Devil's in the Apathy

Jerry, the owner of the last “restaurant,” is in a current state of embracing his alcoholism. He maintains the open/closed hours of the old fountain building. The few dollars he makes from his regulars each morning keep the beast fed. Most everyone else steers clear of the joint.

This is the sort of place where “used to” is a word in the local dialect. Pronounced ustah, like “yous-ta.” Ustah is a mantra. Out of habit, or loneliness, or both; the same half dozen aging fellas show up to this sad hovel every morning, except Tuesdays when Jerry is closed, to serve themselves coffee and discuss how much things back in the day ustah be better as their neighborhood continues to decay around them.

They have been walking through the doors of an ever-deteriorating building on a main street for who-knows-how-long to complain to each other about Obama and how lazy the teenagers are.

The cheap wood paneling is adorned with dusty bric a brac and offensive political signs. The ice cream counter that ustah serve dozens of happy kids every day after school let out sits empty and unused. The pie case that ustah draw the gaze of hungry diners is missing panels of glass. Instead of classic homemade pies, these racks hold dusty 12-packs of soda. The fountain soda machine at the old fountain ustah work.

There is no latch, nor lock on the ladies room door. This place doesn’t see many customers who are not old men.

“Where’s Jerry?” inquires Bill

Bill likes to maintain his mystique. He’s a smaller wiry guy. He has long wispy white hair that extends beneath his Indiana Jones adventure hat. Bill hates all things government and the theft that is taxes. Rather than pay the city for water and sewer, he remains disconnected. He is the kind of guy that chooses to use the taxpayer funded public restrooms that other people pay for in a small city park near his house, instead.

A few people around have the idea that Bill ustah be some kind of mercenary. He’s mostly known for being a hoarder and using any available space someone he meets has to put, or otherwise keep, something. The entire back portion of the old fountain building ustah be a hopping nightlife spot with live music. Now, holds a vast collection of Bill’s and Jerry’s ex’s stuff.

“He ran over to the store to get some sausage and eggs.” replied Joe

Joe is a combat vet, times two, who found his grungy hole to wallow in. If you aren’t in his grouchy old man club and adhering to patriotic traditions he doesn’t have a kind word to spare. Not that he says anything kind about the companions in his daily complainers’ club meeting. He doesn’t say anything about them at all. Come to think of it. Joe just doesn’t like anything whatsoever, even worse if it’s new.

“They don’t even do the prayer!” Joe was going on again about the younger Iraq war veterans at the VFW and how they reject the old traditions they ustah have in the fraternal organization.

“Ready for another?” Bill asks, making the rounds with the coffee pot again in Jerry’s familiar absence.

“Have you heard about that food truck ? I ain’t gonna eat there. It’s those libtards. They’re gonna take over the place if we let ‘em move in. Goddamned commies. This place ustah be like Mayberry. Such a shame.” responds Tom shaking his head.

Jerry reappears behind the counter with a fresh plastic bottle of Black Velvet. He pours himself the last cup of coffee, tops it off with a couple glugs of BV and puts the empty pot back on the still hot burner.

If there’s a roof with a blue tarp or a shack needing a new furnace, chances are it’s one of Tom’s cash cows. He collects monthly rents on any number of rundown dumps. His tenants include social security recipients who can’t afford anything else, sex offenders and meth dealers/addicts. 

A woman with an opinion? HoHO! Some man simply needs to get her under control. Tom cannot find a romantic partnership that he doesn’t feel he pays for. That suits him just fine! He already knows women only want his money and he prefers to feel like somebody owes him something.

“I’ll be at the meeting tonight. I heard that Nazi bitch wants to put in some kinda educational garden. More liberal horseshit. I dunno, but I want to know why the fuck they ain’t fixing up the park and where the fuck my water bill goes. My buddy Tim don’t pay that much.” Bill complains as he refills the coffee pot. Everyone sitting in the mismatched splitting vinyl booths nods in agreement over their cups of coffee seemingly forgetting the great lengths Bill actually goes through to avoid that particular life expense.

“Jerry! I paid for my breakfast an hour ago. For fuck’s sake! Do I hafta make it myself again?” Joe demands after several cups of coffee on an empty stomach.

“You see this!?” Jerry asks with a buzz at 8am, setting a single bullet on the long unwashed counter.

“This bullet is for Obama. I told the Secret Service that, too, when they came in after those fancy bicyclists musta complained. I told them like I’m tellin’ you. I got another somewhere ‘round here for you, if you keep up that bitching at me like some motherfucker.”

Like every other morning, Jerry shuffles over to the griddle that’s been encased in grease for as long as anyone can remember Jerry owning the place. The surface has been scraped clean for cooking. All around the edges and overflowing a yellow bucket sitting in front of the visually unappealing and highly flammable commercial stove the grease accumulates. As he’s cooking the same breakfast for everyone regardless of what they ordered, smoke fills the dining area because the exhaust system has been broken for at least five years. Bill makes the rounds again and refills everyone’s coffees.

Once everyone has their bellies full, they saunter off to begin their day after leaving cash on the counter. Nobody gets a check. Joe stays late and washes the dishes. He’s learned that if he wants something clean to eat off of, he better do that himself. And so he does. Everyday at this shoddy shithole, customers pay and put forth effort to keep it barely afloat.

Later that evening, this loud yet tiny segment of voters attend various meetings to condone or condemn projects their fellow citizens put forth. They’ve been known to make people cry in public for daring to want to install nefarious features like a low maintenance pollinator garden. These are the angry voices volunteer council people in your neighborhood listen to on a weekly basis.

The fact is, these are the people who bother to show up in this sad dilapidated space to yell for what they want to see. They always win by forfeit. Nothing improves. Volunteers on committees continue to wonder why small businesses have such a hard time here and nobody feels inspired to expend any effort whatsoever in the future of the neighborhood. The problem is simply unopposed ustah.