Friday Night at Cozy Corner

I’m seated in my usual booth at the Cozy Corner Café. It’s Friday night, and it’s raining. Merle Haggard is playing on the jukebox. If he can make it through December, everything’s gonna be alright, he knows. Well, it’s October and I’m not as sure as Merle is about things being alright. I dip one of my fries in the ketchup on my plate and take a bite.

“Gonna need anything else, Claude?” Beyth’s voice asks over my right shoulder. Tall, slender, blonde Beth, the only server on duty tonight. Sweet, lovely Beth. She makes me wish that I was many years younger.

I hold up my glass.

“Another Diet Coke would be good, sweetie.” She takes my glass. “And a slice of cherry pie.”

“I’ll get that for you, Claude,” she says, “and then I’ll sit down and take my shoes off for a few minutes.”

She returns to the kitchen and I stare out the window at the street, They roll up the sidewalks at 5 every night in Bakersburg. There’s not even anybody going into Cooley’s Tavern across the street. In any other town, somebody would be drinking on payday.

Sweet Beth returns to my table with my drink and dessert.

“Crappy weather,” I mumble.

“Yesh,” she says in a voice that reminds me of a kitten’s purr. “Good night to be indoors having a hot meal.”

“OK,” I say, “you can go rest your feet for awhile.”

She gives me a sweet smile.

The song on the jukebox is over. As Beth sits on a stool behind the counter, Hilda, the fry cook, walks out, pats Beth on the back and walks over to the jukebox. Hilda puts coins in the jukebox and presses a button. Now, George Jones is singing about a car or maybe a woman who was hotter than a two dollar pistol. George was always my mother’s favorite, but I never have thought he could sing worth a lick.

Hilda is almost the exact opposite of Beth. She’s heavy, has brown hair that’s going grey, and seems to have a perpetual scowl on her face. She’s a great cook, though, and I’ve known her for years.

“How’s the burger and fries, cowboy?” she asks. She looks even sadder than usual.

I give her a thumbs up.

“Best in the state!” I say and I mean it. ”How are you doing, old friend?”

“Thanks for the compliment, but next time, skip the old friend part! I see a new grey hair every time I look at a mirror!”

“Everything ok? You seem kind of sad.”

“Well, this week is ten years since Ollie…Well, you know.”

Yes, I do know, now that I think about it.

Ollie was Hilda’s boyfriend back in high school. Ollie and Hilda were seniors when I was a freshman. Back then, seniors and freshmen didn’t mix. Especially when the senior was a starter on the football team and had scholarship offers like Ollie did. For some reason, though, Ollie and Hilda took a liking to me. I was skinny and asthmatic as a fourteen year old and Ollie became a bodyguard of sorts for me.

Ten years ago, Ollie and the Bakersburg Bears took on the Gortnerville Giants down at O’Neal Field. The Bears won 48-6 and Ollie got five sacks and a bunch of tackles. I sat with Hilda and her little sister, Willa. Ollie and Willa had ideas about playing matchmaker for Willa and me.

After the game. The girls and I went out and sat in Hilda’s car and waited on Ollie in the parking lot, Hilda behind the wheel, Willand me in the back seat. After we had waited about an hour, we saw him lumbering toward us.

He climbed into the front passenger seat of the car and said, “Look, I know we was planning to go get pizza, but I really need you to take me home.” Usually, after a big win, he was joking and laughing, but he seemed really serious that night.

“OK, baby, whatever you want,” Hilda responded.

Usually, Ollie would turn the radio on or put a Lynrd Skynrd tape on, but we rode out to the country in silence that night. There was a sadness in that car that I couldn’t explain at the time. We were about halfway to Ollie’s house when Willa reached over and held my hand. She had never done that before and never did it again.

We got to Ollie’s place, an old farmhouse out in the country that had seen better days. Hilda pulled into the driveway and stopped. Ollie leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’d invite y’all in, but things are bad at my house now. Pop has started drinking again and he’s a mean drunk!” Ollie told us. Last words I ever heard him say.

Hilda grabbed his arm.

“Babe, why don’t you spend tonight at our house? We got that spare bedroom. Mommy wouldn’t mind.”

He shook his head, gave her another kiss, and pulled away. He got out of the car, trudged up the drive, onto, the porch, and went into the house.

Hilda shook her head.

“He’s worried about his mommy, poor guy! When old Amos Stout gets on a mean drunk, he slaps her around! Ollie told me he ain’t gonna stand by and watch it any more!”

