Clockwork

"Hi, welcome to Martha's, can I interest you in some lemonade? I just made a fresh pitcher, but I can also make raspberry, blueberry or pomegranate lemonade, whichever tickle's your fancy," the bell above the front door chimes and I instinctively look at who my next guests are. Anticipating to see a brown tweed jacket with legs and a pocket square, and flowing blue floral dress -- or yellow, or pink, or red, whatever she was feeling that particular Sunday, but always matching the pocket square -- stroll through the door, but instead it's a pair of Daisy Dukes and a barely-there bikini top clutching a jean cut-off motorcycle vest and Aviators who stumble in through waves of heat and rosy cheeks.

Flustered, I rotated my watch vigorously to toggle my watch face to where I could see it, and I heard myself sigh indignantly. 

1:03pm.

Like clockwork, I have been working every Sunday, the same 7:00am-2:00pm shift for 10 years, and not once were Bart and Sandy late for their 1:00 lunch. I knew to make a fresh pitcher of lemonade just before and, Bart would ALWAYS say, "If it's not sweet enough, when you bring it out, I'll just have you stick your finger in it," which would -- without fail -- make his wife of 67 years retort with some derivative of, "If you thought I were worried about Barty's sleezy-ass hitting on all you young, hotties, I'd have divorced him during the signing of the Declaration of Independence." I also knew to have their food ready within 15 minutes of them arriving because at 2:00, Sandy would take the remainder of her iced coffee to-go, and she'd walk several blocks up the boulevard to tuck into bookshops and boutiques as they reopened following lunchbreaks of their own. Their bill was never more than $14.00, but Bart would always leave a $20 and say, "Keep the change. Don't spend it all in one place, now," as they would wave at me through the glass door. 

I turn back to the 3 moms and their daughters that I have inadvertently been ignoring. Luckily they hadn't noticed and I take their drink order. 

1:06pm. 

Like clockwork, their medium-rare burger sizzles away on the flattop, and their side order of fries (with 2 onion rings thrown in just for Sandy), bubbles away in the fryer. I prep their shared plate with a toasted sesame-seed bun slathered with mayo and with one half of a slice of tomato for Sandy's portion because, on par with Bart's life atidotes, "You gotta die from something, and if I'm going to go because of mayonnaise, at least I got to enjoy my burger," and "I'm 87 years old, why am I wasting my time eating healthy? Leave that salad shit for the rodents," with a wave of his hand. 

1:17pm. 

I get my other tables' drinks out and their food orders sent into the kitchen. Still no sign of Bart and Sandy. Bart's lemonade pitcher is nearly empty, but I made sure to save one glass, Sandy's iced coffee has beads of sweat rolling down and pooling around the bottom of the glass, leaving a slip-N-slide of icy water on the counter's surface. Their burger is done, but disassembled in the window under the heat lamp as to not get soggy. 

1:28pm.

Like clockwork, my other tables are happily munching away on their lunch, and I'm finishing up rolling silverware and wiping Daisy Duke's table free from ketchup spills and soda-sweat rings. My throat tightens with anxiety, my eyes burn with tears that threaten to fall, and I'm faced with having to accept the fact that something tragic may have happened to one, or both Bart and Sandy. I always knew this day would come, and the three of us had jubilantly discussed walking the boulevard together with my two kids Remye and Jaacks, but my boys were always with their father on Sundays. Today it was my birthday, and every year on this day I'd meet my mother and my sons at the beach to go swimming and have a picnic dinner. Today was a different birthday because I wanted to include Bart and Sandy, so I was getting my sons dropped off at the diner once my shift ended at 2:00. My Remye and Jaacks were going to finally be able to meet the two most regular, most wonderful, and charming people who have been such a small and, seemingly insignificant part of my week, but had been the sole reason that I still work this God-awful Sunday shift week after week.  

In fact, it was the only shift I worked at Martha's Diner. Two years ago, when my husband and I divorced, I was required to find a more reliable job in order to support the courts' custody agreement over my boys, as well as have a more consistent cash-influx. Bart and Sandy were so supportive of my split from my husband, and they were so distraught with the thought of not seeing me every week, that they both made me promise that I'd work at least one Sunday per month, and that we'd plan in the books for them to meet my sons. Only thing is, I kept the shift every Sunday, but each year since then passed without any plans to spend time with Remye and Jaacks. 

