Hobos and Hotcakes, audio short story

read & recorded by DLKeur for The Deepening, copyright 2009 DLKeur, All Rights Reserved.

Hobos and Hotcakes

by Elizabeth Brenaman
© Copyright 2007 Elizabeth Brenaman, all rights reserved.
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For the hearing impaired, here is the audio transcript

Coming to you from The Deepening, my name is Dawn.

Today I’m reading a short story by Elizabeth Brenaman called Hobos and Hotcakes.

Elizabeth “Liz” Brenaman writes about life…and death…and what’s in between. She writes about people – the good ones and the bad ones. In this short story, Elizabeth shows us humanity… love, compassion, and understanding.

You can find Liz on the Net at PSEUDABLEBLISS.blogspot.com. That’s P-S-E-U-D-A-B-L-E-B-L-I-S-S dot BLOGSPOT dot com. And you can always find her on The Deepening.

Now, here’s Hobos and Hotcakes by Elizabeth Brenaman.

———

I look into Gramp’s rheumy eyes and brush my fingers across his papery cheek. His skin warms my fingers as his effort at a smile warms my heart.

“Morning, Sunshine,” I whisper, using his old nickname for me. I was fourteen the last time I heard it. I spent that summer with Gram and Gramp, so I could work at Gramp’s little restaurant, Jack and Jill’s. That was twenty-two years ago.

“You’re still here, Beth Ann?”

“Still here.”

I keep my voice soft. There remains a stillness in this room, a solitude in its vigil, despite the many people who mill in and out every day to pay homage to the frail man on the bed ” this tired, miniature version of my grandpa.

“You should be home with the kids.”

“They’re downstairs with Gram. It’s Saturday.”

“Is it? Can’t keep track anymore,” he rasps. My heart clenches, and my throat constricts, but I smile at him.

Gramp smiles back and closes his eyes. I lift the old comforter and check his medicine box, the tube stabbing into his stick-thin arm, which still glows the deep mahogany of his Cherokee ancestors. This sickness cannot erase it any more than invaders could two centuries ago. “Are you comfortable?” I ask him. It’s a stupid question.

Gramp nods.

“Want me to read some more?”

Gramp shakes his head.

“Okay.” I replace the comforter, tucking it up to his shoulders, smoothing it with my hands.

As I sink onto the soft chair next to the bed, the smell of Gramp’s hotcakes, hot oil and sizzling sugar, wafts into the room, only now it’s Gram frying them. I close my eyes. The scent, a time machine, transports me, and I am fourteen again…

At 7:02 a.m., the bell on the door jingles. I adjust my apron for the hundredth time and whip my head toward the sound. My first customers! Gramp laughs out loud at my nervousness, and I crack a big smile. In the reflection on the silver countertop, I catch a glimpse of my crooked front tooth and clamp my mouth shut.

Gramp tousles my hair and waves me toward the table. “Go on, now, Sunshine, you’ve got customers.”

On impulse, I give him a hug. His sea-green apron, flecked with bits of egg and ancient grease spots, smells like syrup. Turning from him, I approach the two women at the table, holding my order pad and pen in front of me like a badge of honor. I recognize both ” afternoon regulars, Betty and Sharon. The grip in my chest loosens.

I take a deep breath and let it out. “Welcome to Jack and Jill’s, can I take your order?” My voice squeaks a little, but not too bad. The women smile. I turn toward the counter, but Gramp isn’t there.

Betty says, “Well hello there! Are you a new waitress?”

“Yes.” Heat crawls into my cheeks, but my chest swells with pride.

“We’ll both have coffee to start,” says Sharon.

I scribble on the pad and turn, taking a few steps away from the table. Then, I slap my forehead and turn back. “Coming right up!” I tell them, a little too loudly.

Both women grin their encouragement.

At the counter, I pick up two ceramic mugs. I know where everything is; I spent many an afternoon here helping behind the counter. The restaurant looks a little different, a little grungier, with the morning sunshine streaming in the big east-facing windows, but to me, it’s beautiful. From the green and white speckled Formica table tops to the ugly, orange, hanging lamps, I love every inch of this place.

