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When last we left our hero, he was sitting at the counter in a Waffle House restaurant in Kingsland, Georgia.
Even at 30 minutes past midnight, the place was jumping. Two booths and two tables were occupied. I and another person sat at the counter. A shift of three women, the oldest of whom could not have been more than 30, worked behind the counter.
Once worked the griddle, a second made sandwiches or prepared plates, the third took orders. They seemed to rotate jobs without saying anything.
"Watcha having to drink, babydoll,?" one asked me as I sat down.
Babydoll?
I asked for water.
Three young women worked behind the counter, the oldest, maybe 30. One worked the griddle. Her hands performed an elaborate ballet as she ladled oil on the griddle, cracked eggs, slapped on bacon, flipped burgers, all the while keeping up a running banter with the other two girls.
A second girl prepared plates, doling out slices of American cheese, toasting bread and biscuits. The third girl took orders, delivered the food and bussed tables.
All three spoke of their kids, none sported a wedding ring.
Back to me.
"Watcha gonna have, sweetie pie?"
Now I'm a sweetie pie.
"Egg biscuit and hash browns, please."
At table to my left, two couples ate and murmured to each other. At the other end of the counter, a group of four young men bantered with each other and the waitresses. Their youth and close shave heads revealed them as military; their demeanor as enlisted.
The guy sitting next to me at the counter overheard me ask the waitress if overnight was her usual shift and she agreed that it was. He agreed and we all ended up saying the best shift was the second. Still time left to do stuff when the shift of over; all the bosses go home and leave the worker to just get on with things.
Three large steamed up windows fronted the parking lot and beyond it a four-lane road. Flashing lights kept drawing my eye; blue, police; red, fire, followed by ambulance. The trinity, I used to call it when I worked ambulance. Police, followed by fire, with ambulance the tail end charlie.
"Here you go darling," the waitress said, handing me my plate.
Darling, for Christ's sake. I mean, if she has to be overly familiar, couldn't she call me stud muffin?
I suppose not.
The next morning was just as steamy as so many that had preceded it. 85 degrees and only 10 am when I cranked up the Duck and headed north. More later . . .
