When I aged out of the system, I left with two trash bags full of clothes and no real plan.
I ended up in that town because rent was cheap and nobody asked questions.
I worked terrible jobs for even worse bosses just to keep my head above water.
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner, and surprisingly, I liked it right away.
Joe hired me because one of his waitresses quit during a breakfast rush, and I happened to walk in asking if he needed help.
He looked me up and down and asked,
“You ever carried three plates at once?”
I answered honestly.
“No.”
He shrugged.
“You got ten minutes to learn.”
That was Joe — blunt, intimidating, built like a refrigerator, and somehow still one of the more decent people I’d ever met.
At the end of long shifts, he’d shove a burger and fries at me and grumble,
“Eat before you pass out and make extra paperwork for me.”
Sometimes after closing, I stayed behind helping wipe counters while he complained about suppliers, food costs, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs “medium-medium-well.”
And every Tuesday and Thursday morning at exactly eight o’clock, Mrs. Rhode walked through the diner doors.
Mrs. Rhode
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
“James,” she said. “You look tired enough to collapse into my waffle.”
“Long week.”
She snorted.
“Try being 85.”
That was our introduction.
After that, she always asked for me.
One morning she said,
“You ever smile, son?”
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
Another morning she glanced at me and announced,
“Your hair looks worse every time I see you.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Hm. Better. You sound almost alive today.”
She was difficult in a way that somehow became charming once you got used to her.
I never saw her act sweet, but she paid attention to people. That counts for more than most people realize.
One afternoon, I was carrying groceries home when she called to me from behind her fence.
“You live nearby, James?”
I stopped.
“Couple houses down.”
She studied me for a moment.
“Hmm. You want to make some decent money, son?”
I froze.
“Doing what?”
She opened her front door and motioned me over.
“Come help me. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain everything over some tea.”
Inside, she poured me tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to the point.
“I’m dying,” she said.
I nearly choked on the tea.