While I pour the steaming coffee, the bell over the door jingles again. I look up and frown. Three men walk toward the counter. All sport disheveled, dirty hair, rumpled, filthy clothes, and not more than twelve teeth between them. A formidable wake of sour whiskey and grime blows in behind them.

“Uh…um…”

Gramp walks up behind me and, with his usual boisterous cheer, says, “Hi fellas. I want you to meet my granddaughter, Beth Ann.”

One man holds out a calloused hand. Black, greasy dirt cakes the creases and nail beds. He grins hugely and his breath hits me. I turn to Gramp. He watches me, but says nothing.

“Uh…hi.”

“Beth Ann. Bob’s told us all about you. You gonna be here the whole summer?”

Staring at his army-green coat sleeve, I nod.

“What a helper you are!”

“Beth Ann, this is Bud,” Gramp says, waving toward the army-green coat guy, “and this is Rex, and this is Mr. Butterfield.”

Rex and Mr. Butterfield push toward the counter, bumping Bud out of the way with good-natured shoves. Rex holds out a brown-baked hand. His nails, surprisingly, are clean, but the rest of him isn’t. Mr. Butterfield is rather chunky, for a homeless guy, and as I take in his bloodshot green eyes and bright red hair, I wonder how my Grandpa knows these men.

“Beth Ann, why don’t you drop the coffee off to Betty and Sharon and set up three plates of hotcakes. Extra butter.”

“Okay, Gramp.” With a doubtful glance over my shoulder, I take the coffee to the women, write down their order, and head toward the kitchen. Halfway across the restaurant floor, I stop in my tracks and my jaw drops open wide.

Bud, Rex, and Mr. Butterfield have removed their shoes and are handing them over the counter to Gramp. Horrified, I watch as Gramp gingerly carries them through the side door to the kitchen line. The three derelicts climb, skuzzy, tattered socks and all, onto the barstools at the counter and begin to sip steaming mugs of coffee.

With a sharp scowl on my face, I walk toward the kitchen where I find Gramp setting three huge pairs of wasted shoes on a box near the back door.

“Gramps, what are you doing?”

“Buying myself some shoes,” Gramp says, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“What? What do you want with those disgusting…things?” One pair wasn’t even a match.

“That’s my business. You go on out there, get six dollars out of the register, and give two dollars to each of them.”

“What? They can’t stay in here without shoes! That’s…that’s…it’s against the law.” Jack and Jill’s, in downtown Omaha, sits nestled in between skyscrapers and old museums near the river. Surely, one of the many policemen who stroll up and down the sidewalk will look in and see the three grotesque men on the stools with no shoes and arrest them…or do something.

“Just do as I say. Pay the men for these shoes. I’ll get the hotcakes.”

I hang Betty and Sharon’s order on the rack and head back to the counter. My nose curls at the strong stink of never-bathed feet in crispy socks. I don’t often doubt my Gramp, but this is one of those occasions. With a nervous glance at Betty and Sharon, who don’t seem to notice anything amiss, I pull the money from the register and pass it around.

“Well, ain’t ya gonna take our order?” Bud asks, even though he heard Gramp say he was making hotcakes.

“Uh…yeah.” I produce my pad and pen and look at them, one eyebrow raised.

“Hotcakes,” all three say together.

“Your grandpa makes the best hotcakes in the city,” Mr. Butterfield says.

I nod. I have to agree with him there. I write down their order and return to the kitchen. The cackly, raspy laughter of the men follows me.

I hang the order on the rack, even though Grandpa has three plates of brown and yellow hotcakes drenched in butter already made up and waiting for me. He’s busy scraping the women’s hash browns across the griddle, but he puts down his spatula.

“What do those men look like to you, Beth Ann?” he asks.

I squirm under Gramp’s gaze. He seems to expect something from me, but I don’t know what it is. “Hobos,” I answer.

“Yes. They are homeless.” Gramp motions to the set of chairs by the cooler where I do my homework during the school year. We sit. “Would it surprise you to know that ten years ago, Mr. Butterfield was doctor?”

