HOWARD JOHNSON’S

Late 1970s

Why did I lie? Why did I tell Muñeca I had 17 years experience? I screwed-up Annie’s Orphan’s orders so badly and made them so late they had to call the theater to hold the curtain.

I’m sure to get fired. I hope I at least make it until closing time. That’s when they feed the staff.

A single lady walks in and slides onto a stool on my otherwise empty counter.

She’s 75 maybe. Black felt skull cap. Shoulder-length silvery blond hair. Large square sunglasses. Gray leather gloves. No…white leather gloves, sooty and soiled. Threadbare shawl over expensive black jacket, an odor of decaying elegance.

She takes up two stools, one for her, one for her bag. I don’t know why, but it bothers me. I playfully tease her.

“Saving that for someone?”

Startled she blurts out: “No. I am alone. Always alone.”

“Be that as it may,” I say, “Good evening.”

“You have your opinion. I have mine.”

Bit of an accent. German? Swiss?

“So how are we, tonight?”

She snaps to seated attention. Shoulders back/chin high. Like someone just shouted “Action!”

“I’m cold.”

More a regal announcement than a plea for warmth.

“I wish for something hot to drink.”

“Oh. Okay. Coffee?”

“Too common.”

“Tea?”

“No. American tea is nothing but sawdust floating in lukewarm water.”

Her immediate needs are not being met and it’s pissing her off. I’m not playing this right.

“Oh, I know,” I blurt, “How about our Hot Chocolate? It’s quite good. I just had a cup.”

Her lips move imperceptibly. I can’t read her. Is she attempting to convince herself to take the Hot Chocolate? Or is she quelling a revolt of her dentures?She slides off her sunglasses. Her pale-blue, stained-glass eyes are upon me. I can practically see the cataracts shifting.

“Well?” she says.

I know that tone. I believe she might be Catholic. Possibly a nun

“Hot! Chocolate!!” an exasperated demand.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay…with the Hot Chocolate, Ma’am!”

Momentarily satisfied, she slowly removes her gloves. Finger by finger. Taking her time for emphasis, or because they’re really old and hard to slip off? She snaps the left one off and waves me away with it.

I get to work.

Hot chocolate is a breeze. All I have to do is press the red button on the Hot Chocolate Machine and remember to put a cup under the spigot.

I place the cup under the spigot.

A moment passes.

Another one.

We’re now at thirty-seconds…

“Hot Chocolate?” she says.

“It’s coming.”

Dear Lord, I forgot to press the red button. I press the red button. The Hot Chocolate machine shudders and whirs and spits cocoa powder.

The lady impatiently presses a twig-like finger against her lips.

The machine stops. It has miraculously produced a foamy, creamy cup of steamy hot chocolate. I place the cup on a saucer. Add a spoon…

“Whipped cream?” I say.

She nods.

I hope it means, Of course!

I Reddi-Wip her cup, heaping it high, place it in front of her

“Enjoy!”

“Enjoy what?”

I point to her cup.

“How do you expect me to “enjoy” when you hold back the cream?” She throws her head back and hits me with: “You stupid boy…”

I grab and hold firm the back of her head and shove the nozzle of the Reddi-Wip can up her nose and squeeze 16 ounces of fake whipped cream into her brain

But no, I don’t.

Instead I top off her cup. She regards the heap of whipped cream with dis-belief. She holds out a defiant spoon and bangs it against the Reddi-Wip can.

What the fuck? What is she doing?

She bangs her spoon against the Reddi-Wip can again. But this time it’s a rapid assault.

Clank Clank Clank

I get it and squirt a heaping dollop of whipped cream onto her spoon.

She jams the spoon into her mouth.

Swallows without savoring.

Then she leans over, open-mouthed, and in one ugly gulp, sucks up all the whipped cream that sits atop her hot chocolate. She sits back, picks up her cup, holds it like she was the dowager in a Russian novel.

Is that a raised pinkie I see?

She manages a tiny sip and laps at her lower lip with a pointy tongue.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I say.

“I do not need convincing.”

Not letting things go has always been one of my major bugaboos.

I say, “Are you okay? I mean you seem a bit angry. And sad.”

Long pause. Her lips are moving again. Like she’s trying to remember her lines. She downs her hot chocolate.

“Where is my check. I must go.”

I quickly write-up and place the check in front of her on the counter. She drops a couple of bucks on the check, gathers her things, stands, and without looking at me, says, “I am not ‘okay’”

Linda, the short snotty waitress with the big head returns from break, smelling like a menthol cigarette. She spots my Lady walking towards the exit.

“Ah, you waited on the queen.”

“Yeah.”

“She looks pissed.”

“I asked if she was ‘okay.’”

“She’s not, you know.”

Linda leans in and whispers: “She thinks she’s Greta Garbo.”

My lady stops in the foyer. She looks in my direction, decides I don’t matter, then exits through the heavy glass doors.

Outside on the street, she stands still for a moment, fixes her hair, looks around, makes a decision, and walks north.