Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Eighteen

We sat in a booth toward the back, and for a moment, we were each in our own world. Waiting for coffee is sometimes like that: a breather before the jolt of joe kicks your ass.

She was looking at the people in the place, which at an establishment like Mitchell's, could be a full-time job. There are always characters to look at. Like Connie, the waitress who's been working here for twenty years and refuses to acknowledge she's gained thirty pounds by wearing the uniform she's had since the day she started.

Then there are some regulars: Neil, who always wears white, and Bob, who wears nothing but black, two sixty-year-old gentlemen who've lived together since Connie started working there. They tend to sit on the same side of booth number four whenever they come in.

As she observed all this, I gazed out at the light snow that was falling. Although my stomach remained in battle with its acids and other self-produced bile, the world seemed peaceful and serene. There's something about the snow that makes everything seem a little more quiet, a little more safe.

Although she was sitting across from me, I couldn't seem to stop thinking about Kate as though she weren't there. I pictured her in slow motion as I replayed a few minutes before, when she took off her wool cap, shook her hair out, and gave me a crooked smile as I held the door for her.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said mockingly. My trance was terminated.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You'll give me a penny for my thoughts?"

"Not enough?"

"Well, it depends. How much will you get for my thoughts?"

"Very good, Sam."

Connie threw down the coffee, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and was ready to take our order. "What's your pleasure, kids?"

"Ya know Connie, we haven't even looked at the menu yet."

"Hell, Sam, who needs to look at the menu? You've only been here three hundred times."

"Nonetheless ..."

"Oh, hey. I heard about Ben. I'm really sorry." I nodded my reply. "He always knew what he wanted. Didn't never ask for no menu. Meatloaf, gravy, and a side of pineapple. Didn't matter if it was morning or night. Meatloaf, gravy, and a side of pineapple."

"That's probably what killed him," I joked.

The silence in the air said to me that this was one of those moments that people just let go by with no comment.

"How 'bout I give you a few," Connie broke the silence.

"That's okay, I know what I'd like, Connie," Kate said. "Meatloaf, gravy, and a side of pineapple."

"Bold choice," I said.

"Come on, big shot, you ain't the only table in the joint. You know what you want or what?"

"All right, give me a cup of the clam chowder."

"That's it? You wasted my time for a cup of clam chowder?"

"Jesus, Connie. All right, make it a bowl ..." She kept looking at me. "And ... a bagel ... with cream cheese?"

By the way she grabbed the menus and jiggled away, I assumed we were done ordering.

"Never a dull moment," I said, as I cupped the coffee mug with my cold hands.

The fact that Kate played with the salt and pepper shakers led me to believe she was nervous, which made me feel a whole lot better. It was nice to see that cool, calm, collected shield start to break away.

"Sam, the more I talk to Lisa and other people who knew Ben—and the more I hang around you and see that everyone seemed to know him and love him—I see a man who touched and made a difference in a lot of lives." She leaned forward as she got more intentional in her speech. "As opposed to lumping Ben in with this other piece I'm working on, it makes me think maybe there's a story just about Ben. Of course I'd need to run it past my editor."

I looked at her, thinking, "Does this girl ever quit?"

"Did you want me to comment on that?"

"Sure."

"No comment," I said.

"It was only a matter of time, but the asshole has returned," Kate said as she leaned back in the booth and folded her arms.

"Kate, you're like a fucking mosquito flying around the room, dive-bombing my ear, bugging the shit out of me because I can't catch you."

"A mosquito, I'm touched." Melvin, the busboy with a huge case of acne, came by and filled our water glasses and freshened our coffees.

"All I'm saying is give me a fucking break. I don't want to talk about Ben yet. Give me a couple days."

"I need something solid, Sam. Give me a time, a date."

I ran my hands through my hair, placed my elbows on the table, and planted my chin in my hands. In some strange way, she was forcing me to make a commitment, the very thing I despised in relationships. Liz knew this well. Now, I was being asked to set a date to face a lot of potential grief.

"How can you write about a musician when you don't know a thing about music?"

"Why do you keep assuming I don't know anything about music?"

"Biggest clue? I'm playing 'Waltz for Debby'—"

"Who's Debby?"

"It's the title of the song I was playing ..."

"Oh."

"... when you tapped me on the shoulder, expecting me to stop everything and talk."

"Well, no one was listening, and you had you're eyes closed. Hell, I thought you were trying to remember how the song went or something."

"I was in the moment."

"Yeah, that's what I heard ... I know music. I know that there is no one named Led Zeppelin or Jethro Tull."

"That's just great. How about naming the original drummer for the Modern Jazz Quartet? Connie Kay or Kenny Clarke?"

"I'm sure this is fun for you, Sam. But I'm sick of playing games. I'm persistent because I'm a good writer. If you want to help me, fine. Let's set up a time to talk. If you don't want to help me, just tell me and I'll quit bugging you."

"Here ya go, hon. Dig in," Connie said as she slid the meatloaf plate to Kate. Melvin followed close behind with my soup and bagel. "Enjoy."