U.P. Reader -- Issue #2 (eBook)

Tales from the Busy Bee Café

by John Argeropoulos

Yianni knew that the filming of the courtroom scenes for Anatomy of a Murder would continue for at least another hour or two, yet he was needed elsewhere. He had to reluctantly close his notebook and relinquish his coveted balcony seat in order to get back to the restaurant where his parents relied on him during the evening rush hour. The filming was a magnet for everyone in the area, including Yianni, but he knew that he would soon be involved with characters and stories every bit as interesting. He covered the five blocks to the Busy Bee Café quickly and was relieved to discover that he was not late for the main event.

Like clockwork, all the regulars began to assemble for what is best described as a form of gustatory street theater. Karl Manheim, a local DJ and a high-strung loner by nature, was the first to arrive. He sought out his usual stool at the far end of the counter near the door. It was a puzzling place to sit for a person who has just emerged from the confines of a hectic studio job since it was situated directly across from the small radio that was always blaring.

Karl had no sooner placed his favorite order for baked ham and picked up the local paper than he became visibly agitated and began shouting, “That damn Bolero!” Only a handful of people knew the inside joke that was being perpetrated by Bill Thompson, his colleague at WDMJ radio, who fiendishly selected all of Karl’s most hated music for this time slot, knowing full well that Karl was a captive audience at the diner.

With uncanny timing, Ray Russo raced in, tossed his lunch bucket on the floor, and plopped down a couple stools away from Karl. In his characteristically obtuse manner, a mixture of natural ebullience and childlike innocence, Ray blurted out, “Is that Madame Butterfly?”

“Madame Nhu, you idiot!” scowled Karl.

The intended bullet missed its mark as Ray kept smiling blissfully, wondering aloud about how much things had changed since his Army days in Japan. The thought of it consumed him and Ray constantly talked of going back someday to find out. He had been saving every spare coin for that glorious day for the past three years, but he realized that it was just a dream and that it might never happen on the abysmally low wages he earned at the Cliffs Dow Chemical plant. He faithfully trekked the six mile roundtrip from his rooming house on Baraga Avenue every day, choosing to use the money saved on bus fares for his trip. Perhaps it was this motivation that propelled him with the speed that would be the envy of an Olympic race walker. “Race-Walker Ray” with the big smile and trusty lunch box was always a head turner on his way to work and back.

Lost in all the commotion was the “Bean Man,” who had unobtrusively edged his way toward a view of the specials listed on the handwritten chalkboard that served as a menu. Barney’s dress and demeanor never changed from visit to visit. A mousy-looking man with thick glasses, a floppy cap, and a long tattered coat to match his forlorn appearance, Barney’s focus was riveted on the chalkboard. If he spotted his obsession for home-baked beans, a trace of a smile would briefly betray his great joy and he would quickly sit down. If the object of his delight was not included, he would turn, crestfallen at his misfortune, and slink out the door. On occasion he might muster the courage to ask about the beans, hoping against hope that they might have been somehow overlooked, but on this day he disappeared without a word.

Not at all amused by any of these proceedings, Oscar was holding court at the other end of the counter. A tall, brawny, bald man with a booming, resonant voice, he always wore a white flannel long-sleeve shirt and baggy black trousers with big red suspenders. Oscar bellowed about the fact that chemicals had ruined the taste of everything, including his favorite brand of beer, and that chemicals would soon be the death of us all.

Charlie, who was seated next to Oscar on the end stool next to the kitchen and who worked at the sawmill where Oscar was the night watchman, simply stared straight ahead and shook his head from time to time. He knew better than to challenge Oscar’s ranting, but he also lacked the ability to speak beyond very simple statements about the weather or some other equally innocuous topic. Charlie would usually be the last customer to leave each night, often having spent hours drinking coffee and feeding the jukebox in an effort to forestall another lonely night at his shack on the south side of town. We all knew that he had been kicked out of school in the middle of the third grade for defying the school principal, Miss Macy, and that he never tried to return. His lot in life had been a series of low-paying, grueling jobs with little or no future, but he nonetheless exhibited a gentle quality and never whined about life’s unfairness.

