How Best to Avoid Dying (2 page)

“P-O-L-Y-W-O-M-A-C-K. Polywomack.”

“That is correct.”

The crowd gives a hoot. Wilma is a crowd favorite. She dresses right, smiles right, spells right. Cute and competent.
I hate her. Me, I'm all spell. I get up, I spell. End of story. No show, no pretty dress, no little waves. Just give me the word and get out of my way. Coach says I could learn from Wilma, learn to use the positive vibes of the crowd to feed my head. But I don't need them. I'm a badass speller. B-A-D-A-S-S.

Shaka stands and shuffles to the microphone looking like she might shatter into a hundred pieces. She is shy as hell. Afraid of all those eyes she can't see. She'd probably be the champ if she weren't so afraid all the time. She rocks the in-class scrimmages, but the pressure of the real thing, the crowd, the Pit, all get to her.

“Your word is
clematises
.”

“
Clematises
?” Her voice breaks a little. She's going to choke. Better here than in the Bee for Oil Reserves of Canada.

“C…” she takes a long pause, likes she's frozen. “L?” Oh, this bad. The Pit opens just a crack below her feet. She's trembling something awful. “E…” she squeaks it out. The Pit crack opens a little more. We can smell it, see the heat is rising out of it. The crowd must be on the edge of their seats. “M-A-T…” The crack beneath her spreads, she's got a foot on either side, her legs making a giant upside down V. There's a trickle of pee running down her leg. That's awful. Just awful. “I-S-E…” Come on, Shaka. Finish it up. “S. Clematises.”

“That is correct.” The crowd cheers. The Pit closes. Shaka bites her lips and starts to cry a little. Jesus, she looks bad. So she has another week, but after pissing myself in front of a billion people I think I'd rather the Pit.

Then it's me. I walk to the Spot. I don't think about the Pit, or Peter, or Wilma's dress, or Shaka's pee, or anything. I just wait for the word.

“Your word is
ebullient
.”

Easy peasy. I guess they like me. “A…”

Oh, God. It's not A. It's E.

Oh, God. I can't go back. “B…” What do I do? Once I'm done spelling the Pit opens. Do I spell the rest of
ebullient
or do I spell some other word? Do I spell the right word wrong or the wrong word right? Oh, man. “A-L…” I glance behind me. All the spellers know. No one is smiling, not even Wilma. “I-E-N…” You know who doesn't know? The crowd. They have to wait on some wrong bell to tell them how to spell. Man. The letters are getting furry. “A-T-E.”

“Bing!”

The Pit opens under me and I fall, but my pants snag on a corner, and I'm hanging head down. I see the crowd through the window. All staring at me with egg eyes. Their faces are paste. My pants start to tear, I drop down a few inches. From above I hear Shaka wailing. Below me in dark I can see the wet eyes of a hundred pigs. I can hear them crawling on each other. I'll be falling soon. My pants rip a little more. I wish this moment would last forever.

WAFFLE

No matter the city, no matter the state, the smell is there to greet me. The thick scent of bacon and coffee and batter. No matter where I am, Waffle House smells like home.

I arrive at 3:23
AM
.

“Good morning,” the waitresses and cook say.

NOTE: GREETING COULD USE MORE VERVE. FLOOR AT ENTRANCE STICKY
.

Store #AZ254 sits just off of Interstate 10 on the outskirts of Phoenix. It's the last one I'll see this far west. I'm driving to my daughter's house in San Diego. No Waffle Houses there. Only sugar-soaked IHOPs and God-forsaken Denny's.

I sit down at the second to last booth in the non-smoking section.

N
OTE: BLINDS NEED DUSTING
. C
ASA DE WAFFLE HOT SAUCE ECLIPSED BY A.1. SAUCE
. S
YRUP CONTAINER NEEDS TOPPING UP
.

