A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

Note: This short story was derived from my novel Blackwell Ops 25: Rafe Andersen. Rafe did his job (a paid assassination) earlier in the night but returned to find his girlfriend gone from their hotel room, having left only a note. Now he’s waiting to catch a flight out of town.)

The café I found reminded me of that Hemingway story, “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.”

It didn’t have outside tables or a tree growing through the sidewalk or an old man sitting in the shadow of that tree cast by a streetlight behind it.

But it was very late—or very early—and like the café in the story, the place was small, with a breakfast counter lined with stools and several small square tables scattered across the floor. And a younger waiter who radiated impatience.

That waiter—I judged him to be in his early 20s with his headful of blond hair pulled back into a manbun and with sideburns and a wisp of hair on his chin that I could only barely see in the clean, crisp light of the place—snapped at two different customers in the short time it took me to find the stool at the near end of the counter.

A knife, fork, and spoon rested on a paper napkin at every seat along the counter and at each of the four places at every table. Each seat along the counter and each table also had an upright chrome napkin holder.

The young waiter didn’t snap at the customers harshly enough to cause them to leave, but harshly enough that they would not want to stay longer than it took them to finish their coffee. One had only coffee, and one had coffee and the remaining half of a donut. They were the only two civilian customers in the room.

2

Three police officers occupied a larger, round table in the back corner. Two were city officers from the looks of their blue uniforms with the black stripe down the outside of the legs. The other was a sheriff’s deputy, judging from his khaki trousers and black leather boots and khaki shirt and the western felt hat hanging on the corner of a nearby chair. There were no donuts on the table. Only three cups of coffee and the remains of a slice of pie. That was in front of the deputy.

Like in the Hemingway story, there was an older waiter too. His hair was mostly black. He too had sideburns almost to his jawline, but they were plainly delineated against his tanned brown skin and highlighted with flecks of grey. His face was weathered, lined here and there.

Both waiters wore an apron, the kind that drapes over the neck, but the younger one’s was not on his neck. It was tied at the waist, and the part that should have been around his neck and the part that should have covered his chest were dangling to his knees, a little below the part of the apron that was supposed to be there.

The other waiter—the older one—wore his apron correctly over a red, short-sleeved shirt and dark-grey trousers and black shoes. The shirt was buttoned at the neck and closed with a black bowtie.

The younger waiter wore only a stained white t-shirt above his folded apron and black jeans and black sneakers. He hadn’t lived long enough yet to develop any sense of class.

I raised one finger as I sat on the stool. I meant to signal the older waiter, but he looked away in the same moment the younger waiter looked around.

The younger one frowned and started toward me. When he was still ten feet from my stool, he said, “Yeah?”

I put on a smile and waited until he was closer. “Coffee, black. And what kind of pie do you have?”

Beyond him, the older waiter laid a ticket on the officers’ table, smiled and said something, then glanced in my direction.

The younger waiter shrugged. “I dunno. It’s just pie.” He pivoted on the ball of one foot to go get my coffee.

3

The older waiter had heard my order and my question. He flashed a hard look at the younger one as they passed, then came to my stool and clasped his hands in front of his waist. “You must forgive his lack of manners, sir. He is stupid. We have apple pie today, and cherry.”

I nodded and smiled again. This time the smile was authentic. “Sounds good. A slice of apple, please.”

“Whipped cream?”

“No, but thanks.”

He bowed his head slightly and turned away.

Between the older waiter’s right shoulder and the counter, the younger waiter turned sideways, a cup of coffee in his hand. He scowled. “Hey!” I wondered why he hadn’t come along the other side of the counter.

Past the older waiter’s left shoulder, the two city officers had stood up from the table. One of them put up one hand to get the older waiter’s attention. “Sam, the money’s on the table.”

The older waiter nodded and raised one hand as he continued to wherever they kept the pie.

4

The younger waiter set my coffee in front of me. A little sloshed onto the counter as he turned away.

I took two napkins from the upright chrome dispenser and soaked up the spill, touched the bottom of the cup to the napkin, then took a sip of the coffee as I glanced at the two city officers.

They started across the floor toward the door, weaving among the vacant tables. One of them nodded and I nodded back.

Beyond them, the county deputy took a final bite of his pie, then downed his remaining coffee and stood. He fetched his hat from the back of the chair and put it on, then ran one finger over the paper bills the other two had left on the table. He shook his head slightly and dropped a ten on top of it.

As the door closed behind the city officers, the deputy said, “Sam?” then started across the room, one hand raised toward the older waiter, who had looked around from the cooler where they kept the pie.

Sam smiled and nodded. “Have a peaceful night, my friend.”

The county officer came on toward the doors, but glanced at me and altered his course. He sat on the second stool away from me and smiled. “I’m David Grant. You from Spokane?”

Probably checking for the smell of alcohol and maybe checking my pupils for dilation. I shook my head. “No, just passing through. Waiting to catch a flight, actually.”

His gaze was friendly but intense. “Ah.”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so—”

He nodded and pushed up from the stool. “Well, stay out of trouble. And you have a safe flight.”

“Thanks, Deputy. I’ll do that.”

5

Sam reached past the deputy with a small plate that contained a large slice of apple pie and set it on the counter in front of me. He glanced up at the deputy and grinned. “Don’t be scaring off my customers, Dave.”

David looked at him and chuckled, then clapped him on the shoulder. “‘Night, Sam.” He looked down at me. “You take care now.”

“Yes sir. You too.”

And Dave turned for the door and Sam turned away and I was alone in the world with my pie and coffee.

If Sheryl was here, I’d offer her a bite. I’ll bet she’d laugh as she was eating it.

