The Diner: Part 1

"I can't believe you write this dribble," Laura snarled at her sister from across the table, "It’s just such a disgrace to women. This character...she just sounds pitiful."

Ruby rolled her eyes. The story was only in its basic, unrefined form, and Ruby hated criticism before she had polished a piece.

"Hey...this dribble pays my bills," she snarled back, digging in to the last bite of pancake on the chipped china plate. The diner around her smelled of old people and stale food. It reminded Ruby of years gone by. Black, sparkle-flecked seats, tables that had seen better days. The black and white tile on the floor was clean but battered from years of chairs and tables and hard shoes and broken china.

"Ooh...there he is," Laura whispered, kicking Ruby under the table.

She felt the urge to whip around, to stare at Laura’s newfound entertainment. Laura was new in town, so she wasn't sure if the handsome stranger had always been a regular, or if she had just been lucky to be present during his visits for breakfast. Only in town a few weeks, Laura lived around the corner from the diner, choosing to order three meals a day rather than endure the pain of grocery shopping and actually cooking at home. Ah, the joys of single life, Ruby thought to herself.

Should've Left It By The Lake

I was disappointed in myself, to be honest. Disappointed to be sitting in the spot on the bed where I paused to type. Disappointed by the words I wrote. Disappointed by the sadness in my heart, the loss of someone I didn’t want that badly in the first place. What is it they say? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…what the fuck was I thinking?

I was surprised at my determination. My determination to find him, to hunt him down like some poor animal. It was a quest, where more unanswered questions just pushed me forward. Where was he? How was he? So many question marks had roamed freely in my mind over the years. The universe magically, and glaringly vengeful for some unknown crime I had committed, only paused to happily oblige.

His face appeared on my screen one afternoon, and within weeks, I had willingly fallen into a conversation I recognized but only vaguely remembered.

I poured my heart out to him from the beginning, six years of unspoken conversation overflowing in an instant. I feared he would go away with my words. I feared I wouldn’t have the chance to say them again. I had to get them out.

The words came quickly, and it was my best writing. I couldn’t stop. Inspired by memories of our past, memories I had clearly romanticized, building on misread signals, only improved on by years of silence. My heart had written a romance, and my words were ready to do whatever they could to make it happen.

Naturally, he always avoided answering anything. The School of Deflected Answers, I referred to it. Seemingly without batting an eyelash, we would dance around entire conversations, him often repeating the same questions or keeping his answers as vacant as possible. The mystery only drew me in more. I felt there was more information I needed, more to the story.

What was it about him that I found so magnetic? So genuinely electric? The job was clearly admirable, requiring strength and intelligence, a passion for an impressive power. But over the weeks, I had seen the weakness. Physically, emotionally. He wanted so desperately to be that strong person that others perceived him to be, even though he knew the truth. His job seemed more like a cheaply made Halloween mask, unable to truly hide the person behind.

The vagueness of his words, a characteristic I had initially found enigmatic, grew tiring. Now, his answer diversion, his lack of true conversation, only brought great confusion and emptiness to our interactions. I would stare for hours at our saved words, trying to read between the lines, analyzing each emoticon. I wanted to believe the story I had written about us. Failure, my search resulting in nothing more than an opportunity to examine where my path had taken a wrong turn, seemed a disappointing ending.

Me and Johnny Cash, Part 1

Every spring, we hoped to make the trek to New York City. My mother and I began our Mother-Daughter weekends early in my teenage years, after a good friend of hers invited us for a visit. To make it extra special, we flew first class, and I remember feeling as though I was truly apart from the crowd.

The city was cold and bustling, and much bigger than I had imagined. During our visit, my mother’s friend Geraldine took us to and fro across the isle of Manhattan. Our highlight of the visit included second row center seats to a Broadway show called Grand Hotel. The star, a tall blonde John Schneider, familiar only from his days as Bo Duke on “Dukes of Hazzard.” A silly teenager, I gazed longingly at his beautiful face as he crossed the stage, belting out tunes. From that moment, he would never be Bo Duke again. We lunched at little bistros in Greenwich Village, ate a late night meal at the morbid and short-lived Night Café, and shopped on Fifth Avenue. It was like nothing I had experienced.

As the years progressed, my Mother and I found it to be the one moment during the year when we could pretend to be New Yorkers. Each visit, we’d take in a Broadway show or two. Some shows left a favorable impression (Ragtime, Rent, Spamalot), others not so much (the ill-fated Johnny Cash musical, the very unmusical Quentin Tarantino-Marissa Tomei flop Wait Until Dark). We quickly learned what other show-goers before us had undoubtedly learned – never pay full price for a show where half the cast is making their Broadway debuts! But it was the moment, the experience of the trip that left us wanting more.