The silence and sadness continued until they dropped me off at my place. When we arrived at home, I gave Willa’s hand a quick squeeze and, before I got out of the car, I felt that I had to say something.

“I’m sure Ollie will be alright. He’s really good at handling stuff.”

Both girls nodded.

We couldn’t have been more wrong about anything.

The next day, Sheriff Finley, who attended the same church that my family did, called Dad. Ollie’s father had shot him with a twelve gauge shotgun right through the heart about an hour after we had dropped him off. Amos had claimed that Ollie had attacked him for no good reason. That it had been self defense. The sheriff also said that Myra, Ollie’s mother had backed her husband’s story up-that it had been self defense.

There had been a coroner’s inquest. Hilda, Willa, and I all showed up and repeated what Ollie had told us that night. It didn’t help matters. Amos Stout died a mean drunk after a massive coronary on his own front porch two years later. Hilda has never married and, far as I know, has never even been on a date since then.

George Jones has stopped his country crooning and a new tune fills the air.

Angel of darkness is upon you

Stuck a needle in your arm (you fool, you)

So take another toke, have a blow for your nose

One more drink, fool, would drown you (hell yeah)

Ooh, that smell

Can't you smell that smell?

Ooh, that smell

The smell of death surrounds you

Hilda has selected that one. I didn’t see her do that, but it had to be her. She’s thinking of Ollie and that was his favorite song by his favorite band. I look around for Hilda. I really should say something nice to her, but I don’t see her. She probably went back into the kitchen.

Lightning flashes and the lights flicker for a second. A split second later, the door opens and a new customer enters. He’s a big man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He’s wearing a baseball cap with the logo of a trucking company and a windbreaker with the same logo. He’s dripping wet.

The big fella ambles in and takes the booth next to mine. He is situated so that we are facing one another. He looks at me and his face registers recognition. I know the feeling-there’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him right now. He nods at me and I return the gesture.

“You from around here?” I ask.

“Been here before,” he answers without really answering. “I know I’ve seen you before-you ever do any truck drivin’?”

I shake my head from side to side.

Beth pads over to him and hands him a menu.

“Here ya go, sir,” she says. “Excuse my bare feet. Been a long day.”

He grins at her. “No big deal, honey, I’ve seen toes before.”

He looks over the menu. “How about black coffee, vegetable soup and a grilled cheese?”

She scribbles down his order and scurries back to the kitchen.

Always order grilled cheese, the worst cook in the world can’t ruin that. Somebody used to tell me that. Who the heck used to always say that?

“You eat here very often?” the stranger asks me.

“I’m in here every Friday night,” I tell him, “I have a bad habit of getting into ruts.”

Too much information, I tell myself, but then, I add even more.

“The food’s pretty good. An old friend of mine does the cooking, and that waitress is darn cute.”

He grins.

“I noticed the waitress.”

He pulls a paper napkin out of the dispenser, takes his cap off, and wipes his forehead.

“Dang, what a lousy night!” he says.

I nod, not really sure if the remark was directed at me and finish my pie, then wash it down with a few gulps of Diet Coke. A few minutes later, Beth comes back with the stranger’s dinner. I look over to the counter. It’s kind of odd: Hilda usually comes out to get a look at any customer who comes in, but she’s staying back in the kitchen.

I nurse my drink. I should head home, but the rain isn’t letting up and I really don’t want to go out. My apartment is only two blocks away and I don’t need to get wet and catch a cold.

The stranger eats quickly. After only a few minutes, he waves for Beth. Stil barefoot, she walks over with his check. He glances at it.

“The prices are good, too, ain’t they?”

I nod. Cozy Corner is pretty cheap.

The big man puts his cap back on and lumbers to the counter. Usually, Hilda handles the cash register, but she’s staying back in the kitchen. Beth takes the man’s money and gives him his change. As the transaction takes place, I suddenly remember who gave me the advice about grilled cheese.

The big man heads toward the door. He stops by my table and shakes my hand. I can smell Brut after shave on him.

“Since you come in here a lot, keep an eye on her for me, alright?” he says. He’s looking me right in the eyes. My only thought is that the man who advised me about the grilled cheese always wore Brut. Always.

“You mean the waitress?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

He gives my hand a squeeze. Not a gentle one.

“You know who I mean, old buddy.”

With that, he releases my hand, drops a few dollars on his table for a tip, and strolls out into the rain.

“Ten years,” I mumble and finish my Diet Coke.