32. The Secret War, Chapter 3

Editor's Note: Again, this is part of a novel that Hawkinson is attempting, especially during cold months--usually commencing in late September--filled with snow and ice and howling winds and darkness, utter darkness--the kinds of conditions that immigrants from Sweden could enjoy. (Since Hawkinson is a little over half Swedish, he enjoys the conditions in this neck of the woods only up to a certain point. (The other bits of his ancestry would be far more comfortable on a beach in California.)) As noted earlier, the would-be novel has little or nothing to do with the fact-based events covered elsewhere in this blog. Enjoy.

Chapter 3

A gaunt woman with wild white hair and a greasy apron squirted out behind the bar. She was holding an empty coffee pot. I recognized her immediately from her “Employee of the Month” photos. “Whaddaya say?” she asked. “House spesh’ ‘til 12:17 pm.”

Before I could answer, a voice from a booth behind me shouted out, “Hey, Marbles, turn down the TV. It’s getting too hot in here.”

That sounded like code to me, but, despite my training, I turned to the TV mounted just below the ceiling. Footage of a fire blazing in a hearth was looped

Fire on TV

to play continuously.

“Don’t make me come over there,” Mirabel “Marbles” threatened.

“Ah, c’mon, I was only kiddin’,” replied the voice, filled with deep regret.

I turned to see who was talking. A little squirt, maybe nine or ten years old, was sitting alone in the booth. He was wearing a ski mask pulled down over his face and eating a tall plate of corn pancakes. When he noticed that I was a new member of his audience, he gave me the finger and ran out of the Parkside Restaurant & Grill without paying his bill. Obscenities poured from his mouth until the front door swatted shut behind him.

“Pancakes sound good,” I answered, but Mirabel “Marbles” had already disappeared.

A rotund man poured into the restaurant and suffocated the stool next to me. Rivets groaned. His gasping took several minutes to subside into a low, chronic cough. “You the guy?” he asked, without looking at me. His stomach wobbled as he spoke, and his general hygiene was nearly as high quality as the “canning” factory.

My training told me to be evasive. “I might be,” I replied.

“Flippers, you get outta here right now,” demanded Marbles. “Now, git!”

The man, now known as Flippers, skulked out without another word.

“Who was he?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Flippers. Got his name by catching too many sea turtles in his nets.” Marbles sighed. “Lost his license. Now he just sits at home eating sardines and pork rinds.”

“Unemployment will do that to a person,” I muttered.

“Well, here’re yer pancakes,” Marbles said, sliding the plate almost into my lap.

House special . . . pancakes shaped like a turtle 

As I examined the unusual looking pancakes, Marbles rested on her elbows in front of me and continued: “He’s sort of the local town hero,” she mused. “He’s going to donate ‘is own skin to charity . . . says he wants the town to have a holiday, ever’body gets the day off . . . and all they do is eat pork rinds, they can git ‘em at the Farmers’ Winter Market, only it will be his pork rinds, on account of it’s all coming from him . . . He says we kin even sell ‘s house ta buy a giant deep fryer. He wanted ta use mine, but I says no Flipper skins’ gonna fry in ma fryer, and that’s all there’s to it!”

I coughed up my pancakes.

“Where’s my manners?” Marbles said, and poured me up a large cup of coffee. “Now drink up.”

I sipped the coffee. It tasted nothing like coffee. It tasted nothing like anything I had ever tasted before.

“Flippers wants a statue made of him after his passing and his donation, so ta speak,” said Marbles, “but the town council said the bronze would be too ‘spensive on account of how much cubic footage’d be needin’. And that was the end of it . . . Flippers R.E.-scinded his offer and said the bears could have ‘m when he expires, so to speak . . .”

I fixed my gaze on the corn pancakes as Marbles spoke. Her dentures slid and danced wildly around her mouth as she informed me about the life and times of Flippers.

“Then why’s he still the town hero?” I asked.

No answer. When I looked up, she was gone. A check was already on the counter. A smiley face was drawn next to Marble’s name.

Eat a good breakfast

After paying the check, I spun a toothpick out of its holder and stood for a moment, digging for corn bits and exploring the postcard stand. One postcard in particular caught my eye. It was an eagle tearing a rainbow trout to shreds. On the reverse side was a single sentence: “Eat a good breakfast.” –From the folks at the Parkside Restaurant & Grill, Mirabel “Marbles” White Crow, Your Friendly Hostess. I slipped the card back in its slot and  left immediately.