Under One Roof

I've been derelict on posting excerpts from my book, Under One Roof. Here, Worth (our protagonist who is back in Chicago after his mother has passed away) meets a few potential allies while on his way to meeting his estranged father.

I had forty minutes to kill before dad’s class let out, so I ducked into a nondescript diner called the Yreka Bakery that was on the same block. Stepping inside, the door nudged a tiny bell, announcing my arrival. There was a defiant lack of adornment in the cozy establishment, the sparse room containing four chrome stools at a simple linoleum counter and two small tables, with the chairs tidily tucked underneath. The room was dimly lit and so absent any sign of commerce that I wondered if it was open, not just for the day but at all. The only decorations were a smattering of homey pictures and several, handwritten notes thumb-tacked to the walls, “Harry’s Harrowing Hibiscus Tea,” “The Big Box of Yummy” and several cryptic messages, such as “Tuna nut,” “Too hot to hoot,” and “Step on no pets.” As I turned to leave, I noticed a tiny woman peeking over the top of a pair of short, spring-hinged doors behind the counter, the kind that are ubiquitous in saloons on old TV westerns.

“What can I do you for?” she asked, half stepping into the room, her tiny hands, all alabaster knuckles and long fake fingernails, parting the hinged doors. She looked to be about eighty and she was wearing what was obviously a black wig, lashed in place with a red bandana dotted with bright yellow peace signs. There was a slash of lipstick on her upper lip and lopsided daubs of rouge on her cheeks.

“What’s going on out there, sweetheart?” a man called from the next room. “We got a customer, or what?”

“There’s a fella out here, I’m not sure if he’s staying, though,” she said, still not committing herself fully to the front room. “He seems nice enough, tallish and kind of a looker, but I’m not sure what his dealie is yet.”

“A looker, eh?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Is there going to be a problem?

“Don’t think so –”        

And what’s this about his ‘dealie?’”

“I’m just saying that I’m unsure about his intentions,” she said, turning towards the back room as she spoke. “Capiche?” She looked back at me and shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

I started to speak, but the man said, “Well, ask him, Sweet Pea. In or out? It’s a simple question, really.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were open. It’s just . . . the door was open, is all.”

“Of course it was open, because we’re open, darling” she said. I wished I could duck back outside without hurting her feelings. “If you’re hungry, we’re open,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “That’s the general idea with these kinds of establishments. Food and such. Now come, come and sit down if you’d like.” She indicated a spot at the counter. “Don’t be shy. I won’t bite – though he might,” she said, stabbing her thumb at the back room.

I sat on a stool at the counter. She flicked a switch and a long fluorescent fixture sputtered to life above me. She walked over to me and threw a rag onto the countertop. Reaching under the counter, she produced a large spray bottle. She gave the linoleum counter at my elbows a few good squirts, sending a vinegar mist in my direction. I sneezed and then the man in the back room said, “Gesundheit” and then started to cough loudly, capping it off with several loud, mucusy, throat-clearings.

“How’s about some Muesli with dates and berries?” the woman said, concentrating more on a dark blotch on the linoleum than me. She gave the counter another enveloping spritz.

“I . . . I haven’t thought about it. Do you have a menu?”

“Is your gentleman caller still with us?” the man in the back room asked.

“He’s sitting right here in front of me, Harry,” she said. “And, by the by, he can hear everything you say. If you gotta know.” An old man, roughly the same age as the woman, peeked over the swinging doors. He had a gaunt face with a three-day stubble and more hair tufting out of his ears and eyebrows than the top his head. A toothpick was wedged in the corner of his mouth. “Oh. Okay. Just curious.” He regarded me with impish curiosity. “How’re you doing this morning, young fella?”

“Fine,” I said, smiling. “Yourself?”

“Don’t ask,” he said, stepping half-way into the front room. He wore a frayed button-down shirt with a broad collar and a tie as wide as a pancake. He began to speak and then became distracted by one of the swinging doors, fiddling with the hinge as he swung the door back and forth. “Can I get you some Muesli with soy milk, dates and berries?” he asked, as he continued to noodle with the door hardware.