She’d probably pull the plate to her and take my fork and I’d have to order another slice.

But if Sheryl was here, what would I need with pie?

6

The pie was very good and the coffee was excellent. Sam had refilled my cup twice. The cups were stained white heavy stoneware. Nothing special, but they weren’t Styrofoam like in the hotel room. I lingered.

The civilian customer who had only coffee—a tall, wiry gentleman who was dressed in work boots,  bluejeans and a grey shirt with a red logo over the left breast pocket—picked up his white plastic hardhat from another chair at his table. Like the deputy had before him, he raised a hand, said, “Sam?” then pointed toward the table.

And as Sam had with the deputy, he nodded and smiled and started toward the table. He had already gathered the cups and the small plate from the officers’ table and wiped it down. “Get some sleep, Bill.”

Bill grinned. “I’m just hoping I don’t get called out again tonight. Storm’s supposed to be comin’ in.” Then he raised a hand and moved past me to the door and went out.

The younger waiter had disappeared. Maybe Sam fired him. I would have.

7

I glanced at the clock on the wall beyond the counter. It was almost 3 a.m. I’d finished the pie. As Sam gathered the saucer and cup and spoon from Bill’s table and straightened, I said, “Sam?”

He smiled and arched his eyebrows. “Yes sir?” He started toward me.

I put up one hand. “No rush. It’ll keep.”

He nodded and veered toward the pass-through that led through the counter and toward a wide white door that must have led to the kitchen.

When he came back through the door and glanced at me, I said, “I was just wondering, when do you start serving breakfast?”

He stopped in the pass-through. “Whenever you like. You are hungry?”

I thought of Sheryl and smiled. She was always hungry. I nodded. “Just bacon and eggs, three each? Over medium? And hashbrowns if you’ve got ‘em.”

He turned toward the kitchen again. “I’ll have it right out.”

I laughed. “You’re the cook too?”

He grinned past his right shoulder. “Some of us enjoy our work.”

“Where’s the other waiter?”

He stopped with his hand on the white door. “Oh, I sent him home.” He grinned. “After a few hours, he feels he is being mistreated.”

I shook my head. “Well, no rush. I have plenty of time.”

“Yes, I remember. You are waiting for a plane. Stay as long as you like.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“You need more coffee?”

“Not yet, but thanks.”

He nodded past his smile and went through. The door clack-clacked shut behind him.

8

While Sam was in the back, the other civilian customer got up, put some money on the table, slid his chair under it and left. He nodded on his way by.

A few minutes later, Sam came through the white door again with a platter full of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns. He moved along behind the counter and set it in front of me. “Would you like white gravy?”

“No, thanks. That was very fast.”

He shrugged and smiled. “I do what I can. Enjoy. I’ll have the toast out in a minute. The toaster’s on the fritz.”

I nodded and wondered what Sheryl was doing. Probably sleeping. She’d probably picked up her items in the room and taken them back to her house. Or maybe she’s resting in the room.

No. She has a house. She would rest in her house.

She remained in my mind as I lifted the eggs onto the hashbrowns and used my knife and fork to cut them and mix them together. The bacon smelled delicious. I picked up a strip and took a bite, then dropped the strip on the eggs and hashbrowns and sliced it in two.

Just as I finished, Sam approached with another small plate that held two pieces of wheat toast sliced corner to corner. He’d cooked it on the griddle.

The whole thing was perfect. It was maybe the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.

This was a great trip. The hit had gone more smoothly than I’d expected and better than most. I’d met a beautiful woman whose scent and mannerisms and flavors would probably be with me for the rest of my life. And to top it all off, I’d stumbled into an excellent café with an amenable waiter who was also the cook and enjoyed pie and coffee and a wonderful breakfast. Could life get any better than this?

For a nickel, I think I’d move to Spokane and wait tables for Sam.

I might even shoot that blond-headed punk as a special favor.

9

Of course, that thought brought back my own life choices. I could never wait tables with Sam. I’d made a different decision years ago.

But I could maybe move to Spokane.

No. There’s only one reason I’d even consider doing that other than the existence of this café. And that’s something Sheryl and I hadn’t gotten around to discussing.

Still, I can work from anywhere.

And I still have her phone number.

I thought of her note and I laughed and shook my head. “Cheyenne’s too far.”

“From where?”

I looked up.

Sam was standing in front of me with a fresh carafe of coffee. He held it up. “Ready for a refill?”

I edged my cup toward him. “Sure. And thanks.”

“That is where you’re from? Cheyenne?”

I nodded.

“Wyoming or South Dakota? Or Colorado? Or—”

“Wyoming.”

“That is a long way.”

“Apparently too long.”

He grinned and nodded. “Ah.” He paused. “Women, eh?”

I grinned back at him. “The breakfast was very good, Sam. Thanks. Okay to leave my money on the counter?”

“Sure. Just let me know. And listen, if you ever do move and you need a job—”

I laughed. “It’s nothing like that. But thanks.” I frowned. “What’s the name of this place, by the way? I don’t recall seeing the sign.”

He grinned. “Sam’s Place.”

“So you own it too? When do you sleep?”

He laughed. “I should paint the name on the window. I don’t like neon. I hope you’ll visit again.”

“So do I, Sam. Thanks again.”

He turned and went back into the kitchen.

10

At around 4:45 a.m. Sam was straightening something in the pie cooler at the other end of the café. My flight would be wheels-up at 7. I finally got up, dropped a fifty dollar bill on the counter, and raised one hand. “Thanks, Sam.”

He looked around, smiled, and waved.

Nice place.

*******