Strangers and Other Regulars.

One of my earliest life lessons, one I can still put a date to, came when I was nine years old. Unlike those often learned by young children, this lesson was not taught to me out of discipline. Rather, I was served truths. They were cold and raw, and made me feel awful. But from this lesson came a warmer feeling: the sense that I understood our human condition.

No one deserves to be alone.

It was early '81 and I'd just celebrated my birthday. That birthday had been one of my lesser enjoyed occasions, since Pap was busy working and I'd missed him. If you lived in my town during the eighties, you'd have likely known my Pap. He had a homemade ice-melt formula that cleared the roads like something magic, and he sold it from his hardware store off Main St for cheap. In the winter months, it made him so much money that it nearly tripled the income he made otherwise. But it did mean that I hardly ever saw him. Even that morning, having only just ordered breakfast, Pap rushed off to call somebody. He'd taken me to my favourite diner before school as a peace offering for his absence. I appreciated the thought, but the execution had been lame.

Looking across the table, I noticed Pap had left his dimes for the jukebox. I knew he'd be mad if I went and picked without him, so I didn't touch the coins, but they reminded me to have a flick through the songs. My head had barely lifted before I noticed, and then I stopped - but not in time. I was now at a crossroads of wanting to ball up and become invisible, but not wanting to move in case the act itself had the opposite effect. Mike Roth was not somebody whose attention you wanted to draw. He'd stepped in moments before and commanded the whole room without saying a word; without anybody even seeming as though they'd noticed. But they had, of course they had.

The story of Mike Roth goes way beyond my years, yet it was gospel even in childhood. People talked about the Roth family's farm, their beautifully kept acres and their sheep-shearing shows. Kids wore their mittens and newborn babies were swathed in their blankets. But Mike's Uncle had been a very poorly man, and one day something must've finally given because he killed himself. He had taken a gun to an entire pen of his own sheep first, and it was rumoured that he also threatened his family. No one else died, though. Just him and his flock. Some twenty five years later, when I was nine, the town was still reeling.

Mike Roth had been just a boy himself when it happened, and for that he'd paid a huge price. People made assumptions he didn't understand, and therefore couldn't defend himself against. By the time I came to know of him, he was a psychopath just like his Uncle. There wasn't much evidence to prove it other than guilty by association. A couple of years after I saw him in the diner, folks were alive with talk about him stringing some kid up by his collar, but the boy had been throwing rocks at Mike's cattle and trying to break the fence. Anybody who said they would've done otherwise was just a downright and dirty liar. But a kid my age was never able to make these connections, or supposed to at least. Mike never smiled, never talked, his skin was as pale as paper and his eyes were as dead as his Uncle was. That day, he walked into the diner and I reacted exactly as I felt was appropriate: with nerve-crippling fear.

His pac boots squeaked with each step, and those he passed met him with stiff shoulders. I focused on the powdery trail of snow he left behind, not sure where else to put my eyes. And I remember trying to find respite in the thought of his sheep. They were cuddly and cute animals, and my logic was that he couldn’t be a threat to me if he cared for them. My heart hammered on still, and I picked at the fraying leather of my seat with great intensity, but at least I wasn’t crying out for my Pap.

“Short stack, extra syrup?”

I whipped my head upwards, mouth agape, but it was just Mary. She’d worked at the diner for quite some time, perhaps for as long as I’d known. Young with honey hair, cerise dappled cheeks – I liked her smile. She placed my pancakes down, and Pap’s eggs and wheat bread, and told me to eat up. I almost did, while it was still nice and hot, but I didn’t want to be impolite to Pap. Instead, I watched Mary whisk by the other booths. I was sure that she would skip Mike Roth’s, or at least speed by. She did neither, placing a small hand on his big back and beaming down at him. The whole interaction was confusing to me. I’d always imagined Mike Roth as something other-worldly. Like Count Dracula, I thought the sky would crack thunderously when he was disturbed. Or his eyes would turn red, and he’d begin to scream and thrash and throw things with a superhuman strength. The moment had only lasted a second, and Mary was already back behind the bar. Mike Roth sat, as he had before, entirely still and watched the traffic pass through the blizzard outside.

My Pap was back shortly afterwards. I tried to watch Mike Roth some more, over my Pap’s shoulder, but it was quite difficult to see.

He made quick work of his breakfast, pointing to mine with his knife and a mouth half-full, “Easy on the extra syrup. Can’t have you being a jitterbug in class.”

I smiled and nodded along. Though I still poured the whole jug over my stack. It was my order, after all. I never went without extra syrup, because the pancakes were always mighty dry without it. And my Pap always had wheat bread, no butter, because it helped him to stay in shape. His eggs were always served over-easy to make the bread more moist, and he preferred fruit juice over coffee because he didn’t like the taste.

Every so often, I’d peer past Pap to watch Mike Roth again. He hadn’t really moved, apart from having removed his coat. It wasn’t significant, but I was suddenly fascinated with every detail. My Pap eventually noticed my wandering eyes and turned to see what was distracting me so. He looked back at me, eyes harder than before.

“Don’t stare,” Pap hissed, “I don’t want the fuss.”

I stared anyway. Mary approached him with a tray and laid its contents in front of him. She didn’t rush or keep any safe distance between them. I couldn’t make out what was on the plate, but his drink was definitely coffee – I knew that from the mug, steam pluming from the top. Pap tried to block me, but I pushed myself up from the seat to look over him.

“For Christ’s sake, Emily. What is your problem?” He put a firm hand on my shoulder, forcing me back down into the booth, “Stop that.”

-

For the rest of the day, I thought about Mike Roth’s breakfast order. It wasn’t the order itself that stayed with me, although, strangely, I did spend some time thinking about that too. I had realised that people’s food orders could be interesting personality markers. Like my thing with the extra syrup and Pap’s dry wheat bread. Maybe Mike Roth liked coffee for its warmth. His breakfast plate was plentiful, with fried eggs, bacon and mushrooms. It made me wonder if he just really loved food, maybe he couldn’t cook and this was a small kindness he allowed himself. Reflecting back, I think it sounds an awful lot like an empty man trying to fill himself up. But this was not the lesson I learned.

I’d watched Mike Roth from the moment he stepped into the diner to the moment I left. Not a word had passed between him and Mary. And yet, she’d known exactly what to bring him. Just like Pap had known to order my extra syrup. At the time, I’d accepted that as normal — Pap knowing my order. That’s just what people who love you do, because they know you better than most. But Mary knew Mike Roth’s order too. And the more I thought about it, the more I came to see that as something quite beautiful. A kind of remembering that wasn’t just about routine.

Until then, I hadn’t understood that food could be a kind of care. Or that being known, even in silence, could be the opposite of being alone. No one, Mike Roth included, deserved to be alone. And I felt sick at the thought, because most people would happily disagree. Or simply not think about the implications of being alone, like I hadn’t.

Mike Roth would remain a stranger to me, even now. I never had any reason to talk to him, or get to know him. I see him from time to time, in the new diner that stands in place of our old one, and he still orders the same thing – or nearabout. But in the diner, he’s a regular. And so am I, though I don’t have the stomach for extra syrup anymore. Eggs over-easy, lots of butter, white bread, and a small fruit salad on the side.

I revel in the unspoken connection, because I know that I am not alone.