Habits die hard. For thirty-four years I was a Waffle House secret inspector. In fact, I was the top secret inspector. I traveled to every Waffle House in the nation and trained hundreds of others. My unofficial title was Über-Inspector. But then my wife died and I suddenly grew old and they asked me to retire. That was six months ago, but my eyes still catch it all. The batter crust on the menu, the cracked tile three from the register, the radio playing instead of the jukebox. Minor infractions. Nothing I'd report to the main office. Just notes for the manger in my report. I would never meet him. He can never know my face. Secrecy is key. I used to take notes with a pen the size of a toothpick on a notepad the size of a credit card. But I've turned in my tiny pen and pad. Still, I can't help but think what I
would
have written.

N
OTE: WAITRESS
“H
ILLARY
.” S
HIRT STAINED AND UNTUCKED
. P
ANTS RUMPLED
.

Hillary is obese. Very obese. The front roll of her belly rests on my table. Her hair is an unnatural red, heated coil red. It sticks out from her scalp like wires. She is wearing makeup, but she is not wearing it well. It looks as if it has been applied in the dark by a drunk child.

I don't judge people based on physical beauty. But Hillary is unclean and that's a bad trait for a food server. She also has a problem with mucus. She places a glass of water down and drags her flabby, wet nostrils along her uniform's sleeve. I'm disgusted, but my face reveals nothing. I am a spy.

“Anything to drink?” she asks. Her voice is pleasant enough. Softer than I'd expected.

“I'll have a decaf coffee, please.” Under the table I press start on my stopwatch. The beverage should reach the customer
within a minute and a half. Add an extra fifteen seconds if the order is hot cocoa.

I watch Hillary clop back behind the counter. And stop. Not stop to help a customer or wipe the counter or reshuffle the sweeteners. No, Hillary just stops and leans against the counter, nearly snapping a menu holder. She gazes up at the ceiling and sways slightly to the radio. A minute passes. No decaf. A minute and a half. She's still swaying. Three minutes. I tap the table. At five minutes I stop my watch. Sometime later Hillary blinks, brushes some of her head wires, and returns to my table.

“You know what you want to eat?”

“I haven't received my coffee yet.”

“You want coffee?”

“Decaf.”

She swivels around and heads back. She looks tempted to stop again, but doesn't.

As in every Waffle House, there are two distinct coffee pots. Black handle for regular. Orange handle for decaffeinated. Hillary grabs the black handle, pours a cup and returns to my table.

“Is that decaf?” I ask.

She nods.

“Because I'm allergic to caffeine and if it's not decaf my heart will explode and I will die.”

“I'm allergic to walnuts.”

My hands twitch.

“Any thing to eat?” she asks. I order the All-Star Special.

“Stumpy,” she yells. “We need an ASS.”

Stumpy, a short black cook hovering over the grill, raises his hand, which isn't there. In place of the hand is a spatula
duct-taped to the stump. I watch him. He's fast. He's good. I relax and sip my coffee. I'm not really allergic to caffeine. Just that the doctor recommends I give it up. My heart is not what it was. Had an incident a month back. Couldn't move my arms for two days. So good to taste real coffee again. Oh lord, I used to drink coffee. Black, full-fledged coffee. On the road for weeks at a time, sitting in Waffle Houses like this one, downing coffee and thinking out comments like proverbs.

A
W
.
H
.
IS ONLY AS STRONG AS ITS
4:30
AM HASHBROWNS
.

I
F A WAITRON DOESN
'
T CARE ABOUT THE WAFFLE
,
HOW CAN THEY EXPECT A CUSTOMER TO CARE ABOUT THE WAFFLE
?

ENCOURAGE SMILES
.
THEY
'
RE MORE POWERFUL THAN SALT
.

Waffle Houses are magic. Eclectic gatherings. It's a quarter till four and look at these wanderers who have found each other. The drunk stewing at the counter, the Hispanic couple cooing in booth three, the teenagers daring each other to French kiss spoonfuls of ketchup. This is life. This is America. And I'm leaving it all behind.

My daughter has a room waiting for me in San Diego.

“Come on Dad, we want to have you.”

“I'm fine on my own.”

“Dad, Mom's not there to take care of you and you're not a healthy man.”