My eyes fly open wider, and I nod.

“His wife and two daughters died in a car accident 9 years ago. Rex, his parents were both alcoholics. He never had a chance. Dropped out of school at thirteen. Bud, he’s been back from Vietnam two years. Before he left, he was a twenty-one year old with a fiancé.”

I stare at my Gramp. “But that would make him not even thirty yet.”

“He’s twenty-five.” I look agog. I would have sworn he was fifty.

“Beth Ann, these are people. Just like you and me. They live, they laugh, some of them love.” He tousles my hair. “You remember that. Now go serve their hotcakes.”

I return to the counter quiet, subdued, watching Bud, Rex, and Mr. Butterfield with new eyes. I take the plates of hotcakes off the heavy tray and pass them out. The men groan in pleasure. I wonder if it’s the only thing they’ll eat today. It must be.

Gramp visits them between orders. When they’re finished, I ring up their breakfasts and they leave, each on socked feet, with syrup sticky beards and seventy-five cents change. I wonder if they’ll buy alcohol with it, then admonish myself. Would I really begrudge them that small comfort? An hour ago, I would have. Not now.

Throughout the day, as I run in and out of the kitchen, my eyes fall again and again on the shoes by the kitchen door. In the back of my mind, I worry about Bud, Rex, and Mr. Butterfield out there under that bridge by the river with no shoes. I wonder how my Gramp could”ve taken one of the few things these men own. I wonder what they’ll have to sell tomorrow to get something to eat. But, through the hustle and bustle of a waitress’s day, I don’t have much more time to think about it.

Gram picks me up at lunch time and I spend the afternoon with her. She remarks on how uncharacteristically quiet I am, but I don’t speak of it. I’m not sure what I feel. I just keep seeing those shoes. Gram drops me off at Jack and Jill’s to run the dinner crowd.

At the end of the evening, while Gramp prints the register, I approach him. He writes something in a ledger and turns. “Beth Ann, you’re a good waitress. All the customers said so. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Gramp.” I pull out my wad of tips, thirty-one dollars in all, and hold it up to Gramp. “Can I give these to Bud and Rex and Mr. Butterfield?”

Gramp stares at me a moment. He clears his throat. I think I see a tear, but he turns when he answers. “No, Beth Ann. They wouldn’t want that. I think it’s wonderful of you, but men want to keep their dignity, even when they have trouble keeping everything else. Thank you, Sunshine, but you keep your tips.”

I watch Gramp’s back as he busies himself straightening napkin holders. I wait, but he says no more. “Okay, Gramp. Um…what do you want me to do with their shoes?”

When Gramp turns around, he’s smiling again. “Just set them outside the back door.”

“What? You’re just going to throw them away?”

“No.”

“What if someone steals them?”

Gramp gives me a look.

I blush. “You’re throwing them away?”

“No, Sunshine. Bud, Rex, and Mr. Butterfield will be around later tonight. They’ll pick them up off the back step.”

I think about this for awhile, then, with a big smile, I ask, “Will they be back for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yep. Every weekday morning.”

***

A knock at the bedroom door summons me from the past. “Come in,” I call softly.

The door opens and a very old man shuffles in. “Well, Beth Ann. I was hoping to see you.”

Confused, I look into the man’s face. His hair and beard are white. With a tickle in my stomach, I notice a few streaks of red. The man’s clothes are old-fashioned, but clean and not wrinkled. I look at his shoes. They’re in good repair, and they match. I look up into his green eyes, and a rush of joy swells in my chest. My eyes fill with tears. I stand and hug him. “Mr. Butterfield,” I croak, sniffling. “How are you?”

From the bed, Gramp’s soft, whispery voice comes. “Hey there, Mr. Butterfield. Bev’s making hotcakes downstairs. I can smell them. Hers are almost as good as mine.”

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That was Hobos and Hotcakes by Elizabeth “Liz” Brenaman, and I’m Dawn, coming to you from The Deepening, on the Net at w-w-w-dot-the-deepening-dot-com. Thank you for listening.