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OLIVE
* * *
My last customer of the day is quickly becoming one of my favorites. He comes in for a late lunch almost daily, and even though his check doesn’t come out to much, he always tips well. Like, really well. But that’s not the reason I like him.
Tom is in his late sixties maybe, and always has a crazy story dating back to his hippie days in the 1970s, living in his van. He’s never worked a steady job in his life, surviving from selling his handcrafted jewelry while on the road following the Grateful Dead, or finding valuables on the beach with his metal detector. Nowadays he shops yard sales for antiques and resells them on eBay. I guess he does pretty well.
Today, when he first came in, he had a gift for me. A box full of gnomes.
“I knew you were a collector of sorts,” he said. “I don’t think you could sell them on eBay for a profit, but if they put a smile on your face, they’re worth more than money.”
“I love them,” I said, picking up the big one. “Wow. It’s super heavy,”
“I think maybe he’s made of concrete,” Tom replied. “For durability, I suppose.”
“Well, thank you. I shall cherish them always and think of you.”
“Oh, and I almost forgot to show you this.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purple Beanie Baby.
“Mint condition,” he said, then shoved it back in his pants pocket. “I’ll just keep it in my pocket for safekeeping. Don’t want to get salsa all over it.”
I’ve never understood the fascination with Beanie Babies myself, but if there are people out there who like them as much as I like gnomes, then I approve wholeheartedly.
Tom ordered his food—his usual chicken tacos and a side salad, and after he’s done with his meal, I have his check ready, waiting for him to return from a bathroom run. It’s a whole routine. He eats his tacos, goes to the men’s room, then comes back to his table to pay for his meal, ready to tell me a story from his life that is too amazing to be true.
But today, when he reaches for his wallet, a string of curse words comes out of his mouth that would make a sailor blush and, jumping up, he runs back to the bathroom like his pants are on fire.
He returns a few minutes later looking all worked up. I’m thinking he had some bad reaction to the beans or something, but when I ask if he’s okay, he rolls his eyes and tosses his palm on his forehead.
“I’m fine. But I can’t say the same about the other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“When I went to the bathroom—the first time—my bear must have fallen out of my pocket.
“And… you noticed it was gone when you went for your wallet?”
“That’s why I ran back like a bat outta hell.”
“You sure did.”
He wipes his brow. “When I got there, the stall was occupied, so I kicked down the door.”
“No way. Was it locked?”
“Well, yes.”
“You must have strong feet.”
“Those stalls are flimsy.”
“So, was the bear still in there?”
“There was this young guy sitting on the toilet—with his pants down.”
I cover my mouth, holding in a laugh. “Are you serious?”
