Ramblings and Ruminations

Prompt: Band

I chose a Waffle House about 40 miles away for the meet. I wanted a public place where we would be anonymous. Just two faces in a crowded diner.

They are ubiquitous, so it wasn't hard to find one near the antique car show that I was going to shoot that morning.

My name is Tom. I am a freelance photographer. A friend who publishes an online magazine called "Guns and Motors" called me the other day and asked if I had plans to attend the car rally. He wanted some pictures of a particular Bugatti and offered to buy three to six of them from me if "they were good enough." That is about as close a commitment as you get these days.

I told him the pictures would be top-notch, but I couldn't guarantee the quality of the restoration job on the Bugatti. There is only so much I can do in photoshop.

So now that I had an excuse to be out of town, I pulled a scrap of paper from my desk drawer and went out to the back porch. Written on the paper was a phone number.

Following instructions, I let the call ring three times and hung up. I did it again. Then I waited.

Five minutes later, my phone rang. I answered.

"No names," the voice cautioned. "I assume you need a specialist."

"Yes," I told him. I waited. I didn't know the protocol.

"Where and when?"

I was confused. "For the job?"

"No, you idiot. For the interview."

I told him about the Waffle House, described what I would be wearing, and hung up.

I almost didn't go that morning. But I did, getting there twenty minutes early for the meet. I grabbed a corner booth and ordered coffee.

He arrived on time and came directly to the booth. "Spotted you right away," he told me, indicating the red rubber band I was wearing on my wrist.

I started to tell him what I needed but he held up a hand. "I'm the specialist, right? I only do one thing, but I do it exceptionally well. Breakfast first. Then business."

Another reason I chose Waffle House was for their All Star Special. It is a huge platter, featuring eggs, waffles, toast, hashbrowns served a half-dozen different ways, and a choice of meats. I ordered my eggs up, my hashbrowns scattered, covered, and capped, wheat toast, and double bacon.

Our waitress refilled our coffee cups and told us the food would be right up.

It didn't take long to arrive. The plate she set in front of me held two egg whites, poached, and wheat toast with no butter. I stared at it with resignation.

"You're Tom, right?" the waitress asked me. "Brown fedora, red rubber band on wrist?"

I just nodded.

"Sorry honey, your wife called. Said if I gave you the All Star, you would likely croak right here in the booth. She said to remind you to take your pills."

The specialist pushed his plate away, suddenly nervous. "You are right. You need real help, but I can't help ya. I am not even in the same league as her. Sorry buddy." He left.

I sighed and took a bite of toast.