Every morning I worried that maybe he’d forgotten to shut off the gas after blowing out the pilot light, so I’d lean over the stove and sniff cautiously. I never did smell anything; but just to be on the safe side, I’d step back and flick a lit match at the stove. This morning the match landed in the middle of the white film of grease that covered the long black griddle, and the match sizzled quietly a moment before dying.
It didn’t explode, so I squeezed my shoulder between the back of the stove and the grease-spattered wall and twisted the handle back around. Deep inside the stove, I could hear the gas start to hiss. Now it was time to move fast.
I yanked open the oven door with my left hand and at the same time popped a match with the thumb on my right hand. I’d had lots of practice. I reached into the oven with my right hand and pushed the burning match up into the back corner and with a slight whoosh, the pilot light burst into life.
I scraped some of the grease off the cast iron griddle and heard the front door squeak open. Fat Ernst’s voice came barreling through the swinging doors and bounced off the walls in the cramped space.
“I don’t know what kinda hog pen you waded through before tracking all this shit across my floor, but I suggest you clean it up right quick. This floor ain’t gonna mop itself.”
I sighed, stretched. It was going to be a long day.
After filling up the bucket in the sink, I grabbed the mop leaning in the corner and went out front. Fat Ernst had left his own muddy tracks right into the bathroom. Another part of the morning ritual. I’m not sure what the hell kind of coffee Fat Ernst drank, but I’d learned to hold my bladder until the afternoon. Nobody used the restroom after Fat Ernst.
Starting in the usual corner, between the jukebox and the front window, I sloshed a little water on the floor, then leaned against the wall, watching the intersection through the window. A few people had managed to get the driver’s door of the hearse open and helped Mr. Hutson climb out. They eased him back to the bank and sat down with him, holding handkerchiefs to his bleeding head.
Most of the cars had left, but now there were a few guys in waders walking around carrying fishnets. They had a large ice chest set near the bank. One of the men, wearing camouflage waders that came up to his chest, wrapped a red bandana around the lower half of his face, so he looked like a bank robber. He carefully clambered down into the ditch, using the mangled back door of the hearse as a support. Somebody handed him a fishnet with a long telescoping handle and a two-foot ring. I guess they were pretty serious about collecting up the rest of Earl.
Heck watched the activity at the ditch bank for a while, then shook his head and walked back to the restaurant. At the top of the steps, he tried to stomp some of the mud off his boots. He didn’t get much off, but I appreciated the effort.
“Mornin’.” He shut the door and joined me at the window, leaning on the tables as he shuffled forward. “Goddamn shame,” he said with a grin, showing perfect white teeth that seemed a little too big for his mouth. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, man.”
As we watched a tow truck pulled up, surveyed the scene, then backed up to the hearse. One of the men suddenly detached from the group and rushed over. It was Slim. He waved his hands around wildly for a moment, then pointed toward the cornfield. I guess he wanted his Cadillac pulled out of the cornfield first.
“What an asshole,” Heck muttered. “Both them brothers were cold-hearted sonsabitches, man. Can’t say I’m sorry one’s gone.” He turned and tottered over to the jukebox. “I’d say this calls for a celebration.” He leaned over it, whistling a tune I couldn’t quite place. “Let’s see here …”
I watched the tow truck pull away from the hearse and drive acrossthe highway to the cornfield. Then I jammed the mop back into my bucket and splashed some more water on the floor.
I don’t know why Fat Ernst was so hell-bent on keeping the floor clean. He didn’t give a damn about the sanitary condition of the kitchen, but he sure wanted a clean floor out front. It wasn’t even in good shape; the varnish had worn off in a vague trail from the front door to the bar and the wood was starting to crack in other places.
“Who the hell are these people?” Heck snarled at the jukebox. His finger slid slowly down the glass, marking each record. “No Johnny Cash. No Flat and Scruggs. No Bill Monroe or Grandpa Jones. Not even any goddamn Hank Williams.”
I just kept mopping, concentrating on all the mud near the door. Heck would spend a few minutes grumbling about the piss-poor selection on the jukebox every morning. He kept hounding Fat Ernst to change the records, but my boss refused to take out anything. He figured he knew what his customers wanted, and that was mostly Southern-fried classic rock. If I had to listen to “Sweet Home Alabama” one more time, just one more time, I was gonna shove my mop through that goddamn jukebox.
Heck kept ranting. “Oh, sure, there’s that no-talent sonofabitch Hank Williams Jr. on here, still living off his daddy’s name, but I’d rather listen to my wife’s cats fucking.” He shook his head in disgust.
I knew Heck well enough to know that when his wife got mentioned, it was time for a drink. “Piss on it,” he said with an air of finality, and pushed away from the jukebox. He swung those bow legs over one of the bar stools and sank onto it like a plant wilting in fast motion in some grade school science film.
He swiveled around, watching me as I sloshed the mop at the mud near the front door, and said, “Why don’t you slow down there for a minute and have mercy on an old man. Get me something to drink. Something. Anything. No, no, wait.” He rubbed a hand over his wrinkled scalp. “That won’t work. Wife hasn’t been cooking muchlately. Been feeding me too damn much cat food these days, and if I have a beer it’s gonna raise holy hell with my insides.” Heck nodded, handing down one of the great truths of the universe. “And I don’t have to tell you that I don’t need to spend all day in the crapper. Hell, no.”
I heard the toilet flush. Once. Twice. I splashed water across the floor in a frenzy of black bubbles, backing closer and closer to the kitchen doors. Fat Ernst filled the doorway, hitching up his jeans and clasping a silver belt buckle the size of a baby’s head. He shot me a quick, sharp look. “Hey, boy. You get that griddle warmed up. Fry Heck an egg and a couple of those sausages.”
“Over easy,” Heck said.
“Then you get your ass in the shitter and clean it up. It ain’t pretty.”
I nodded quickly, gritting my teeth. Only ten more hours. Then the day was done. Only ten more hours.
CHAPTER 7
That night, the rain finally slowed to a foggy drizzle as the dim sun slowly sank behind the mountains to the west. A faint light still reflected off the low clouds, but in time that too was gone, leaving the valley shrouded in misty darkness. Happy hour at Fat Ernst’s came and went with no one except Heck around to enjoy it.
Despite the lack of customers, Fat Ernst kept me plenty busy around the restaurant, scrubbing the toilets, taking out the garbage, and taking stock of the inventory. Mostly that meant recounting the bottles behind the bar, but this time I had to check on the food in the refrigerator as well.
Fat Ernst was getting low on just about everything, especially meat.
Around eight, I was mopping the goddamn floor yet again when I saw an Ash Spring Sheriff’s Department squad car splash through the muddy expanse of the parking lot. Deputy Ray himself climbed out, making sure his felt cowboy hat was in place, cocked at just the right angle. He squinted at himself in the side mirror, carefully positioning the toothpick in the corner of his thin mouth.