I was travelling through Kansas on business. Have you ever been to one of those sleepy mid-west towns? You know — the ones where everyone knows everybody? It was late and I was in Hays City, dining in the only open restaurant I could find… eating cold fries. A floral aroma of urinal mints wrestled with the fragrance of spilled beer and cigarettes. Echoes of bowling balls rolling along varnished lanes and then colliding with wooden pins — almost hypnotized a thought.
“Would I get my hamburger before I finished these fries?”
A pair of bowling shoes suddenly plunked themselves on the counter right next to me; Lysol and stale feet were whisked in with those other smells rooming in my nose. My cherubic new friend smiled at me and lit a cigarette as he leaned forward and spoke to the cook.
“Hey, Tucker… Ya wanna make me a burger ta go?”
Tucker nodded, and in a flash, the meat (or whatever it was) was sizzling on a blackened grill. Now I knew Tucker’s name. I felt empowered and raised my hand meekly as if in a grade two math class.
“Hey, Tucker. How’s my burger doing?”
Tucker turned to me and, with the confident nonchalance of a man who’d already completed a great task, replied, “Your burger? It’s been ready for a while, mister. I have it warmin’ for ya.” He pointed to a dull red lamp nestled in a far corner. “Figured y’all wanna wait till ya finished your fries first. That’s the way people here eat ’em,” he grinned.
Then, he turned and pressed a metal spatula against a gray-seared patty with — what looked like — ALL his might. Fierce orange flames shot up high in the air.
I stared at Tucker’s back and blinked. “Sure,” I thought. “Why the heck would I want to eat my burger with my fries?” Tucker motioned to the petite waitress in a pink dress, and quickly, she walked over with my bun on a plate.
She wore lavender perfume and makeup fit for an opera star.
“Ya new in town? Whatcha y’all doin here?” her green eyes twinkled as she smiled.
I considered telling her the truth, “There was a screw-up at head office and I’m marooned here for a week.” But I didn’t, I smiled and replied the way typical movie folk would. “Just passin’ thru… yep. Just passin’ thru,” I was startin’ to sound just like them.
“Well… you’ll be wantin’ ta see the ‘old church’ before ya leave. It was built in 1867,” she beamed at me proudly.
“I have an hour for lunch tomorrow,” I thought. “Maybe I can squeeze in a visit to that church.” I took a bite outta my cold burger. I could also spend an hour looking for a better place to eat. My cherubic new friend grabbed his wrapped burger off the counter and, with that hand holdin’ those shoes — waved goodbye to me. It was too late to block my nose. I reached for a fry and waved back at him.
The waitress in a pink dress kept eyin’ me and smilin’ as she went table to table with a brown rag — wipin’ them. Someone bowled a strike, and people began yellin’ and hollerin’. Tucker smiled and waved to a group of women as they passed. And come to think of it, I don’t recall seein’ one person who’d ever frowned the whole time I’d been in that town. They sure were a happy bunch. It must be the kinda place that grows on ya. I knew one thing — most folks ate somewhere else.
Tucker trudged to the men’s room.
The waitress in a pink dress shimmied up to me, smiling a sly smile. “Ya know, Thursdays… we got naked bowling. It’s lotsa fun! And… I don’t know why y’all wanna eat here. It’s my night off tomorrow, and if ya want, I can show you where I go. It’s way better, and they serve ribs.”
I looked down at my cold gray burger and limp, greasy fries and then back into her sparkling green eyes. I love ribs — but what’s that thing she said about ‘naked bowling‘ on Thursdays? It was Tuesday… I guess I’d come back. What else was there to do in a small town?
* … I wonder if naked bowling is a thing in Montreal… *