Some visits were comedic. One year, with a little bit of cash in my pocket, I surprised my Mother with a full trip. We’d arrive early on a Monday evening, dashing to the infamous Carlyle Hotel to catch a performance of Woody Allen and his jazz band. We discovered, of course, that Woody Allen was not the highlight of the performance. As we ate our cold, overpriced French fries, we were surprised to see the man himself join in on his clarinet for a few tunes, and then sit solemnly with his head nodded down during his breaks. We joked; at least we were at the Carlyle.

During the same visit, we sat in our hotel room, reading the newspaper one morning, only to discover that the highly rated Spamlot was preparing for it’s full run with previews. We hurriedly phoned the Concierge to inquire on tickets, and within minutes, found that tickets were available at three times their stated price. Undaunted, Mom and I signed up and sat with the celebrities that night on the main floor for a preview performance of Spamalot. We laughed out loud, while David Hyde Pierce, Tim Curry, Hank Azaria, and Sara Ramirez crossed the stage and took a silly Monty Python movie to new heights.

The previous visit to New York had been to see the sold-out The Producers musical, staring Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane. We arrived, clutching our tickets, only to giggle with laughter when we realized that yes, we were on the main floor, in the corner of the very last row. A wonderful musical made only the more wonderful by sharing the moment with my Mom.

Little did we know that our trip to the city in spring 2006 would be our last visit.

Graduation

As we were standing in line in the auditorium hall carefully assigned by the first letter of our last name, I noticed members of my music sorority, from which I had recently resigned, assembling in a small empty room right off the hallway. Six of my former music fraternity brothers were finding their spaces in the rooms, and kneeling, as they had many times before, next to a few of my former sisters. It was a moment for serenade.

I stopped briefly to look into the room. The serenade was a ritual I had become accustomed to during my years in the sorority. Unfortunately, though I had a love of the pomp and circumstance of the serenade, I dreaded the experience. The thought of carefully balancing my curvy body on the small, trembling knee of one of my brothers as he attempted to sing was not my idea of a good time.

I smiled at everyone, saying hello, and then turned to go. “Where are you going, Jen?” one of the brothers asked me. “Oh, I resigned from the sorority a few weeks ago,” I explained. “But you’re still one of our sisters,” another one said, taking my hand.

Moments later, as I stood next to John, a portly fraternity brother I had become friends with, the boys knelt down on one knee in a scattered circle, and my sisters and I took our seats. I wrapped my arm around John’s neck, as I had only a few times before, and the boys began to sing.

Carefully balancing myself on John’s knee, my smile spread from ear to ear as the boys sang their tune. I beamed, enjoying the beautiful song, the collection of friends, the final serenade of my college career. And for the first time in four years, I was able to focus more on the serenade and less on my wobbly seat.

I heart Tony Bourdain.

I’ll let you in on a little secret that they don’t want you to know. Here it is – the Food Network makes it look easy. Cooking for twenty-five, fifty, two hundred guests is crazy and hectic. Sure, once the event is over and you’re staring at a large pile of dirty dishes, there’s a great sense of pride and rewarding accomplishment. But really, it’s a difficult task. It’s not all champagne and audience appreciation.

My husband, Jeff, and I started our organic catering business in the fall of 2003, only a year after we met on a blind date. After cooking for thirteen years in various hotels, restaurants, and food service establishments, Jeff was burnt out and wanted to embark on something more rewarding and better in line with his personal views. Like others, I was a wide-eyed romantic about cooking for other people, and with years of experience in marketing and advertising, it was our first big adventure together.

I’d like to say that the first few caterings went smoothly, but they didn’t. Our first two were booked for the same day, at the same time, and as we left our kitchen to head in opposite directions for delivery, we kissed each other with smiles on our faces. The next day, when we received phone calls from both clients – one complaining that the bread on our sandwiches was too soggy, and the other, complimenting us on the food but noting that our prices were higher than they normally liked to spend on their staff – our smiles faded a bit. Our third catering that week went smoothly, except for the missing serving utensils we had accidentally left back at our kitchen. We thought quickly on our feet, borrowing utensils from the in-house cafeteria. The party guests raved about the food, and the host was extremely pleased. Our first loyal customer was born.