Today was FINALLY supposed to be that day. And TODAY was supposed to be a surprise because it wasn't decided that my boys would be here until last minute, and I was excited to share with them THIS day. FUCK!! The tears begin flowing and my hands shake, so I grab my towel and walk towards the walk-in cooler (there's no better place to have a good cry). 

1:47pm. 

I pass by the front door and catch a glimpse of the familiar brown tweed jacket with legs standing feebly several feet to the left of the door, facing across the street. No flowing blue floral dress -- or yellow, or pink, or red, whatever she may have been feeling this particular Sunday -- standing beside him. My tears halt, but my heart lurches. I have never seen this man without his partner, except for the few minutes she was perhaps in the bathroom and he sat sullenly in his seat awaiting her return. I crash through the door.

"Bart!" My aggressive outburst accompanied by the abrupt door swinging open made the bells on the front door fly off and rattle across the sidewalk, plopping the several inches from the curb and onto the road's surface with one final jingle. Bart, hardly even phased by the commotion, turns solemnly towards me, not even a fleck of a flinch in his shoulders, his hands never leaving his pants pockets. 

His face looked even more wrinkled that 7 days prior, and he wore a purple pocket square, and the chain from his pocket watch dangled in a delicate strand across his waist. Only Bart's lips spread slightly to form a quaint smile, but his cheeks and eyes remained glued in place, not flushed, never blinking, no jovial raise of his brows; seemingly lifeless. 

It was 96 degrees on this particular Sunday, but you could tell that, for Bart, it was the coldest day of any of his hellish days. I stand in the open doorway, panting, not knowing whether to offer him something to drink, or to ask if he were coming in. I'm frozen in time for the first time since my divorce, and it was entirely evident that Bart is frozen in time for the first time ever.

1:49pm.

I focus my eyes on my watch, and then glance back towards Bart, moving slightly to allow him to pass through the doorway if he so chooses. "I made a pitcher of fresh lemonade for you," I said, wiping the last tear from my cheek and the sweat from my brow. 

Like clockwork, Bart retorts, "If it's not sweet enough, when you bring it out, I'll just have you stick your finger in it," Bart's smile widens and he looks to his right where his lady would be. His smile vanishes, and he turns to face back across the street. 

It was at this moment that I realize Sandy was gone. She isn't going to be eating her 2 onion rings or take her leftover iced coffee to go. She isn't going to be making sarcastic comments at Bart's old and overdone jokes, and Sandy is never going to join Bart for any meal on any forthcoming day. And it was now that I see my elderly friend shatter into a billion and one pieces, and yet remain entirely whole. 

I approach Bart and link my arm through his elbow. Together we stare across the street as the world keeps bustling around us. In silence we watch as the bookstore keepers and salespeople swivel the CLOSED FOR LUNCH signs back to OPEN, and unlock their storefronts. 

"What do you need, old friend?" I whisper, choking back sobs. Bart is shaking now, choking back tears himself, and he squeezes my hand. Hard. He swallows, and replies, "I'll need my lemonade to go, my dear." I squeeze his hand back and gently pull him toward the front door. Together we walk arm in arm into the cool air conditioning of Martha's Diner. The last table has left for the afternoon and the last 3 soda glasses remaining have several ice cubes kissing delicately as they melt rapidly. 

I lead Bart to the counter and provide his lemonade in a Styrofoam to-go cup. "My boys are on their way here. I can call and reschedule if you're not feeling up to it today." I attempt to remedy the situation and decrease the palpable tension. 

"Now, when you asked me what I needed, I never said that lemonade was the only thing that I needed," Bart put his finger up in a shushing motion from across the counter, "I need you, dear, to enjoy your birthday, and I am here to enjoy it with you. Sandy and I have been coming to this diner every Sunday for over 10 years," Bart interrupts himself, "We've both hated the food here for decades," and clears his throat, "but the only reason we ever came back every Sunday was to see you. We never had any children of our own, and we loved your smile, and hearing about your life's tribulations, your two boys…" Bart's words trail off. 

