. Pop would show him all the tricks, like keeping a grill cooler to hold the potatoes in a rush hour, and how to turn the meat just right to get the lines on it. How to arrange the sausages like a star around the eggs. Some cooks just plunked it onto the plate and let ‘er go at that. Turly was so practiced at the details that he didn’t even notice he did them. Could be fifty people asking for food and their sausages would still come out in stars around the eggs. Astounded Marty the first time she saw it. And she’d seen lots of cooks. The way she commented on it made Turly blush a little.
Turly watched his pop go down until he could no longer go down anymore. He was taken to Cresten in a white ambulance and had been there since. Now he’s more a vegetable than his pop anymore. Turly thought his pop would appreciate the way his sausage stars and toast stacks came out. He was a good cook too.
About 8:45 things began to slow and Turly thought he’d take his break before the LateMorningers started to come in. He told Marty he’d be out back, and putting on his jacket, he again pushed out the back into the alley. His first break was nice. It was the first full couple of cigs he’d get after arriving at five a.m. Oh sure, he’d grab one or a half, if it was slow, but mostly he just went without till break. He eased himself down onto the crate he used as a seat in the chilly fall air of the back alley. The rain had wetted the cement, and the smell of the dumpster was just a light fragrance in the air. The cigarette masked it within seconds of ignition. Turly drew a long breath, exhaled, and spat into the small puddle in front of him. He had spent years in this alley. He saw businesses come and go on both sides. He’d seen waitresses, waiters, washers, cooks, and bosses come and go. The alley stayed pretty much the same. Dumpster, graffiti, some garbage, cigarette butts, and Turly. He’d taken his job as cook almost thirty years ago. He didn’t go to college. He never seemed to want more than a job and place. He lived in his parents place now. (All paid for thanks to pop and mom.) And he had his job. And not bragging, he was good at it. People came from all over for Turly’s food. And the truckers liked to stop too. Yuppies and bums. Everyone liked Turly’s food.
As Turly mused about this and that, the door cracked and Marty came out wrapped in her maroon sweater. She clutched it to her body against the chill. Turly offered her a cig, but she was quitting so she declined. “Just came out to chat a bit,” she said. They chatted every day back and forth during work. But now and then they would stand or sit in the alley and really talk. Sometimes they didn’t talk, but sometimes they did. Turly doubted Marty knew how much he loved her. He had loved her for years. Since before her husband died. He was good man. He always made Turly feel good about who he was. He was a businessman. But he seemed to wear it like a regular guy. It was a drunk driver killed him. Marty and Turly had been through it together as she got on with life after that. They had shared a lot, but never had Turly told Marty how he loved her. They never went out. He was too embarrassed to ask her, being fifty-two while she was just forty-five. And he was nothing to look at like she was. Sometimes, she’d have a day off and bring a date into the grill for some of Turly’s cooking. You’d have thought he’d be jealous, loving her and all. But he always made things even better for them. A little more egg or potato. Maybe an extra link of sausage. He did it for Marty. And Marty always introduced him to her dates. She’d say, “And this fine fare is from the hands of my best friend Turly Breidablick,” or something like that. He always blushed when she complimented him.
“What’s with ToastandJuice?” Turly asked. Marty answered, “I’m not sure, but the guy is cute, isn’t he?” She grinned at Turly after she said it because Turly let his mouth fall open in mock horror at her saying such a thing about such a young man. He only held it a second, then started giggling too. Yeah, he was “cute.” Marty said they were arguing over some sort of experiment they were doing in a class at the college. Turly couldn’t really envision Poet as a biologist like ToastandJuice. He was too, hmmm, troubled looking. He was gonna be Poet to Turly even if he ended up actually being a biologist. Maybe he just missed his calling.
“How ‘bout that Stan Karney?” said Marty. Turly looked at her waiting for more. It wasn’t her way to talk about customers just for a conversation topic. Sure, she’d talk if they did something of note, but not just to use them as gossip fodder. She continued, “Oh, you wouldn’t have noticed being so far in back, but his breath smelled like a brewery today! He tried to pick me up this morning!”
Turly shook his head in disbelief. “He was that drunk?” DoubleHash was a loud mouth, but this was the first time he’d come in drunk. That maybe explains some of his behavior.
Marty nodded and said, “He was drunk or hung over. He wanted me to come with him and massage his head for him.” Marty said that with a tone of “can you believe it?!” in her voice. She’d already turned DoubleHash down a dozen times. (You’d have thought Marty would smack him with her feelings about drunks.) He was persistent. Sometimes Turly thought he only came in to try to woo Marty. The order of double hash browns and eggs was just a ruse. Still, he always had it. Turly grinned to himself thinking maybe ol’ DoubleHash would ask him out if the Marty thing didn’t come through.
But Turly’s grin faded as he thought about Marty. He looked at her leaning against the wall by him. She looked pretty today. Her maroon sweater looked good with her hair. It was kinda dark and shiny. And there was that nice, uh, shape too. She was very beautiful to Turly. Lately he’d been thinking of screwing himself up and asking her out on a real date. They actually went “out” all the time. To dinner, and a movie sometimes. But it was never as a “couple.” It was more like good friends; work friends. There was this good restaurant out on the east side of town he had heard her comment on. Maybe Friday they could go out there together. He was musing about how to broach the subject when Marty tsked her tongue and said, “Well hon” (she called him hon like your mom would), “Well hon,” she said, “time to hit the grind.” They had chatted and sat for fifteen minutes and it was indeed time to get back at it. Turly nodded to her, stood, and opened the door for her. “Thank you” she said, dipping her head and smiling as she entered the grill again. Turly followed her, retying his apron.
No one new had shown up in the interim (as Turly had expected), and he now had a few minutes or so to wash his hands, scrape the grill again, wipe the cooking area, and get some condiments. About nine the LateMorningers began to appear. Turly knew them by their dress rather than their orders. GolfPants and his buddies came in first usually. Where he got those pants, and how his wife ever let him leave the house with them on was hard to say. Turly was always amazed that there were that many colors of plaid.
A little later the rest came in; mixed in, of course, with once-in-awhile types. There was Bluehair and her friend Hotlips (she always had on the brightest lipstick imaginable, even when it totally conflicted with her clothes). There was Doc and his wife. They came in on Mondays when he was going over to the free clinic. He was actually retired, but still did free exams on Mondays for poor people. It was funny, of all the people who should know better, he’d always order a really big doughnut as an appetizer to his breakfast. Probably told all his patients to watch their diets, but he still had his doughnut every Monday morning! Turly smiled as he watched them sit down.
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