| Another easy one. Another restaurant. Joe got down his book of clip-art, whistling something he’d heard on the radio coming in. He usually didn’t listen to the rock stuff – he didn’t belong to him, it seemed. There wasn’t any music he felt was his, at least like the way the teens in the movies had music of their own. But this song was catchy and he wanted to hear it again. He’d kept his radio on all morning waiting for it. Why such a good mood? ‘Cause she laughed. I caught half the sneeze with my hand, she ducked the rest, and then she cracked up and said you should see your expression! He actually leaned over to look in the side of the chrome napkin holder, trying to hold his face still. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. "Go home, get some soup in you," Jane said. And she patted his hand and thanked him and left. He hadn't thought clearly about anything ever since. But this was work, and duty called. He looked at the order: THE CORNER. Requested copy: Fine food and Homemade Pie. Address: U.S. 6 and 331, Bremer. He looked at the bid: nothing custom here. Joe flipped through the book for the right piece; #297 would do. Yes, #297 spoke to him today. He checked his notes to see if he’d used DIFFERENT TOUCH for anyone else in the area. Nope. Free and clear. He wondered what they were doing at the Corner right now. He imagined an intersection in the middle of flat Indiana. No stop sign. A cluster of highway signs on a pole. A black X on a stick in the ditch to mark the spot where someone threw his car off the road and got speared by the steering column. An empty tree. Maybe a car every five miles. Inside it would be warm and spare and plain; a jukebox against the wall, probably. (Silent until the afternoon - if some transient approached it with a coin during the designated hangover time, the regulars probably warned him off with stares and glares.) Well-worn wooden booths with coathooks. A counter with a pie display. It would still smell like breakfast. Mid-morning lull – one guy at the counter drinking coffee, maybe a traveling salesman in a booth doing paperwork. Joe imagined his father in his good brown suit, hat on the hook, grip underneath the table so the waitress wouldn’t trip on it, one of his stubby cigars idling in the ashtray. He saw his dad slip a matchbook in his pocket to take home to his son for his collection. Joe remembered a day after the funeral, when his father had said he could have his brother’s stuff. Matchbooks too? Sure. I suppose. After that he never brought anything home from his trips again. What color for the place with the different touch? Green? No. He drummed his fingers on the desk, thought a moment. Then he picked up the phone, got an operator, and asked her to dial The Corner in Bremen, Indiana. Certainly sir. A dozen clicks, a ring, two rings. “Corner.” “Yes. Do you see a man in the corner booth? About middle-aged?” “We don’t have any booths. Tables. What's his name?” “Sorry. You see him? I’d like to talk to him if I could.” “Hold on.” And then she did what Joe had hoped she’d do: she laid the phone down. He heard the distant life of the Corner through the thin copper line: almost silent. A song on the radio in the kitchen. A brief crash, probably silverware. Someone coughed. He listened for a minute, then hung up. Yellow. It sounded like a place that needed some yellow. He checked the clock: close to eleven. An hour to lunch. And he started to whistle again. Was this the song he'd heard on the radio? Probably not. Who cared? |
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