“Waffle House, After Dark”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Insomnia.

After being pushed into early retirement by health issues, two years ago, I surrendered a normal sleep pattern along with career goals and a typical life routine. Suddenly, I was floating free, like a lost asteroid in the cosmos. But instead of inciting fear, these developments were liberating. Living off-schedule meant that the unpredictable flow of creative ideas was something I could now embrace with the glee of an artist.

Such thoughts were on my mind recently, as I woke to find that the digital clock on my kitchen stove read 1:20 a.m., with bold, merciless defiance. Suddenly, I wanted coffee. And, breakfast. A full moon peered through the overcast sky, and into my window. I felt a burst of inspiration. The cover of night offered a respite from personal habits. For example, leaving the house dressed in a stained, wrinkled shirt and athletic pants of the style worn by Ricky during episodes of ‘Trailer Park Boys.’ Normally, I would not slip away, half-dressed and unprepared for the outside world. But the lunar light blessed this sin.

My destination was clear – the Waffle House in Austinburg.

A quick inventory confirmed that necessary tools were on hand. Cane, Jim Beam Poker Tournament cap, hoodie, cell phone, keys. My truck was ready, in the driveway. I piloted the F-150 eastward, through Rock Creek. Then, north on Route 45. Few other drivers shared my journey. There were no deer crossing the road. The night was cool and crisp. An authentic breath of fall. Good for my overactive blood pressure.

I streamed a Phil Hendrie netcast on my iPhone, for entertainment along the way.

The trucker haven was deserted when I arrived. Being mid-week and off-season, late stragglers from the local bars were few. I took a seat at the counter and looked around for someone on duty. After a minute, one lone waitress appeared from the cooler. Her red hair was pulled into a ponytail, slipped through the back of her uniform hat. She looked tired, and pale. But her smile warmed the air.

“Rod?” she chirped.

I blinked for clearer vision. It was a woman from one of my retail stores, before arthritis and debilitated joints ended my journey in business management.

“Rosita?” I said with a hint of disbelief.

“I haven’t seen you in months,” she exclaimed. “Did you find a girlfriend who knows how to cook? Or just decide to visit more expensive places after dark?”

I chortled with amusement. “Not that fortunate, no. And I don’t like expensive places.”

“So, then… what?” she laughed, while filling a mug with coffee.

I patted the handle of my cane. “It’s hard to walk. I stay at home a lot, drinking beer and writing stories. Tonight, though, I wanted to get out for a couple hours. I have become claustrophobic, you know?”

“Still writing?” she quizzed. “That’s good. You need to stay busy.”

“It’s strange to be off the merry-go-round,” I confessed. “My dreams often lead back to work. Running the store, building displays, waiting on customers. Arguing with the other managers...”

“You were good at that!” she recalled.

My face reddened a bit. “I longed for this kind of opportunity. To write full-time. To escape the ‘black hole of retail.’ To no longer be swirling around the drain, waiting to disappear, forever. But it ended too quickly. I wasn’t ready.”

“What about your hip? And your knees?” she wondered aloud.

“No health insurance right now,” I answered. “Not for almost another year.”

“Rodddddd!” she cried. “There has to be an option out there.”

I shrugged while pausing in between gulps of go-juice. “No idea. Everyone has turned me down for assistance. I was lucky to get disability.”

“I thought health benefits came with that!” she said.

“After two years,” I replied. “Then I have to surrender a good chunk of my check every month, and still cover 20 percent of the remaining bills. That is the conundrum that has driven my younger brother into bankruptcy.”

“The truck driver?” she asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“I see people in here all the time who get everything covered,” she scolded. “Even with changing jobs or being unemployed. How do they get it done?”

“No idea,” I confessed. “They must know the system.”

Rosita fumbled with a stack of dishes. “You could work here. Not a far walk from one end of the counter to the other. You are good with people!”

My belly shook with laughter. “I’d eat all the profits. All of your country ham and hash browns. And cheesy grits!”

She paused with a pot of fresh coffee.”They used to say that you’d be managing Giant Eagle from a wheelchair. Rolling around the store like a Dalek on Doctor Who. I figured you would be working into your 70’s.”

My stomach hurt. “So did I...”

“But, you’re happy now?” she pondered.

“Yes,” I proclaimed. “Living in my tin box, with the Black Lab. He is an old dog now, with white whiskers on his chin. I’m up all night writing, then sleeping throughout the day. Or whenever I want. Drinking Labatt Blue on the porch. Messaging with other writers and media types on Facebook. No more struggling to maintain my work image. I report to no one.”

“I hated the store after you left,” she admitted. “Your replacement went down in flames. He got demoted and the next one quit. Then the one after that and the one after that...”

I shrugged again. “Sorry, not sorry. You know?”

She nodded with satisfaction. “Anyway, good for you, getting out. Good for you, doing your writing thing. Good for you, staying in touch with people like me. So... how about breakfast?”

“Yes, please!” I cheered. “Ham, eggs and grits!”

Postscript: While driving home to Thompson, after my meal, I pondered a book idea from years ago. The tale of a man exploring America in a vintage pickup. Searching for peace after the death of his brother, who had been an over-the-road trucker. A story of middle-aged angst and renewal. I had waited for years to work on the project. But needs and responsibilities always blocked my path.

Now there was only the road ahead, with the promise of a new day waiting to be savored, like my coffee at the Waffle House.

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