The Omelette Girl

She had remarkable poise, standing there behind the vast expanse of sizzling hot griddle. She was fair complexioned with long red hair pulled back under her chef’s hat. Everyone was in love with her.

Even then, Arizona State University was a big school with some 36,000 students. Each dorm had its own dining hall and some of us living at Saguaro Hall quickly learned the cooking there was awful. It’s understandable the cook might burn the first batch of toast getting the toaster dialed in. But every single slice, of hundreds, every single morning? Ditto for pork chops at dinner, etc., etc. We started walking to the dining hall at the Student Union in the center of campus. The food there was good by any measure. The best part though was the omelettes at breakfast and watching the omelette girl do her thing.

The line of mostly guys would stretch around the room. Fascinating, that an omelette as a breakfast food is so preferred by males over females, about three to one. We would stand patiently, holding our bright red plastic trays with multiple glasses of oj and milk and bowls of fruit and whatever else. The omelette girl was all business with a dozen or so of her delicate egg creations going at once. Despite waves of heat shimmering up from the griddle, she never broke a sweat.

To one side a neat row of bowls of chopped cheese, ham, green pepper and onion sat at the ready. When it was your turn you would tell her which of the fillings you would like. She would then pour a quantity of beaten egg from a large stainless steel pitcher onto a free spot of the cooking surface and sprinkle the ingredients you chose. The omelette girl would then tend and fold the others she had going and at just the right moment slip them onto plates and hand them to the lucky recipients standing at the far end of the set up.

Each was a beautiful, glistening egg envelope custom made for you. When I got my omelette I would look back at the line and it would always be as long or longer than when I got there. Carrying my prize to a table and sitting down, I would feel lucky.

Somewhere, I hope, a woman of fifty plus years resides. When she looks back on the work she’s done in her life she thinks about omelettes. Thousands and thousands of them. She brought joy to a lot of people.

Gordon Bunker

Remembering The Green Onion

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The Green Onion, which sadly is no more was in the truest sense of the word, a dive. It was a bar. I loved the place. The low slung cement block building had no windows, and was painted a garish chrome yellow with a Kelly green belt line and trim. The flat roof was dominated by a huge satellite dish with a giant three leaf clover painted on it. Not a four leaf.

Walking in the door was walking into another realm; dark, cool, and remote. The air was permeated with the smells of stale beer, oily smoke from the Fryolator and urine. Sports paraphernalia was screwed to the walls and the carpet may have squished underfoot. Brown vinyl upholstery on the bar stools and chairs was sticky and padding bulged from rips. If these seats could talk, you’d rather they kept it to themselves.

The place was without pretense or apology and so in its genuineness had charm. There was always a collection of hard worn alcoholics sitting at the bar, sharing the stories and perspectives of drunks. The waitresses, rough edged and sassy were nonetheless on the ball. The music was never too loud. This was not the outside world, but a haven of low key, especially welcome on a hot afternoon. The beer on tap, never anything fancy, just Bud, Miller and Coors was cheap and cold. The food, so long as you never saw the kitchen was… ok, in the long run it was good for your immune system. Jalapeño poppers were always a hit and they grilled up a pretty good burger. The back room had a wide screen and so became the “sports” bar.

Out on the town one evening with friend Beemer, visiting from Wyoming or Florida depending on which direction he was headed in, I asked him what his preference was in watering holes.

“I like a good dive once in a while.” He said.

“I know just the place.” I responded.

We walked in the door. Beemer stopped in his tracks, and surveyed the surroundings. When you’ve been around you know you need to stop and get the vibe of a place like this before you go any further. He turned to me and with a lurid grin said, “This is nasty. I love it!”

And so we parked ourselves in a booth and had a couple cold ones.

A young and attractive and very dolled up woman was having difficulty getting the juke box to go. She came over and asked me, me!, imagine that! in a very coquettish way if I could help. Chivalry is not dead, so of course I was at the ready to assist the damsel in distress. I leaped up and went over with her to the blinking, bubbling machine. Before I knew it, Beemer was by our sides, and before we all knew it, her rather large and unattractive boyfriend was there asking her if everything was all right.

“Oh Rico… no worries, hun.” She said. Rico looked us over, not particularly happy and stalked away. The woman gave my shoulder the lightest little touch, with just her fingertips. She smiled and rolled her eyes, then thanked us for the help and sauntered back to her group. Her pure white, skin tight pants…

Oh, the mating rituals. Oh, the survival of the fittest.

Back at our booth, Beemer leaned toward me conspiratorially and hissed, “She’s wearing a thong! Here kitt-tee… kitt-tee!” He clawed his fingers in the air. I was just glad Rico kept cool. Sometimes these situations can go from bad to worse in a hurry.

We got back into our beers and talking about bikes and life, and eavesdropped on the bar talk.

Gordon Bunker

Life Is Very Good

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

He sits in the cab of his pickup. Cracks in the windshield catch and bend and break sunlight. He studies the glints, he enjoys the warmth. The cab smells of burned motor oil and dust. Moments pass. The door creaks and bucks in protest as he gets out. It takes a determined push to shut it.

