OLDER THAN I LOOK

Back again with another flash fiction piece inspired by Charlie Finch and his excellent contest, which you can learn about here:

October Half-a-Grand Contest Prompt

This time around, Charlie asked us to set the scene between 11:55 and midnight, and also to combine two genres from provided lists. I present to you another scene from the Benny and Lolo diner-verse, this time in the Zombie Apocalypse Family Drama style.

More Benny and Lolo:

https://www.thelizzycoshow.com/p/00275-waffle-weekend-with-benny-and

https://www.thelizzycoshow.com/p/0045-lolo-goes-to-the-sundae-shoppe

-

LEND ME A HAND, BROTHER

“Benny. Benny!”

I didn’t see my strong brother anywhere, just fear made flesh on the floor before me. He lay facedown, his left arm underneath him. “Get the f**k UP, Benny, we gotta move!” As he turned over, I saw the ragged bite in his forearm. He tried to catch my gaze, but my eyes fled to the kitchen clock. 11:55pm. We had been so close to finishing our shift.

I tore off my server apron and wound it around his bleeding arm, then tied the waist strings as tightly as I could around his bicep. I had never made a tourniquet before, but Dad had told me stories from the War. Red bloomed through the apron as I yanked Benny to his feet, and he slumped against the rattling front doors, which we had barricaded moments before with a rolling rack from the kitchen.

Our neighbors banged on the windows and doors of the diner, and we cringed as waves of growling moans moved through the crowd. I slung Benny’s good arm over my shoulders, lifted with my legs, and checked the ropes tying the rack to the door before half-carrying Benny back behind the bar. I took some towels from under the counter, laid Benny down as gently as I could, and tucked the towels under his head. I grabbed a few more, put them in Benny’s good hand, and clamped it over the bloody apron on his arm wound. “”Keep that on tight, bud.” I remembered what Dad had told me about his time in the War: you don’t remove the bandage when someone’s bleeding out, you stick another on top. He also told me you can remove an infected limb to save the body. There might be time to save Benny.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the cleaver we used for hacking up roasts, then dashed back as quickly as I dared while carrying such a large blade.

“Bud, you gotta trust me.”

I grabbed Benny’s hand, stretched out his bitten arm, and brought down the knife against his elbow. I clamped a towel against the stump. The rolling rack danced against the doors. Benny screamed. There was no time to comfort him.

I stood up to see familiar faces: Benny’s parents had come to find him. Their eyes were open, but they would never see him again. Now, part of the zombie mob outside, all they saw were food and its obstacles. I bit my lip and turned for the phone on the wall at the end of the bar. I grabbed the heavy black receiver and furiously wrung the rotary for the number to my childhood home. Surely, Dad would answer. He always did. The ringer buzzed and buzzed. I threw the receiver away in frustration. The rolling rack clattered as Benny’s former parents surged against the front doors. As the ropes finally gave way, I watched the kitchen clock tick over to midnight.

Last week I saw a post from Charlie Finch announcing a 500-word flash fiction contest.

I got excited about revisiting the world of Benny and Lolo and all their restaurant kitchen adventures and knew I had to enter. You can find Charlie’s post here:

Half-a-Grand Flash Fiction Contest

I hope you enjoy this scene from Lolo’s romantic post-work adventure, in which she seeks her own pleasure with surprising results.

A chalky mint from the host stand rattled my teeth as I burst out of the diner. I had changed out of my starched uniform in the staff bathroom, and now the wind toyed with the hem of my soft civilian sundress as I strode down the sidewalk toward the ice cream shop. I raised a palm to my eyes against the piercing sunset glare and nodded to the Millers as they walked toward the diner for their Sunday dinner. I made a right and ran my hand along the low marble wall surrounding the church as I strode past on a sidewalk that couldn’t decide between brick cobbles or wide paving stones. This time of day always showed the shadow of the steeple laid perfectly across the road, its dark end pointing toward the one bar in town with good beer. I suppose God only knows if that was intentional.

The big silver bell in the tower rang seven times, the last chime of the day. This meant that Tara the Ice Cream Girl was about to get off work: I had sussed this out the last time we talked, when she came into the diner during one of my dinner shifts for a post-work hamburger. After Tara left, Benny on the grill gave me a hard time for my appalling lack of skill at chatting her up: “Seriously, Lolo, I was watching…you asked her if she liked the weather today. You gotta get it together or I’m gonna steal her for myself.”

My plan this time was to compliment her on winning the Miss Healthy Spine Vermont pageant: I had seen her picture in yesterday’s newspaper, grinning between the two finalists while posing next to their flawlessly straight spinal X-rays. I couldn’t help but giggle at the visible gas bubble in the guts of the girl on Tara’s right: we all tried so hard to hide our bodily functions from the world, and there hers were for all to see.

