The Irish and the Fork

The first time he passed by my spot at the counter he rubbed my shoulder, but the second time – as Jessica stood with pen in hand to take my order – he feigned tripping on the carpet and fell on me, groping my ribs as he steadied himself. Still seated, I grabbed him by the neck of his sweater and grabbed the fork from my place setting.

“Touch me again and you’re gonna get stabbed in the face,” I said.

His drunken response was gibberish. The look on his face betrayed surprise. Possibly, he expected me to respond in kind to his fumbling advances or invite him home with me. He obviously had no idea of the kind of tension and stress that my job entails. He couldn’t have known that the half-hour I spend sitting at the counter at Sparky’s every night was the half-hour I get to relax and not worry about driving or assholes in my car. Unfortunately for him I had just sat down. I hadn’t had a chance to unwind.

“Hey guys,” Jessica said calmly. “Come on, guys.” I ignored her.

“Go sit down,” I ordered. And he did, returning to his seat at the other side of the counter. He ate his food in silence and kept his gaze straight ahead on his plate, the counter, and the wall beyond. Before he left, I caught him muttering to himself a few times, addressing his plight at the center of the counter.

From what I could gather my first few times at Sparky’s it began service as one of the Castro’s three 24-hour diners in the late 70’s or early 80’s. The walls are white with royal blue and pink trim. Posters on the wall are classic advertisements for produce like “Gay Johnny Apples”. They provide the kitsch. There is also Sparky, himself, the freckled, red-headed mascot of the restaurant seated on the counter near the register and the front door. The counter is gray and black flecked masonite with stainless steel framing and I sit at the end of it, space permitting. It is the post I man when I don’t want to be driving. Sometimes, I find a little sanity there.

One night, weeks prior to the fork threat, there was no space at my end of the counter. It was busy and crowded, so I took the only seat I could get near the door. I ordered food, began working on a crossword puzzle, and a woman to my right began talking to me. She had a thick Irish accent, slurred by a night of drinking. She talked about her night and problems that the world threw at her on a daily basis. I said nothing.

“I guess you don’t like talking very much,” she said.

“It’s been a very long night,” I replied. “I’m sorry. I’d just prefer to do my crossword.”

She annoyed me.

“People in this country don’t like talking to each other. Where I’m from – Ireland – you can go to a place and sit down and strike up conversation with anyone.”

I said nothing and she was silent for a moment. Robert, they guy behind the counter, noticed that I was annoyed and came over to give me more coffee and chat for a second to ease my nerves. I, too, enjoy talking to strangers, but only when I like them.

Ten minutes later I began making significant progress on my crossword. She began talking again.

“I guess you don’t like talking to people,” she stated again, five minutes into her monologue.

“Look, lady,” I finally said, “I have to talk to people all night. Most of the time I don’t like them, but I have to talk to them and be cordial because it’s part of my job. Then, I get to come here and be quiet for a moment. I eat. I drink coffee. I do a crossword. I don’t have to talk to anyone at all, just for a half-hour. Sometimes, it’s the best part of my night. Right now, you’re fucking that up.”

I got up, walked to my server and paid him.

The next night, I came in to apologize to Robert, who was witness to my outburst.

“She started crying right after you walked out,” he said.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I said.

“No, don’t apologize. It was the best part of my night.”

More recently, I went into Sparky’s with a friend and sat at a table. Jessica was our waitress. She walked up and smiled. She took my fork and turned to walk away.

“You don’t need this,” she said.