Gator Springs Gazette


		GATOR SPRINGS GAZETTE a literary journal of the fictional persuasion

WALKING ON A MOVING TRAIN

(page seven)

LUNCH AT WOOLWORTH'S
Judy Cabito

We had met on Monday at the lunch counter, cheery voices and clanking dishes folded around us. He had asked me to pass the salt. I obliged, and in handing it over I noticed his hand. Long strong fingers, I thought pianist. I took a quick look at the sleeve of his tweed jacket; the white cuff of his crisp shirt showed, neat and clean. I summed up businessman. I looked at his chest. Alabaster buttons. Expensive. Should I look at his face, I considered; yes, but I didn't dare and a sudden flush of shyness left me timid. He left before I could change my mind, and I felt cut from our beginning relationship. When I left, a mother and her child took our seats.

The following Monday he was at the counter again, in his usual seat. I waited so I could sit on the stool next to him. I waited for him to say, hello. But he didn't. Finally I ask him for the catsup. He slid it over. I held the bottle in my hands considering what to do with it, without food. Silly girl. I ordered the Three-Alarm Chili and worked up to a conversation.

"Hot sauce?" It came the same way as the catsup, perhaps a little faster across the glitter-embedded Formica counter. He left before my chili arrived. The mother and child from the week before sat down. The child between us stared and stared, I had felt uncomfortable so I left, leaving my chili untouched.

On Monday he was there again. My chance. So I waited to sit next to him. I waited and waited. Behind me, people brushed past.

"There's a seat, lady," a man said. But I waited.

"Are you a crazy lady?" that little girl asked walking by with her mother. I looked down at her, glaring-hard. Horrid little child I thought. When I looked up he was gone.

"Isn't that what you were waiting for?" the hostess said pointing to the stool my lover had just vacated.

I stomped around for a week, kicking anything I could find. Leaves, newspapers, cans, I pulled back at the last moment before kicking my neighbor's dog. I slammed drawers and doors. I tossed pillows and books across the room. How could he, I thought, how could he leave like that before saying hello? He knew I'd be there. He knew I'd want a napkin or a menu this time. He left me without as much as a simple goodbye. Well! Good riddance, I thought.

Monday came and went, and he didn't show. I took no chance. I waited across the street at the Astor Hotel. Every day at 11:30 am for two hours I watched the revolving door spin with people. That mother and horrid little girl flew out. She saw me and yanked on her mother's sleeve and pointed my way. I ducked behind the doorman. I could hear her across the street.

"I saw her, I saw her, that crazy lady, mummy, I saw her."

Horrid child.

For five weeks I watched for him, but he never showed. He was gone.

I took to having Lunch at Woolworth's everyday; I sat in his stool. I'd order a Patty-Melt. I don't like Patty-Melts, but it was one of his favorites. I'd pour catsup over it and eat it proudly. One day when the waitress wasn't watching I slipped the saltshaker, a remembrance of our times together, into my purse.

I heard that horrid little girl say, "She put the salt into her purse. I saw her mummy, I saw her."

I spun around and there she and her mother stood waiting to be seated. I thought strangulation would be too quick. I rushed from the counter, pushing my way through the crowd onto the street, tears welling up in my eyes, that horrid child, that horrid child I was screaming when he and I slammed into each other-face-to-face.

"Excuse me," he said.

After weeks of disappearing that's all he had to say? We would need to talk. I turned and followed him-back to Woolworth's. How could I go inside? That horrid child was there, spoiling everything. But I couldn't risk losing him after all this time.

Inside I took the seat next to him; the waitress said to me, "Hungry?"

I ignored her and asked him to pass the salt.

"Ah waitress, can you get the lady here some salt?"

Behind us came that horrid child's voice, "Why don't you ask her? Ask her for the salt, right mummy? He should ask her for the salt." She continued her prattle as her "mummy" dragged her out of Woolworth's. "She's a crazy lady, isn't she mummy? Crazy lady, crazy lady, crazy lady. She's a crazy lady who steals salt. Crazy lady, crazy lady, crazy lady, crazy lady, crazy lady, crazy lady..."

I turned around and found him eyeballing me, his arm stretched out, he wanted my attention, finally. "Yes?"

"The salt."

Judy considers herself a West Coaster, if there is such a thing. She has pursued many activities, including work, sports and leisure, but writing is what keeps her alive. She loves to talk but has found listening to be more interesting.

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