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It would help if you told me what the tradition was, Joe thought. He imagined the matchbook’s designer thought the same thing, but had no say: here’s the copy, make it fit. He imagined the designer wondering why you’d put horses to make people think greyhound. Or maybe not. Maybe most guys in this business didn’t think anything of the sort. They just did the book. Who am I, Picasso? It’s a fuggin’ matchbook, pal. If the striker doesn’t cover up the tagline I’ve done my job.
The Greyhound was done in a style that looked early American, whatever that was. Wood beams and pewter mugs hanging from hooks. Old guns on the wall. Pictures of pheasants. Nothing very modern about it, unless you counted the bathrooms and the phone by the door, but that was pretty modern when you thought about it. That was probably the big diff between here and then; flush toilets and dial tones. And radio, can’t forget that. He’d listened to the radio all the way down from Cleveland, one pop song after the other: doo-wop, silly girl ballads, hillbillies with hiccups, instrumentals full of reverb and self-pity, like someone in a bathroom crying through a trumpet. He didn’t really listen to any of it. The songs came and went and the miles rolled on underneath, and from time to time he realized he hadn’t thought about the road or the radio for ten miles. Where had he been?
Where was he going, was the question. The map said Greenfield was outside of Indianapolis, and the café was on Route 31. Easy enough. Looked like the main drag. It was about 350 miles from his house. He’d be there by six. Get a motel, look around, see Greenfield. It was a nice enough day; if the weather held he could see himself sitting in the park with a soda, reading the paper, watching the kids play ball. The town looked close enough to the big city so he wouldn’t get odd looks. You sit in the park long enough in a small town and the bulls cruise by; if you’re still there when they cruise by again, expect a visit. Hello, Officer. Here’s my license. I’m looking for someone. She works at the Green Acres at night. I think I know what she looks like; maybe you could help.
Yeah, that would work.
Joe put down the menu. The waiter came over; Joe said he’d have the chops, the waiter said very good and suggested a wine. No thanks. He offered a salad. Joe declined. He informed Joe that he had a choice of potatoes.
“Idaho Red,” Joe said.
“I mean mashed, fried, hashed or baked, sir.”
“I know. Sorry. Baked’s fine. Sour cream.”
“Very good.”
It was always very good with these guys. He suspected they said excellent when you chose something they’d eat and made some spectacularly clever wine choice – the 47 Lafeet Rothchild claret, and leave the cork. Excellent, sir.
He had nothing against waiters. He just didn’t feel any particular need to impress them anymore. Once he took a date to the Maharas; when was that? He met her in the school but she was still there and he wasn’t, so that would have been ‘48. Mary Troutwein. He’d tried hard to impress her, so he took her to the restaurant with the thickest menus in town. All he got was a yes sir from the waiter. Madam got a very good. He made a show of sniffing the beer cap, as a joke – a joke, fer chrissakes, but the waiter stood there waiting for Joe to approve the beer, which was somehow a greater insult than just ignoring him. Mary blushed. That was all he needed to know about her. She probably thought there was a secret waiter’s society where they all drew up lists and compared notes, and she’d have to behave herself at 10 consecutive teas at Taylor's before they let her off the hook. It made him want to do the little bread-roll dance from the Chaplin movie, or hang a spoon on his nose.
Waitresses were different. You always wanted to earn their respect, because they had it tough. Women went into the waitress line because they had to, because they weren’t pretty or smart enough for front-office work, or because their husband wasn’t making enough because he was a drunk or a dummy or just a bum, who knew. They ended up with chapped hands and little burns. The waiters always had smooth hands. They chose this job because it was the one place where they could talk down to other men all day long and not get punched in the mouth.
The chops were pretty good.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Fine. A nice modern development on an early American tradition.”
“Very good, sir.”
Why am I being such a pill today? Joe thought. Because I don’t know what I’m getting into here, that’s why. Because this is a bad idea. Who am I, Mike Hammer? I have no idea what’s down the road.
He smoked two cigarettes, thinking about her; it was a thought he only took out when he got tired of keeping it pushed away. The waiter brought the check. “Very good,” said Joe.
The waiter merely nodded.
The cashier took his five, handed back the change. “Nice jacket, sir,” she said.
“Thanks,” Joe said. “It was my father’s.”
“And it fits you? Say, that’s nice.”
“Spittin’ image,” Joe said.
He took a mint from the dish, walked outside. Still warm. He checked his watch. Halfway. He could still go home now and forget the whole thing.
No, he thought, I can’t. I’d just be back down the road later, this year or next. And I’d be back at the Greyhound. Probably get the same waiter. Probably remembered what I tipped. It was just enough. Down to the penny. They hate that. They think it’s a message.
Sure it is. What isn’t.
He remembered: flush toilets. Long road ahead, might as well be safe. Go see a man about a greyhound. It was clean enough and didn’t reek, and that was always something. You hit a bathroom where it smelled like every guy was trying to put out a fire on the walls, and you wanted to operate the knobs and spouts with your elbows. He washed up, cranked out a yard of coarse brown paper, and dried his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d seen happier guys.
On the way out he remembered: dial tones. He considered calling Mom, telling her where he was bound. What would she say? Oh whatever for? Maybe. Dead silence and do what you want – possible. Don’t – he didn’t want to hear that. He’d tell her when he got back. If she didn’t already know.
Ten miles past the restaurant he turned on the radio and cranked down the window. He lit a cigarette with the Green Acres matchbook. Fourteen matches left. He would save two.
One to light the smoke of the man who sent the notes.
One to burn the book when the story was done.
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