A group of workmen from a highway construction job began to file in from Joe’s Tavern down the street. They always sat together at the same table and were a boisterous, fun-loving group of guys who liked their beer, good food, and tall tales as a way to banish their aches and pains. Most of the regulars tended to ignore them unless they happened to overhear a particularly funny story. Although they were usually loud, the workmen were mostly pretty well behaved and there was little reason for the regulars to interact with them. However, tonight there was an altercation that erupted so quickly and with such violence that everyone was stunned. It seems that one of them had a bit too much to drink and became engaged in a heated argument with a fellow at the next table, calling him a “jarhead.” With lightning speed and a maniacal look in his eyes, the ex-Marine jumped to his feet, picked up a chair, and slammed it into the head of the offender. Blood was spurting all over the stricken man’s face and shirt, some of it dripping down to the table and onto the floor.

What happened next caught most people by surprise. Everyone was bracing for some type of retaliation, but once it was determined that the wound was not life threatening, the group quickly decided to pay their bills and get out before any police showed up. Apparently this was not the first encounter between the two combatants and their friends were worried about possible jail time, which they hoped to avoid by taking their buddy to the emergency room and claiming that he had been injured on the job.

Tony, a local roofer who frequented the same bar, turned from his stool and laughed at the bedlam, saying that the jerk had it coming, and in fact was overdue for shooting his mouth off all the time. Nobody took issue with his comments and Tony resumed his meal, although he continued to mutter to himself about guys who couldn’t hold their liquor.

The ensuing lull provided a respite in the kitchen where Sam, the owner-cook had been scurrying to keep up with the onslaught of orders. His wife, Angela, who labored as his faithful partner, took the opportunity to get some of the dishes washed and asked their son, Yianni, to keep an eye on the needs of the dining room. Being immigrants from Greece, the couple often unconsciously lapsed into their mother tongue, when they encountered a stressful situation like the fight.

Early Settler - Grand Island

Sam and Angela’s comments were overheard by Max Geiger, who was seated at the back table nearest to the kitchen. Max did not take kindly to such talk, and he hollered, “Hey, talk American back there!”

Tony wheeled around on his stool and glared at Max. “You shut your mouth if you don’t want some of what the last guy got.”

Max’s fiery temperament had served him well during his days as a hockey player who liked to mix it up and excite the crowds at the Palestra, but then a freakish accident suffered while working in a warehouse ruined everything. A pile of pallets collapsed and threw him against a row of large storage barrels, severely injuring his right hip and knee, permanently robbing him of his ability to continue his hockey career. Perhaps even worse, the incident also deprived him of a natural outlet to vent some of his aggressive personality and this left Max vulnerable at times like this when his temper got out of control.

Max started to get up, his hand wrapped tightly around his cane that could have served as a club, but he thought better of it. He realized that he would be no match for the bull-necked roofer, even though Tony was obviously showing the effects of his ritual round of boilermakers at Joe’s.

Yianni glanced at his watch while refilling Charlie’s bottomless cup, noting that it was already past 7 p.m. On most nights the dinner trade would be winding down about now, but this was Friday night. Friday night was the big night of the week because the downtown merchants stayed open until nine o’clock. Hordes of town folks would come streaming in from all directions, creating a shopping and entertainment frenzy.

Among the customers who only appeared on Friday nights was Pete Splake, who predictably ordered his usual hot pork sandwich with extra gravy. Sam had spotted him come in and had already started to prepare the order. Yianni could rarely get a word out of him, but he was fascinated by the stories that he had heard over the years. Splake had a reputation for being able to live off the land as a trapper, hunter, and fisherman of almost mythical proportions. Not only did he know where the best fishing was, but he could...