Filling Station
by James Penha
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The Colonel smiled. “Fried chicken is best enjoyed with the hands, Mrs. Hines. That’s why each piece is sized to be picked up easily, don’t you know.”
“Colonel, I pride myself on my skill at deboning with a knife and fork every bit of meat from any bird worth eating. You should see me attack the chicken cacciatore at Rector’s in New York City.” I tasted the chicken breast first.
“Chicken Catch-a-what?”
“It’s Italian. But, Colonel, I may never bother with it again. Your chicken” — I took a chunk from the thigh — “your chicken has spoiled me.” I worked on the drumstick. “So moist... so delicious!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hines. I shall leave you to enjoy it.”
“No, no, Colonel. Please have a seat here. I hate to eat alone.”
“But Mr. Hines...?”
“Perhaps you will have your daughter wrap that basket so that we can take it with us. My husband’s eating patterns are as eccentric as most of his habits.” The Colonel took the seat to my right. “But he is lovable and charming. And he is a self-made man.”
“As I hope to be.”
“As you shall be, from what I taste here.”
The Colonel smiled. At his call, Margaret retrieved the basket and set a cup of tea and a bottle of bourbon in front of him. He added a hefty shot of liquor to his cup and sipped.
“The muffins and the corn are marvelous, but the chicken is especially memorable,” I said as, satiated, I wiped my lips with the napkin.
“Let me clear your place,” said the Colonel and he did so.
I took my pad and pencil from my bag while he was in the kitchen and wrote some notes.
When the Colonel returned to the table, he asked me what my husband had made himself into.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said he was a self-made man.”
“Oh, yes, of course. He... we... he published a book last year. It has done quite well, although we have yet to earn much from it. It was self-published.”
“A book? Have I heard of it?”
“Perhaps. It’s called Adventures in Good Eating, a sort of Baedeker to restaurants along the byways of America. We are working on a new edition now that will be distributed through a real New York publisher. I paused. “And I should... we should... well, what do you think of this, Colonel?” I showed him the jottings I had just made:
Corbin, Kentucky. Sanders Shell Service station and Café
41 — Jct. with 25, 25 E. _ Mi. N. of Corbin. A very good place to stop en route to Cumberland Falls and the Great Smokies for extraordinary fried chicken, sizzling steaks, country ham, fresh corn, hot biscuits.
The Colonel read the page over and over. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t know.” He looked up at me. “You mean to put this in your... your husband’s book?”
“Yes!”
“Will many people read it?”
“Not read exactly. But we expect many thousands will consult it.”
“But I only have this one table and these six chairs. What if your book sends more people than we can handle? My daughters... and my wife.”
“I’d love to meet your wife.”
“Josie’s a shy one.” The Colonel moved his chair closer to mine. “Mrs. Hines, my wife and I haven’t gotten along real well since we opened the restaurant. She likes decorating, but she’s not much happy with all the kitchen work and the cleaning, don’t you know. If I tell her our business is going to boom... ” The Colonel removed his glasses and cleared his throat. “She’s likely to bust.” He whispered, “She’s likely to leave.”
“Colonel, let me tell you what I have learned in my half-century on this earth. You, I think, are somewhat younger than I, but even so, for the middle-aged, a successful business is just as satisfying as a successful marriage. And sometimes, you can’t tell the difference between the two.”
“I might believe that,” he said, pausing before completing his sentence, “if I had a partner like you.”
I tore the open page from my pad, folded it in fours, and placed it on the table, my right hand firmly upon it. “Very well, Mr. Sanders. We’ll not promote your restaurant in our book.”
The Colonel put his right hand on mine. “No, I’m sorry. I need—“
I removed my hand with the page and unfolded it in front of me. “Mr. Sanders, this project — these Adventures books — they keep me going. They keep me alive. Literally.”
“Literally, Mrs. Hines?”
“Last year, my doctor said I needed to have a growth removed. A tumor.”
“Oh, no, my dear lady, no.” The Colonel’s face reddened.
“No, indeed, Mr. Sanders. I said ‘No! I will not allow anyone to start cutting out pieces of me. As if I were one of your chickens. What a mess! Where would it all end?’” I knew I was about to cry, but I resisted the temptation. I would not have my make-up run in front of a stranger. “Well, I’m still here. All in one piece, traveling the USA in a brand-new Plymouth with a man I adore. The work keeps us going.” I looked at my watch. “And, dear Colonel, we do have to get going. If you will bring me that basket wrapped up in a nice package for Duncan. Just add the price of the basket to my bill for the food and gasoline.”
“There will be no bill.”
“If you agree to our including your restaurant in Adventures in Good Eating, there must be a bill. It would be unethical to review an eatery otherwise. We state that right in the Introduction. We need to be objective. And trustworthy. It matters.”
The Colonel waited a moment before rising. “I’ll prepare the bill.” He left for the kitchen.
The screen door swung open and in came Duncan and his friend. They were half-naked and covered with sweat and grass. Duncan, I realized, was amazingly fit for his age. “I have learned lacrosse, Flo, thanks to Roscoe here.” He wound his arm around the young man’s shoulder. “He’s good.”
“I can see that,” I said and held up my note on the restaurant. “So is the food. I have a doggy bag coming for you.”
“Terrific.”
“You can eat in the back seat while I drive. I’m not about to sit next to you in your present condition.”
“No, no, sweetheart. Roscoe and I are just heading to the shower. I’ll be back in a flash, more beautiful than ever.” Roscoe led Duncan into the bedroom where I had found the washroom.
I secured my pad and all my papers and pencils in my handbag and put on my gloves before heading for the Plymouth. I felt like driving anyway and so took my place at the wheel A huge sycamore, its leaves dropping with the strong afternoon breeze, shaded the car. It was very comfortable. I closed my eyes. I was weary, but would force myself to drive.
“Mrs. Hines! Are you all right?”
“Just relaxing, Mr. Sanders.” He was wearing his yellow overalls again. He handed me the package for Duncan and a bill.
“No charge for the basket,” he said, and I almost remonstrated, but he explained that from now on, he would be serving his meals on good white plates. “I may have to order a gross or two once your book comes out.” He smiled.
I paid the bill with an ample tip for Margaret. I pulled out three more dollar bills. “And for Roscoe. Tell him it’s from Duncan.” The Colonel thanked me, pocketed the money, and walked off to the station.
Duncan, well-dressed and groomed, strolled up and got into the passenger’s seat. “Ready for our next adventure in good eating, darling?”
“Ready, Dunky.” I started the car, but as we passed the pumps, Mr. Sanders waved me down with his squeegee.
“Can’t have you driving with all that sycamore sap on the windscreen, Mrs. Hines.” The Colonel cleaned the glass thoroughly, meticulously, as Roscoe, fully covered in yellow, worked on the side and rear windows.
The glass shone then in the rays of the setting sun. The Colonel leaned into my window, his left hand on the roof of the Plymouth. “Do take care, Mrs. Hines.”
“You, too, Mr. Sanders.” He smiled, stood erect, and watched our Plymouth turn left onto Route 25.
Copyright © 2020 by James Penha