“I'm fine.”

Wendy should have had kids. Instead she and her Hamilton jet-setted around the globe until her womb dried up. Her mother told her, “If you don't start soon, you'll be too old to enjoy them.” But for Wendy it was always, “We're enjoying each other right now. Give us some time.” No one could have guessed her womb had the shelf life of a peach. She cried on the phone when
the doctor told her. Called up, asked to speak to her mother, and wept for forty-five minutes. And now she wants me to play baby.

The All-Star Special includes two eggs, one waffle, four strips of bacon, grits, and toast. It should arrive at the table in six to nine minutes. Stumpy prepares a plate in seven minutes and thirty-four seconds. Well done, Stumpy. Hillary brings it to the table—not careless, but clumsy. As she walks the eggs slide into the grits, but she's trying and she's smiling. I'll give her that, she smiles.

Runny eggs, soft waffle, shiny bacon. I'm happy. I like Waffle Houses to work. I like to write
STELLAR
at the top of my report. I like the basics to be covered so a store can go deeper. Moving beyond “Was the water glass refilled?” to “What was the true motivation of the waiter pouring the water?”

I enjoy every bite, saving the waffle for last. I'm ready to add the perfect amount of Whipped Spread and syrup and gobble it up while it's still hot, but when I open up my tub of Whipped Spread I find an unpleasant surprise.

N
OTE: MELTED SPREAD
.

It's a tub of yellow liquid, little white globs floating like scum in an over-used hotel hot tub. I motion for Hillary, who is staring at the air. She sees me and waddles over.

“More coffee?” she asks.

“Can I have another tub of butter? This one is melted.” Notice I call it butter. All part of the disguise. Anyone who knows Waffle House knows the Whipped Spread is about as close to butter as Alabama is to Asia. Personally, I prefer the spread. Perfect for waffles.

Hillary is on her way back to my table with a fresh tub when the phone rings. She squeals and hops to the phone. It's the fastest I've seen her move since I arrived.

“Hello, Waffle House,” she says. She nods, then covers the mouthpiece. “Stumpy, it's the radio people again.”

“Oh, my,” says Stumpy, turning from his half-grilled hash browns. The drunk at the counter gives a loud whoop.

“They want to know the phrase that pays.”

My waffle is cooling.

“I don't know any phrases,” Stumpy shrugs.

“We don't know any phrases,” Hillary says into the phone. I touch my waffle. Definitely cooling. Hillary nods some more, uttering “a-huh” with each drop of her chin. My last waffle before San Diego is getting cold. I am about to stand and retrieve my own spread when she hangs up and skips over to my table. She hands me my tub and gives the sweetest little curtsy. My anger vanishes and I smile.

“Radio people?” I ask.

“They've been calling us for the past hour. It's their morning show.”

“It's four
AM
.”

“They start real early.”

“Is it the station we're listening to?”

“Yep, yep, yep.”

“Why didn't we hear you?”

She looks at me with what I can only presume is some kind of pity. “They pre-record it,” she says.

I nod and return to my waffle. I open my new spread and find it too is liquid.

“Excuse me,” I grab Hillary by the sleeve. “This is also melted.”

“Yeah,” she frowns. “We keep them by the grill.” She walks away.

Funny. When Hillary frowned she had the slightest resemblance to my wife. Very slight. My wife wasn't as big, my wife
had nearly perfect teeth, my wife was always carefully groomed, but she was a redhead. Hair like a sunset. Rich red when we met, mellowing as the years passed, yellows sneaking in and finally a light shade of blue over orange. I was out of town when she died. The cable man found her in the garden. I miss her.

Hillary comes by and takes my half-eaten waffle. I don't stop her.

How did my skin get so spotted? So loose? It's dying on my bones.

“Anything else?”

I look up. Hillary is waiting, doodling on her pad. I take a deep breath. “Yes, please,” I say. My last meal at a Waffle House. It needs the perfect ending. “A hot slice of apple pie and a cold scoop of vanilla ice cream.”