"We felt as if you were our daughter, and I would not miss celebrating your birthday with you.  Purple is Sandy's favorite color," he interrupts himself once more, "and don’t tell me how I know this," he continues, "but I know it's your favorite color, too, so this, right here," he gestures to the purple triangle handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket, "is for you, as much as it is for Sandy." 

I can't hold it in any longer and I begin sobbing uncontrollably. Through blurry, tear-soaked eyes, I see Bart gazing silently out the window towards the street, sipping slowly and deliberately on his lemonade. He sits like this for several minutes and allows me to blubber, as I wipe snot and tears from my eyes, cheeks, and chin. It was then that I realized, since the day I had begun taking care of him and his beloved wife during their Sunday lunch tradition, Bart was now taking care of me. It's funny, really, how someone can honestly say everything that you want and need to hear, even when they say absolutely nothing at all? He held an expression that said, We've known this day was coming, and we knew it'd feel this way, therefore, we should be prepared to embrace it as it comes and to let it be.  

2:01pm.

My phone vibrating against my hip jolts me back to reality. I hurriedly grab my phone and see that it's my mother calling. "Hello?" I answer through choked tears. 

"Hi, dear. I've just parked down the street from the diner. The boys are about a block to the left." I hurriedly rush to the front door and peer through the glass. I see Remye bouncing down the sidewalk with Jaacks in tow, carrying his kid's army backpack his father got him for his birthday last year. After having mentioned Bart's time in the service, it has been all they've been able to talk about. They both have dreams of being in the Army, and they have been ecstatic to hear stories from Bart. Remye just turned 12, and Jaacks will be turning 9 in several weeks. "Thanks, mom," I bring the phone away from my ear to hang up, but then stop myself, "Mom, do you want to come down and meet a friend of mine? We are going to take the boys for some ice cream and antiquing." 

There was a pause on the other end. "Sure, sweety, I'll put more money in the meter." We hang up the phone, and I've finally managed to cease all sorrowful emotions. I wipe the last bit of wetness from my neck and chin, and turn back towards Bart. "Why did you come back today?" I hesitated. 

"Sandy and I have been coming here for decades…the last of which have been to converse with you and hear about your life. It's been a tradition to have our Sunday lunch here, and to be taken care of by you. Today marks the end of one tradition, and the beginning of a new one," he pauses, and we see my boys out front of the diner's glass doors. He rifles through his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet.  

2:05pm.

My mother, Remye and Jaacks push the door open and Bart and I are assaulted with a hot gust of humid air. Bart stands up stiffly and with a strong and proper salute, greets my sons with, "Privates?! I am your Sergeant Major Bart. Reporting for duty?!" The boys match his salute with a resounding, "Sir, yes, sir!" and with fits of giggles, they rush up to him to show off Jaacks' backpack and the contents within. 

After several minutes of greetings, formalities, jokes, and short stories about the army, Bart turns to me and says, "Duty calls!" as he places a $20 on the counter. Like clockwork, he says, "keep the change. Don't spend it all in one place, now." He makes eye contact with me and winks with a gentle smile. 

As he is dragged out of the storefront by Remye, my mom turns to me and asks with a smile, "He's the one you've told me about?" I smile back and respond quietly, "He's the one. My old friend, who just lost his wife within the week, and who has given up their decade-long tradition in search of a new, hopefully just-as-fulfilling one with me and my boys." You see, the way that grief takes hold, it never truly goes away. Grief lives within you forever. The only difference is, as new and exciting memories fill the void caused by your grief, the pain associated with it shrinks, and life has the opportunity to regrow and get bigger around it. We never stop feeling the grief, it just becomes easier to live alongside it every day.

2:17pm.

Like clockwork, my shift is done. I join my mom, Bart, and the boys out front and I lock the front door. "So, will this be your new birthday tradition?" One tear falls from my eye and I don't dare to wipe it away. I smile, sigh and confess, "Actually, mom, I believe this is going to be the new Sunday tradition."