As the final church bell of the evening tolled, I pulled open the door to Silverson’s Ice Cream Shoppe, rubbing the top of its brass handle for luck. Ages ago, Sal Silverson had commissioned this special handle for his shop, shaped like an ice cream scoop, and the top was now burnished from years of customers’ grateful hands.

Tara clocked me from the counter: she grabbed a nickel from her tip jar and dropped it into the jukebox, and “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” led me inside. As I made my way to her, I watched her retrieve a long sundae spoon, dip it into the hot fudge warmer, lick the underside of the spoon so as not to drip, and slink toward me. As my palms met the smooth wooden countertop, Tara boldly slid the sundae spoon into my mouth, in front of everyone and their root beer floats, too. As I licked my lips, stunned, she leaned in and murmured:

“Sweets for the sweet.”

Subscribe for more adventures in the diner-verse with Benny and Lolo

Welcome to OLDER THAN I LOOK, a memoir podcast from The Lizzy Co Show.

Episode 004: A trip in time and space to the malls of Lizzy’s youth. We tally the lessons tucked into shopping bags.

Welcome to OLDER THAN I LOOK, a memoir podcast from The Lizzy Co Show.

Episode 003: the episode Lizzy wishes didn’t have to exist. A deep dive into what Lizzy’s CPTSD looks like, what caused it in her body, and how she cleaned up the mess others made.

Resources mentioned :

Electric bike

Knit weighted blanket

Leakproof water bottle

Noise-cancelling over-ear headphones

Weighted eye mask

Weighted hoodie

(Note: most of this stuff is a little pricey. I acquired this collection over a long period of time, and mostly on credit, but it was all worth it. What matters is that you get the best version you can of the tools that are helpful to you.)

Concepts mentioned:

27 Club

Aphantasia

Intensive outpatient program

Internal Family Systems

Korean War PTSD

Locations mentioned:

Mintzer Brothers Hardware

St. Joseph’s Orphanage

Theme song: “Controversy” by 40 Watt Hype

A couple months ago one of my favorites, SUM FLUX, put out a call for stories set in a Waffle House. At that time, I had taken a step back from my weekly posts to focus on my cafe, but something about this competition felt like it was made for my voice and I found myself drawn back to the old Google Docs screen. Sandolore Sykes invited all participants to mass-post our contributions today, and I look forward to checking out what the other writers created!

I drew on my twenty years of restaurant work to write this story, and I hope that shines through when you read. I chose to share a scene from the perspective of a waitress with a dangerous and delicious secret, and I reserved a seat at one of her tables just for you. Please, dig in and enjoy.

-

Benny and Lolo

Rock ‘N Soul slaps onto the Wurlitzer, and “Cry to Me” fills the Waffle House. Benny on the grill’s in a sentimental mood today, and it’s his turn to run the jukebox, so it’s been this s**t all afternoon. I don’t have the heart to tell him to change it to something we actually want to hear. A tense family of four gathers themselves from the table in the back and leaves in an earthquake of angry whispers. Gotta wipe that table.

Golden hour filters Benny’s cigarette smoke, which mingles with the swirling trails coming from the few diners along the counter. The Owner got big ideas and drilled that new Honeywell into the wall last week, and now the smoke cloud twists over to that corner. The door jangles as Benny steps outside for a moment of sunshine.

Next on the turntable: “As Time Goes By.” Good old Dooley Wilson. I blush, recalling my first-ever date, when the boy who sat behind me in World History took me to see Casablanca at the fancy drive-in movie theater at the edge of town. (I remember when Lon Detler finally agreed to sell part of his land to Mr. Philip Smith so his company could build the Orwell Ozoner. The op-eds in the weeks before flew fast and thick.) I forget my date’s name now, but I remember the panic and curiosity foaming inside me as his hand slid up my thigh in the backseat of his old Super Deluxe. The seat was beige velour in my own left hand as I braced underneath him. I turned my head to the left and stared at my fingers, watching them stroke the fabric’s pile back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t know I was a virgin, and I didn’t know how to tell him. I didn’t know so many things. How long have I been staring out the window?

Benny tries to sweep me up into a two-step as he comes back inside from his cigarette break, but I dodge his grasp. Cut the s**t. Customers are watching. I know he has a crush on me, and Mom always tells me not to encourage the boys. (I have no intention of encouraging them anyway, but for a different, curvier reason than Mom’s approval.)

I twirl to Dooley’s croon as I head to check the coffee pot. The sad puddle in the bottom won’t do for the dinner rush, so I start another batch. Coffee filters are running low. The same week we got our smoke-eater, we found ourselves with a new percolator that came with a bright orange coffee pot. The Owner knew Barbara Goette from their time studying at Freiburg, and in the days leading up to the arrival of the new coffee setup, he told anyone who would listen how radiant Barbara had looked when he first spotted her across the glowing green quad. None of this meant much to me, of course, never having had the chance to leave Orwell, much less the state, very much less the USA.

