Looking for Answers

4

 The two were sitting at the kitchen table. Mugs was on his third cup of strong black coffee. Ian sat with cookies and a soda can in front of him. Between the two was the photo of Mugs, a strapping young man in his uniform.

Mugs was sitting back in his chair, relaxed and in a good mood. Ian was stuffing his face with his sixth cookie. Mugs took no notice.

"I'll tell you," Mugs began, "the town I grew up in was already dying a good hundred years before I was born. Opportunities for anyone back then were nil to zero."

Ian bobbled his head once in a while. It kept Mugs happy to think the boy was actually listening.

"Cleating Wythepenny owned the Greasy Spoon Cafe. Place lived up to its name. I say he owned it, but he had an old lady who worked in the back in the kitchen. Vestin Rucker, her name was. Not big as a minute, but that wench sure could put the fear of God into me."

Mugs chuckled.

"Even as a kid, I decided I wasn't cut out for farming. I persuaded my uncle to let me try my hand at public work. So, I applied as chief bottle washer and busboy at the Spoon. Cleating loved to hunt and run his dogs. He had what you might call 'a hands-off approach' to running the cafe. Turned the whole kit 'n kaboodle over to Vestin as far as the daily operations were concerned. As long as the nickels and dimes rolled into the till, Cleating was happy."

Ian studied the plate of cookies in front of him. The pile had seriously shrank. He vaguely wondered how many more his stomach could take before rebelling. He decided to leave the cookies alone and concentrate on the soda pop. There was still three-quarters of a can turning flat and warm as Mugs rattled on.

"The work wasn't that hard. I mean, in a town like ours, a place like that wasn't exactly crawling with customers. I'd told Vestin about keeping the grease out of the drains, and she told me to mind my own beeswax. Sure enough, one day I heard her call out the sink was clogged."

Mugs poured himself another cup, blew it cool, and slurped it down.

"Anyway, I was up front bussing tables. I dropped what I was doing and went to the toilet and retrieved the plunger. You gotta understand, boy, Cleating had made these big monster metal sinks, side by side, in the cafe's kitchen. I don't know what kind of rush he was ever expecting, but those twin babies were huge. Sure 'nuff, one of them was full of murky gray soup that was just too slimy and disgusting for words. I asked Vestin if she'd slaughtered a whole hog in the thing. Not a smart move by the look she shot me in return."

Mugs picked up a cookie and turned it over. Apparently, it failed inspection. He put it back on the plate.

"Anyway, I got to work. I worked that plunger over that clogged drain like I was making butter in a churn. I mean to tell you, kid, I worked up a sweat. That gray crap was splashing the ceiling and me and everything else, but I finally broke the clog loose, and the sludge started draining out of that sink.

It was then I noticed a large lump in the far corner of the sink. I asked Vestin if she wanted me to throw it away."

Mugs was chuckling.

"Naw, she said. That's a ham. I'm soakin' it for tomorrow."

Ian burst out laughing.

"I know," said Mugs. "Like I said, I was young. But I was big. I looked older than my true age. I walked right out that door and thumbed a ride into the next town. Twenty-five miles away. Told them I was of age and enlisted. Just like that. Off to see the world and out of that nasty cafe."

"What 'cha do?" Ian asked. "In the war, I mean."

Mugs peered over the glasses that were always perched on the end of his long nose.

"That, sonny boy," he said, "is top secret."