Carla :: Barley’s :: Jan. 2004
If I had to listen to those old guys sing “New York, New York,” one more time, I was pretty sure the day would be doomed.
I want to wake up, in the city that doesn’t sleep..
In fact, I had cursed myself.
This place attracted more “Breakfast Choir Clubs,” than I could count. The past week had been jam-packed with everyone from the Bowling Team to the Retired Teachers of Scranton Elementary. Who knew something like this even existed?
Most of the time, I didn’t mind it. They stayed for hours, left good tips, and were fun and usually funny. Sometimes the singing was even pretty okay. But others..
And find I’m king of the hill!
..Were more than I had bargained for.
Growing up, I always went to Barley’s for breakfast. They had killer omelets and amazing hash brown potatoes. Then, I was only concerned with getting a good meal-- now, I was on the flip side of that.
College and work didn’t really seem to balance each other out, so I started taking the early, early breakfast shift with afternoon classes at the local university a half-hour away.
This meant four AM mornings and eight PM bedtimes and not a whole lot of room for a social life. Unless, of course, you counted the eighty-year-old men I socialized with on a daily basis.
“Carlie!” one of my regulars, Frank, exclaimed.
“Oh, man. Frank. Where’s the rest of the gang today?” I said, pausing for effect, knowing full well he always came by himself.
“Left ‘em in the car, who needs ‘em anyways? Sweetheart, you think you could get me something besides coffee today?”
Seeing this guy was one of the reasons my mind was willing to go into diner mode at such an ungodly hour.
“Sure thing. What can I get you?” I asked, actually kind of curious of what he’d say.
“Real coffee, like freshly brewed. None of this instant crap you guys always serve me. I haven’t got that much time left and I might as well live it up!”
I laughed with him and went and poured him the same coffee I always did. He never complained.
“Carlie! More decaf?”
“Carlie! Extra sugar packets?”
“Carlita! Toast?”
“Carmen! French toast AND toast?”
It never phased me, this constant cycle of wrong names and sometimes grumpy old men.
You can’t have one without the other..
A fresh crop of young guys, a rarity in this place, walked in and shuffled their way to the biggest booth in the place.
“Snazzy selection, Sinatra on a Saturday sunrise, huh?” I told them, my way of a greeting. “Who can I bring coffee? Orange juice?”
A bunch of them shrugged of jackets and placed knit hats on the table with mismatching gloves. I wondered who was dressing some of these kids.
Kids. What was I, forty?
“Coffee,” the first guy said. And round-robin it went-- totaling with four orange juices and three coffees in all.
“Carlotta,” Frank said as I passed him on my way with the huge tray of drinks. “Copying my name and doing Sinatra today, I see.”
He looked out at the Choir Club from the top of his newspaper. I laughed and said, “Only because they’re jealous you have one of the greatest names of all time.”
I topped of his cup with fresh coffee and went back to the booth.
“Okay, let’s see here,” I began, kicking in with my memorization tricks as to who got what.
Striped sweater, OJ. Red hair, coffee. Sheepish smile, OJ with ice.. and on it went.
“Orders. What can I get you all?” I asked, drawing my well-loved pen from my apron and scribbling furiously as they rattled off what they wanted faster than anything I’d ever seen. Usually people around here were used to taking their time.
I came back with steaming plates of eggs and pancakes and sausage. This is what got me into trouble.
I placed each one with its appropriate bill. I did everything correctly, didn’t miss a beat. I refilled everyone’s drinks to their heart’s content. This is where it got awkward.
The guy at the head of the table had four eggs over easy with rye toast and home fries and sausage. When I put down the small plate of meat, the other guy said, “Man, those sausages are bigger than I expected.”
The guy (sheepish smile) got a look like he couldn’t help himself.
“That’s what she said.”
The whole table burst out laughing, and I left with three empty metal carrying platters and a laugh that they seemed to spot without even seeing my face.
Sheepish smile piped up and called after me. “Oh, God. Wait, no. Um, I didn’t mean you. I’m sorry.”
I turned on the heels of my feet, pretending to be a little offended even though I wasn’t. I sure as hell had heard a lot worse.
“Well, I don’t know if I can forgive you. But I’ll tell you what, you can still eat here,” I said with a mischievous smile.
“Good. Thanks. And sorry again.”
“Yes. Well. They’re on a roll today, with the Sinatra. So enjoy the show.”
“Hey, I will.”
“If you don’t get kicked out.”
All of his buddies were too busy eating and chewing noisily to notice that he was blushing a little bit. At least I had spared him that.
Warbling voices filling up the restaurant reminded me I had other customers, that this nice change of pace was only a one time thing. Back to what I knew best, Frank Sinatra and Frank in table two by the window.
I went back to check on the guys about fifteen minutes later for drinks. Surprisingly, almost everyone was already finished. Inhaled everything, gone. Wasn’t used to this either.
Striped sweater and sheepish smile were sort of whispering about something, or rather talking about something in a manner I was not supposed to hear. It got a little testy when I came to take their plates.
“No,” Sheepish smile said to Sweater.
“Come on,” Sweater said. “Is Little Jimmy afraid?”
“Shut up, Mark,” Jim said, clocking his arm and almost visibly upset.
“Just trying to help,” Mark replied. “You know Pam’s never going to--”
“Okay. Fine.”
Next time I came back, Jim asked me for my number. I actually got nervous and double-checked the sequence of the last four digits. I couldn’t believe that my own phone number was slipping my mind. I signed it with my real name, and that was Carla, not Cariann.
After they all left, I went back and sat down with Frank. It was fully light out by then, and the Choir Club was dwindling down to their last two songs.
“What do you suppose a bunch of young guys like them were doing here so early?” Frank asked me as I fiddled with sugar packets and sighed out loud.
“Something about a road trip. To a concert I think. They were taking two cars.”
“Well, hell if I know where that will get them. Nothing but trouble.”
Frank showed me the Saturday comics and I just stared at them thinking about Jim and how funny he was.
He never did call.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Jim and his friends out for breakfast :)
Chapter End Notes:
thanks for reading!
