Chapter 3 – The Diner
I
had just walked down the steps of the First United Methodist church in Kildeer,
Illinois. Kildeer is a picturesque little town of about four thousand
approximately a half hour drive from Chicago. It looks like an advertisement
for the American dream. Several parks and lakes, lots of trees. My Dad
relocated us a couple of years ago from Wichita, Kansas. He worked at an
ammunition plant that produced smokeless power and propellants. The plant was
opened at the beginning of World Ward II. My Dad got tired of factory work and
decided to follow his dream of owning and operating his own restaurant.
The
Methodist Church where my group met was only eight blocks away from dad’s
dream, Larue’s Diner. I was surprised to see Clara waiting for me when I walked
out of the side door. She was leaning on her bicycle and smoking a cigarette.
Clara waved at me.
“So,
how was the mental marathon today?” She looked around for an appropriate place
to grind out her cigarette. Seeing none, she put it out on the side of the
church. I made a face. The cig made a black dot on the old brick church wall.
“Don’t
tell Fenton.” She said in a voice of feigned terror.
Clara
knew Fenton from her high school days. Even though I had only known Fenton a few weeks, she was correct in his anticipated reaction to her littering and defacing the church. Fenton’s anxiety would have triggered a
stern lecture directed at both of us. Even though she was the culprit, I would
have received hell as well. Guilt by association. Clara told me that Fenton had once tackled another high school student and sat on him for spray painting ‘Stop the
Viet Nam War’ on the side of a parked police car in front of the high school.
Fenton
had then hit the graffiti artist on the side of his head with his physics textbook. The artist was dazed and confused by the time the local police returned. Both Fenton
and the artist got their picture in the local school newspaper. The artist did seven
weeks of public service around the high school.
After that, Fenton
was a local hero at Adeli E. Stevenson High for a while. Fame wore off several years ago but Fenton would still
go on a rant about how disrespectful the graffiti artist was. The peculiar thing
was that he didn’t disagree with the message. Fenton was a liberal democrat who
intended to help vote Nixon out of office. What bothered Fenton the most was that
the artist had misspelled ‘Viet Nam’.
“So
where is Fenton?” Clara asked.
“He
needed to visit with Dr. Knivens about something. He’ll meet us there later.” I
replied. Fenton had started to become a third wheel (fifth if you counted
Clara’s bicycle) ever since we had begun dating. Although I hadn’t spent a lot
of time with her, my family liked her and we had fallen into a pattern of eating
lunch at the diner after my group therapy sessions. Fenton had invited himself to lunch with us pimarily because there was something at the diner that had attracted his attention.
“So,
any juicy stories today.” Clara batted her eyelashes at me.
“You
know I can’t talk too much about what the guys say in group.”
“Aw,
come on.”
“We’ll,
I did get to see a bullet hole scar today.”
“A
what?” Clara giggled. She shook her short brown pixy-cut hair.
“Bullet
hole. This guy in my group was a street cop in Chicago, see. He was talking about getting
shot while chasing down an armed robber. When he showed me the scar, he said it
was a .38 caliber bullet.”
“Um,
where was this?” Clara started giggling again.
“On
his side. Left side, I think.” I said, looking a bit clueless.
“No,
where were you when he showed it to you?”
“In
the men’s bathroom on the second floor of the church…OH!” I suddenly realized
that the story might have sounded strange to her.
“Jaxon,
ew…just keep it to yourself.” She was suppressing laughter. Her
lips were tightly pursed and her head stated to rock back and forth slightly.
“Hey,
it’s not like that…I mean.” I fell silent. She finally burst into laughter.
“Hey,
it wasn’t like that, and you know it!” She continued to laugh at my frustration.
I opted not to tell her that he told me I could touch the hole it if I wanted. I decided
I was glad that I didn’t try to touch it and quickly left the restroom. I chased after her as
she deftly wheeled her bike down the street.
When
I caught up to her, she asked, “Did he show you his gun too? I'll bet it was enormous.”
“No
damn it.” My face was beet red.
“Just
asking.” She snickered and then gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
“I’m
never going to hear the end of this, am I?” I said forlornly.
“We’ll
see.” She smiled again.
* * *
The
bell above the diner door jingled as we walked inside, shaking off
the humidity and heat of September. Clara waited for small and wiry me to hold the door open
with awkward gallantry. She rumpled
her short hair unselfconsciously as if she was trying to work the breeze from
the air conditioner by the counter into her skull.
The
smell of bacon cooking and strong coffee wrapped around us. A jukebox in the
corner was playing Mark Lindsay’s voice singing the song Arizona. Heads turned
briefly on stools and booths. I waved at Phil Gering, a local auto mechanic.
He waved back.
The
diner itself was a patchwork of vinyl and chrome. The linoleum floors looked a
bit dull from years of footwork. My father Harvey had bought the business
several years ago, but the diner itself was thirty years old, built at the end
of World War II.
“What
have you two been up to?” My older sister Lisa greeted us in a pink
uniform and apron.
Clara
took a menu. “Oh, nothing much. Jax made a new friend today after group
therapy.” I reexperienced the embarrassment of the bullet hole story all over
again. My sister saw my cheeks flush and I stared down at the table. She
wisely chose to ignore the reaction and instead said, “Well, you will have to
tell me about it sometime when I’m not so busy. Now what are you two going to
have this afternoon?”
As we ordered Fenton Cox ambled into the diner. He moved as if he was a stranger in an
exotic foreign land, which was often how he entered the establishment. He did a
double-take when the bell over the door chimed and approached our booth. Somewhat reassured that there were two friendly faces he recognized, he plopped down wearing a heavy beige sweater. Fenton was
on the spectrum, as some psychologist would later say. He functioned at a very
high level but sometimes was overwhelmed by novelty in the environment.
“Hi
Fenton.” Lisa said with a seductive edge in her voice. “What can I get you today?”
He snatched up the menu that Lisa handed him, flipped it open and then closed
it so fast that I thought it was a sleight-of-hand trick. Clara snorted with
laughter.
“I’ll
have the usual.” He said quietly.
“Thought
so.” She sashayed back to the counter to give the order to my dad, who was the
cook during the afternoon most days. The usual for Fenton was two eggs fried and five links of sausage. None of the sausages could touch each other. From the serving counter to our table, my dad and Lisa were the only team in town that could pull this off. Fenton gave them five stars.
Fenton
stared at my sister's butt from our table. “God, your sister is hot!”
Why
don’t you say it a little louder. My father is right over there!” I pointed. My
dad saw me and thought I was waving at him. He waved back.
“Why
don’t you ask her out?” implored Clara.
“I
want to, but I freeze up.” Fenton said in a monotone.
“I
could coach you.” She volunteered.
“Lord,
what would that look like?” I teased her. She turned around and punched me on
the shoulder. “Quiet, bullet hole boy.”
“What?”
Fenton muttered. “Did I miss something?”
“Why
were you late today, young man?” Clara interrogated Fenton playfully.
“Oh,
I noticed something in group today that was a rule infraction. You know what Dr. Knivens told us. If we saw something we needed to say something. So, I did
“What
did you see?” Clara and I said simultaneously.
“One
of the members had a gun in group this morning.” Fenton said while spinning a
glass ashtray around.
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