The sayer of sooth wanders out onto the bridge, he smiles at the passing Romeos and Juliets. He is tall and lean. He is quiet. Six hundred fifty feet above the Rio Grande River, he stops and thinks, “Yeah man… this is out here.” Wind whips his hair. A cloud races by, it’s an awesome view. He sips and relishes the pure air.

His hands are chilled so he slides them into his pockets. “What’s this?” He pulls out the lump. “Whoa… how did this get here?” he wonders. Small bits of the parchment skin flutter and snap and blow away. He is hungry and happy to have the garlic. But garlic alone does not make a meal. “If I had some…”

A truck passes and the bridge shakes.

“Hey.” Raven hair shrouds her face, she pulls it back as best she can to look at him. The wind is persistent. “How’s it going?”

The sayer turns. “A friend,” he thinks. Showing her the garlic, “excellent,” he says.

“I got some Emmenthal,” she says. From a fold in her thick felt jacket she pulls and offers it. The jacket has silver buttons. The milky yellow chunk peers out through the wrapping paper, translucent with fat from the cheese. She smiles.

Forever starts here.

Gordon Bunker

High Desert Grey Day

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

This morning the sky is overcast in northern New Mexico and the temperature hovers just above freezing – a reprieve from last week’s cold snap with a record early morning low here at the house of minus 19.8 degrees Fahrenheit (- 28.8 C). There is snow forecasted for today but it may be rain. Surrounding mountain peaks, dark slate blue and white are in and out of hiding in the clouds. North faces of the hills are covered with snow. Localized storms sweep across the landscape, grey tendrils of moisture falling bend in the wind.

I make a second pot of tea. Making tea is one of my rituals; water comes up from the well fresh and cold and sweet, I fill the kettle and put it on the stove, the igniter snap!, snap!, snaps! and a blue flame leaps up, the kettle creaks and groans building to a whistle, I charge the pot with some hot water and then pour it into the waiting cup to warm it too, I pour the just boiled water over the tea (Earl Grey today) and wait. Waiting is a useful skill. I empty the warm water from the cup into the sink. Now pouring the tea into the cup it gives reassurance, the hot liquor churns like the wake of a boat.

Without solar gain the house is chilly so I layer on more fleece. Haute couture par Michelin. The windows are large and I have the shades drawn closed except on the one near the table where I work. The daylight is soft and the wind hisses around the house.

I pour another cup of tea and watch the steam rise from it, I wrap my hands around it.

The phone rings and it is Pat. Long time friends Pat and Franz are both in their eighties and I am their some time computer guru – we all use Apples. She has a blank black screen with a cursor on it. Command Q does nothing. Computers are usually so responsive, we push keys and jiggle mice and things happen. When nothing happens what do we do? I lead Pat through forcing the computer to shut down and then start it again and explain this is a way, when all else fails to get out of a jam.

While we wait for the computer to go through its start routine we talk about hikes and snowshoeing and the philosophy class they’re taking. The enduring questions indeed endure. I love the fact these two people still have questions, are curious about the nature of truth and knowledge and life, and pursue answers whether they exist or not. They are an inspiration.

The bird bath is mostly thawed, an ice cake floats at the lee side. Bluebirds and finches come for drinks. Juncos hop and peck in the grasses for something to eat.

I hear the whistle from a passing freight train. The tracks are three miles away, and this happens only when the wind is from the south. Suddenly it’s snowing hard.

Gordon Bunker

Upon Their Shoulders

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Last Friday night R. and I had a hankering for enchiladas and neither of us wanted to cook. R. suggested a dive place on Airport Road, and seeing how she tends to stay away from dive places and I love them, I jumped at the chance.

The parking lot was full. Winter’s early darkness obscured the scale of the place. There was a short wait and the aging hostess walked us to a table in the cavernous dining room. Except for a display of decorative plates along one wall, someone’s good intention but not altogether successful attempt to give the place some sense of hominess, it was without warmth or charm. The floor was industrial grade tile, the tables were dark imitation wood grain laminate, and the chairs were metal frame with skimpy vinyl upholstered seats and backs. Silverware wrapped in paper napkins sat on the tables without any place mat. In a word, it was grim. But is was busy.

The wait staff, all young women, all more than a little overweight, were on the move, delivering plates of tacos, enchiladas, burritos and carnitas. The gal who waited on us brought us samples of the chili (the green set us on fire so we opted for the red), took our order and was off. R. wandered into the lounge, also a busy place, to visit with a long time friend who was tending bar. She ordered a margarita, which would come to the table in a few moments.

I looked around at my fellow diners. Everyone was enjoying themselves. T.G.I.F.

One middle aged couple sat exposed at a table in the middle of the room. They had glasses of wine. They were overweight and looked worn out, tired; they talked and smiled. At a table closer to ours sat four younger people, three men and a woman. They were probably in their twenties, in the prime of life. One of the young men was very thin, pale and had dry hair.

Images of these people have surfaced in my mind all week. Upon their shoulders the work gets done. The trucks get driven, the houses built; the shelves get stocked and the trash collected. They are seen but not seen. There are no big surprises, there are no big disappointments.

Dinner in a stark dive at the end of the week might be as good as it gets.

Gordon Bunker