Bobby's Place

South of Boston, in the very much American state of Massachusetts, nestled between the sea and four old irrelevant towns, rested Plymouth. If Plymouth could be described to a fortunate individual who had never heard of the place, one could use the following analogy:

 Think of a merchant on the silk road, who has travelled the known world for years hearing stories of what was to be the most beautiful of princesses of the richest of kingdoms. He crosses the desert, he crosses the worst and most dangerous terrain one could think of, and he stumbles upon a castle of marble- where he meets the princess. He has waited for this moment, he can hardly contain his excitement, the anticipation is unbearable. The princess, who had been rumoured to have the face of the moon, the scent of jasmine, the voice of a song-bird- was now buried under towers of dirt. The princess was dead. She had been dead for quite some time. What remains left of her is rotten bone marrow and decaying silk. Plymouth is the same.

Plymouth would witness tour busses of excited children stop at the gates of the town, and would watch them leave with their heads down- bored and dissatisfied. Plymouth was quite literally, a town of greatly anticipated disappointment.

The people of Plymouth, would be the embodiment of the colour gray. There was no brightly coloured shawl of fashion, there was no difference of political opinion, the population of Plymouth carried with them a feeling of pessimistic bliss.

But for Dr. Robert Pitcher, he found the town of Plymouth a dream come true. Born and raised in Los Angeles, Pitcher had always felt that the East Coast offered a better life. Pitcher had gone to medical school, as his father did, and as his grandfather, and great-grandfather did. And all of these generations would save lives under palm trees and white sunshine. These generations would ask their drivers to pick them up and take them to the tennis court, where behind designer sunglasses, they would watch their whiskey glasses empty and fill up again. They would hear the sounds of their wives chattering away of some gala, and they would of course try to pay attention, but the sunshine, and booze, and the permanent scent of blood and infected wounds that tainted the inside of their nose would distract them from really listening.

Pitcher had sat on the tennis court, watching his father try to stay awake listening to his mother. “Yes, dear.” He would sigh, his eyelids looking as if they weighed tons. “Yes, dear.” He’d repeat again.

Robert Pitcher had enough of it. He intended on breaking this cycle. He intended on doing something completely uncalled for, completely bizarre, completely unlike anything his father or his grandfather, or his great-grandfather would have ever dreamed of. So, after a long night of operations and paperwork, Robert locked himself in his office and put up a map of the world. Then, setting up a chair on the opposite side of the room, he took out his pocket knife which had been passed down for generations, and shut his eyes.

He was silent. He vowed that wherever this knife would land on, he would leave everyone and everything behind. He would start a-new. He would pack a bag, break his phone in half, and leave with no note at all.

Dr. Pitcher initially thought that his knife had landed on New York, but taking a few steps closer to the map, he thought it landed on Boston, but after inspection, the universe had decided that Plymouth, Massachusetts would be the destination for our determined Doctor.

Plymouth saw Dr. Pitcher arrive on a bus, just as excited as the school children always did, on a Wednesday. On Thursday, Plymouth offered Dr. Pitcher a humble house. And on Friday, Plymouth watched Dr. Pitcher walk into its only real restaurant- Bobby’s Place.

Pitcher thought it was a sign from the universe because his family had always called him Little Bobby as a boy, and so he slid into the old booth that the kind waitress offered him and looked over the menu.

“Say, what’s your favourite thing on here?” Pitcher asked with enthusiasm as the waitress came by with a cup of water. She snorted, as if he was being sarcastic. As if he was joking with her.

“Why are you asking me?” She replied. Robert blinked. Quite stunned. Did this woman not know she was a waitress of this establishment? He had asked a completely reasonable question. One that was absolutely kosher, and undoubtably reasonable.

“Don’t you work here?” Robert asked, crossing his arms. This woman was a little younger than he was, but was already making him feel like an insecure fool.

“No, I just wear this name tag for fun.” She answered, her eyes and voice were saturated with such annoyance, Robert wondered if he had accidentally run over her cat on the way to the restaurant. Had he wronged her in some way?

“I’m asking for a suggestion!” Pitcher said, glancing at the menu. He wasn’t just going to let some Plymouth waitress ruin his evening.

“Well, I don’t know what to say Mister, they don’t pay me enough to make suggestions.” The waitress sighed, rolling her eyes.

Robert Pitcher had operated on many victims of bullet wounds, and he would ask himself when in the operating room - how could a human commit such violence? But now, with only speaking with a Plymouth woman for a mere minute, he now had a better understanding for every murderer that had ever lived. He wasn’t going to do anything, but he did understand it.

“Why don’t you just pick something?” The waitress asked. Then she paused, before continuing. “What, you can’t read?”