As the years progressed, we gained rave reviews and learned valuable lessons. I was a newbie in the food service industry, except for a stint as a hostess in high school, so I looked to Jeff for guidance, really learning most things by trial and error. Like, wild salmon is difficult to find in the middle of winter. And strawberries should only be listed on proposals for events in late spring and summer. Some of our more painful lessons, like plating dinners on a rooftop in the dark is always a bad idea, and making sure to list all ingredients of every item on each buffet as to avoid serious food allergies, were learned the hard way. But they were learned, nonetheless, and they helped us to build a better, more successful business.

Bio

Born in Northern California in the late 70s, I relocated with my mother and stepfather to Southeast Michigan and grew up in a small town just south of Ann Arbor named Milan, famous for its federal prison and local dragway races. Growing up, I was mortified to be trapped in such a small town, knowing everyone on every corner, and have only recently grown to appreciate that sense of community.

I was originally destined to be a musician – a vocalist, actually. My mother, a choir director, had me singing in front of a church congregation by age five, and I continued my music studies through elementary and junior high, with a spot on an international choir that toured Europe, music camp, a small part in an all-school musical, and placements in local and regional choirs.

High school was entertaining, as most people will tell you. I continued to pursue music, and developed an interest in photography, writing, and editing. At my junior year of high school, I joined a small vocal ensemble to compete and audition for a regional choir. Once we were awarded a spot in regionals, it was expected that we would compete for placement in the state choir. Upon hearing that I was happy with just the regional accomplishment, and not interested in pursuing the state level, my choir teacher told me I would never succeed in music, and I took him at his word.

Though I applied to a number of colleges, I chose Western Michigan University, funny enough, for their music program. I figured if I ever changed my mind about music, at least I wouldn’t have to go far. I originally decided on a Public Relations major within the Communications department, but during my junior year, while studying abroad in Australia, I enrolled in a Public Relations course and found myself quite dismayed by the course outline. I left the class, rescheduled for a graphic design course, and never went back. When I arrived back in Kalamazoo after my study abroad, I changed my degree from Public Relations to a more general Communications Studies major and a Graphic Arts minor. When visiting my old, crotchety graduation advisor during my senior year, he told me he expected to see me back in a few years since I “wouldn’t be able to get a job with this degree.” I told him I’d be back when I was more successful than he was.

Grief, Part 1

My mother, bless her heart, always tells me to “drop to my knees and pray” when I’m upset or angry. She believes in the power of God, a mysterious invisible character we’re taught to believe leads us through life, placing obstacles in our path and guiding us through the good and bad times of every day.

I had a solid belief in God. A proud member of the United Church of Christ since my earliest of years, I spent many Sundays (and choir-rehearsal Wednesdays) at our local church. My mother, the congregation choir director, was a prominent figure in our church, friendly with even the cursed of congregation members. As a young child, I grew up in our church, babysat by awkward teens who would develop into mothers of their own, bouncing from surrogate grandparent to surrogate grandparent at each sermon. The church became a second home, a source of comfort for me.

I continued my faith throughout my school years, faithfully arriving each Saturday morning for two years in order to fulfill my confirmation duties. My classmates, an assortment of misfits from local schools, joked and snickered when we practiced for our formal confirmation ceremony at the closing of the confirmation studies. Our wine “glasses”, they teased, would work perfectly for shots of alcohol after confirmation. I gathered we weren’t the first to figure this out.

Postage

Of course I panicked as soon as I came to my senses.

What had I done.

The note was simple enough. It never hinted of any interest or plan. I wished him well, offered my friendship, and hoped that he was doing well. That was all.

The real question was would he receive it. It had been a few years since we had last spoke. I barely remember his face, let alone any details of his address or personal whereabouts. I only knew of the precinct. I assumed he had been there for a while, comfortable with his team and his responsibilities. I assumed he had built a following of loyalty amongst the fellow officers.

I assumed if they received the note, and he was no longer at that location, that it would be forwarded it on.

I hoped, actually, that the note would land on the desk of a friend.....if not his own. I imagined if it did reach him, some idle evening, early in the shift. He sees the corner of the envelope in his Inbox and wonders about it's creme color. Not a standard white envelope.

The return address, short and sweet. Valid, in case you're wondering. Just the initials - J.M. I imagine he would wonder, and be unable to place the PO Box in the city.

The "To" address, his first name in quotes, a nod to his tale of martial arts mastery. I remember the confusion on the phone to the operator of the precinct when I phoned, once, to make plans. "I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name," she said, unsure. Minutes later, my cell phone rang, his smooth voice letting know that I had reached the right location. "West isn't your real name, is it?" I asked. "No," he answered back quickly, ending the conversation.

I hope that a small laugh escapes him as he reads my PS, a nod to an inside joke between us.




But even in the far reaches of possibility that he could receive a five year old note....

....will he write back?