This is all to say that passion is the reason The Owner insists on serving Nazi decaf, which should not surprise you, since coffee is a major and ongoing point of contention here. Maxwell House is a nonstarter as long as Benny’s around. We found out the hard way that the sight of the blue can gives the guy shell shock, so we serve Folgers because it’s easier to change brands than it is to train a new cook to fry eggs the way Benny does. I don’t understand how he pulls it off with those shaky hands, but he keeps the regulars coming back, so he’s worth the extra cost of the red can. One thing he can’t do: scrambled eggs. Rumor says it’s because he saw a man get shot in the back of the head during the war. (I hear things a lady shouldn’t while I’m working. I like being part of the club who get to hear the real story, and I’ve learned not to repeat it when I get home. I just wish I could dress like the boys if my coworkers are going to treat me like one.) Jesus. How long has that guy in the corner been trying to get my attention?

My uniform feels hot, but not the way my nylons boil. Every minute, my skin pushes away the crisp Dacron dress like some strange magnetism, but the hands of God himself always seem to wrap it back around me. I see Benny’s button-down, slacks, and apron, see his body covered neck to ankles, and scream inside as I wish for a shield between the world and my body, which seems to be a black hole for stares of men. I see them, sitting at the counter, how their eyes dart away, anywhere in the room but my ass, when I turn. I see the down-up-down-up flicking as they fight to make eye contact while they crave my breasts in my dress. Don’t even get me started on how they joke about the little paper hat.

Click-slap goes the jukebox, and Chet Baker croons “Everything Happens to Me.” Jesus. Benny’s really in a mood today. I know it’s his turn to pick the music, so something has to be done. I check to see if the coffee I started earlier is ready. Just finished. God, I’m good. I pour a fresh cup with a dose of cream, no sugar. Wipe the table in the corner when you get back out. I paste on my most motherly smile and walk back through the narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen, where I find Benny pouting over the flat-top as he watches an egg fry. “The lunch rush was long today. Brought you a cup.”

Benny eases a spatula beneath the over-medium and slides it onto butter-slick white toast waiting on a corner of the flat-top.

“What do you want, Lolo?”

“Checking in, bud. What’s up with the sad songs today?”

“Oh nothing, I’m just going to die alone.”

“Benny…”

“No, really. I asked her to the mixer they’re having at the Legion next week and she laughed. She laughed, Lo.”

I work to keep my expression neutral. Benny has been in love with Rachel, the girl who works nights and weekends at the ice cream shop, since before the war. In my most honest hours, I can admit that I have been too, only I don’t get to put on torch songs and make it everyone else’s problem. (The last time I went to the shop, she gave me an extra scoop in my root beer float and winked. I thought I would fall off my stool.) Benny sees something flash across my face and decides it’s a critique.

“You think she’s too young for me.” This is so far afield that it makes me physically tired.

“No, I’m just having a long day.” It’s too much to hope that he’ll ask a follow-up question. “Drink up. The next rush will be here soon.”

I nudge the cup closer to him and head out to the counter, my mind ablaze with two thoughts: she didn’t want him for the mixer, and my shift ends in ten minutes. I try to stay busy. Fill the napkin dispenser. Shine the soda machine. Wipe that table. Don’t think about Rachel’s perfect lipstick on her perfect lips.

Finally, the dinner server arrives, and I win my freedom for another night. I spend a little extra time cleaning the grit from under my nails as I wash up in the employee restroom, and I even take a swing at a cute ponytail. Don’t make eye contact on your way out the door or someone will want something from you. Benny’s day be damned, I slip a nickel in the Wurly and Helen Forrest sings “Mad About The Boy” in my wake. Time for dessert.

-

Lolo suggests you subscribe, but mostly she’s here for the tips and the ladies.

Welcome to OLDER THAN I LOOK, a memoir podcast from The Lizzy Co Show.

Episode 002.5: a short poem about knitting, envy, and growing up. (I used to watch my mother crafting on the couch, well aware that if I tried to get her attention she would be frustrated with me for breaking her focus.)

-

Read along here:

Teach me that which steals your eyes from my face,

This thing that overrules my every earnest case.

What drug do your needles pour that I cannot overwhelm with my glowing teeth?

I could be the best cigarette, if only you’d let me.

A blade between your bones for all the times you bruised my skin,

A silence when you cry out for comfort.

Sky, be my own needle lancing lightning into those who strike me.

Green sneaks into the beds of the trees, damp and surprising.

-

Theme song: “Controversy” by 40 Watt Hype

Welcome to OLDER THAN I LOOK, a memoir podcast from The Lizzy Co Show.

Episode 002: an adventure in shifting identity.

Theme song: “Controversy” by 40 Watt Hype

Welcome to OLDER THAN I LOOK, a new memoir podcast from The Lizzy Co Show.

001: a tour of body hair attitudes, advice, and removal techniques within one rural 1990s Vermont family.

Mentioned in the episode:

The Schick Personal Touch

The Epilady

Theme song: “Controversy” by 40 Watt Hype