“Me?” The Doctor scoffed. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Hey!” The waitress raised her voice, and planted her hand on the table. “Not being able to read doesn’t mean you’re stupid. My uncle’s got dyslexia. You know what that is? It means the words are all jumbled up together!”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of what dyslexia is.” Dr. Pitcher groaned, running his hands over his face in such frustration he was sure he was going to melt. “I was just wondering what your favourite dish is. I didn’t mean to offend your dear uncle; I didn’t mean to ask you more than what your job description asks of you.”

The waitress raised a skinny eyebrow and stood up straight, quite proud of herself. “I don’t eat anything from here. It’s all crap.”

“And where do you eat?” Dr. Pitcher asked, resting his head in his palms, quite astonished this woman was employed here. Perhaps this entire town was run by the mafia, and she’s being held hostage as a waitress.

“That’s my business.” She sighed, clicking her pen. “What do you want to order? No rush, not like I got any other tables.”

Dr. Pitcher had quite enough of this entire interaction as a whole, and he decided to pick the Plymouth Burger and Fries, and he would stick with water thank you very much.

Pitcher looked around the restaurant, and noticed it was very empty. It was a Friday night, and a restaurant as big as this one had only one customer. He frowned, for the first time wondering if he should have brought his phone with him, to look up better places to go, maybe to call in and order some pizza. But no, this is what happens when one is spontaneous in Plymouth.

His palms were itchy, no one had made him more furious as that waitress had. It made his mouth dry. He had delt with crazy personalities as a doctor, worried parents and lying teenagers… but no one had ever sparked so much emotion as this woman. He held his breath as she walked by his table, worried that if he let out a sigh she’d turn around and give him more attitude.

“Here’s your meal.” Her voice made him nearly jump, as she slid a plate towards him. He sighed, adjusting in his seat. No enjoy your meal, no here you are sir, no smile, no appreciation. As she was about to leave, he stopped her. “Sorry, is this supposed to come with…with a baked potato?”

She blinked at him. “What’s the problem? Same thing.”

“No. This potato is baked; the one I ordered was fried.” He corrected her, his face was beginning to turn red. Pitcher had once gotten the wrong salad at a restaurant in L.A. and the owner insisted the meal be on the house out of remorse. But this Plymouth woman held within her zero remorse.

She tilted her head, looking him up and down. “Fried food isn’t too good for you. Bad for your heart. Makes it all thick.”

Dr. Pitcher’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, are you a doctor?” He asked.

“Oh yeah,” the waitress laughed. “I just wear this uniform for fun, just like my name tag.”

This was too much for the Doctor to bare. He shooed her away and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He attempted to be as happy as he was when he walked first into this restaurant.

He took a bite of his burger, and spit it out. There was no way to describe it, other than it tasted like mayonnaise covered sand. The potato was undercooked, the texture was that of an apple. He wanted to complain, but that would mean fighting with that waitress again and he wasn’t sure if he could do that again. So, he asked for the bill. And when it came, Dr. Pitcher was eager to pay as fast as he could and run away from Bobby’s Place as fast as his legs could carry him.

“You should get the grilled cheese next time.” The waitress said, her hands clasped behind her. “It’s my favourite.”

Dr. Pitcher blinked, and looked up at her in astonishment. “I’m sorry, you’re recommending me something after the fact?”

Suddenly, her annoyed face turned into something much more delicate, and suddenly Robert Pitcher realized she wasn’t awful-looking as her attitude made her seem. He laughed, shaking his head. “So, you do eat something from here. You do have a favourite dish.”

“Wouldn’t call a grilled cheese a dish. Would you? Anyways… just for next time.” She scoffed, her attitude returning.

“Next time?” Dr. Pitcher asked, furrowing his brows. “Do you honestly think after your service, and this awful food I would ever step foot in here again?” And with that, he stormed out, his hands in tight fists, deep in his coat pockets.

But as the days went by, Dr. Pitcher had the strongest craving he had ever had in his life. He wondered if this is what pregnant women must feel, this extreme hunger for a very specific thing that would wake them in the middle of the night, that he swore he would smell out of nowhere just because he wanted it so badly. He craved for a grilled cheese sandwich.

When Dr. Pitcher walked by Bobby’s Place, he found himself scanning the restaurant looking for someone. And as he walked by one day, his eyes met hers, and he was forced to enter to make it less awkward.

“Back again?” She sighed, seating him in the same booth. Dr. Pitcher found his lips curling into a smile, and not a frown, like last time. Nothing had really changed. She was speaking to him in the same rude tone as before. “I’d like the grilled cheese.” He said, moving the menu away from him.

And Robert Pitcher ate the grilled cheese that tasted like cardboard. He’d come back again the next day and order it again. Indeed, Bobby’s Place, the lowest reviewed restaurant in Plymouth Massachusetts became Dr. Pitcher’s favourite place in the world. And Robert Pitcher, would become a certain waitress’ favourite customer.