They’s a ol’ war horse in here that’s a kick.
Good Java, too.
The truck pulls up.
Two men in khaki riding trousers, boots, short jackets, and shiny-visored military caps.
Screen door—slam.
H’ya, Mae?
Well, if it ain’t Big Bill the Rat!
When’d you get back on this run?
Week ago.
The other man puts a nickel in the phonograph, watches the disk slip free and the turntable rise up under it.
Bing Crosby’s voice—golden.
“Thanks for the memory, of sunburn at the shore—You might have been a headache, but you never were a bore —” And the truck driver sings for Mae’s ears, you might have been a haddock but you never was a whore—
Mae laughs.
Who’s ya frien’, Bill?
New on this run, ain’t he?
The other puts a nickel in the slot machine, wins four slugs, and puts them back.
Walks to the counter.
Well, what’s it gonna be?
Oh, cup a Java.
Kinda pie ya got?
Banana cream, pineapple cream, chocolate cream—an’ apple.
Make it apple.
Wait—Kind is that big thick one?
Mae lifts it out and sniffs it.
Banana cream.
Cut off a hunk; make it a big hunk.
Man at the slot machine says, Two all around.
Two it is.
Seen any new etchin’s lately, Bill?
Well, here’s one.
Now, you be careful front of a lady.
Oh, this ain’t bad.
Little kid comes in late ta school.
Teacher says,
“Why ya late?”
Kid says,
“Had a take a heifer down—get ’er bred.”
Teacher says,
“Couldn’t your ol’ man do it?”
Kid says,
“Sure he could, but not as good as the bull.”
Mae squeaks with laughter, harsh screeching laughter.
Al, slicing onions carefully on a board, looks up and smiles, and then looks down again.
Truck drivers, that’s the stuff.
Gonna leave a quarter each for Mae.
Fifteen cents for pie an’ coffee an’ a dime for Mae.
An’ they ain’t tryin’ to make her, neither.
Sitting together on the stools, spoons sticking up out of the coffee mugs.
Passing the time of day.
And Al, rubbing down his griddle, listening but making no comment.