(Dr.) Spendlove

In Des Moines there’s a little breakfast joint called Jack’s Country Restaurant. On the front window is a gargantuan blue decal that says 30th Anniversary. This, I’m sure, has been up there for more than a year. On the other window another sign says, Best Food in Town, which is mostly true. The first time you enter Jack’s Country Restaurant you feel uncomfortable. The doorway opens directly into the middle of the floor, tables and booths surround you, and everyone, without fail, acknowledges your entrance. There’s a strong sense of intrusion. Jack’s has just the right amount of grimey, too. The floors look like they’ve gone at least a week without vacuuming and the windows are painted with many five-year-olds’ maple syrup designs.

Jack’s Country Restaurant is a café of regulars. These people don’t need menus, they’ve memorized them, they’ve probably contributed to them. These people are all well into their lives with mortgages, thousands of dollars of debt, grandchildren, garages cramped with wrenches and rusty bicycles. These are the kind of people who upon entering are welcomed by name. I used to find comfort in this sort of entrance and appearance, and in fact, still do. Most mornings I go to a café in North Seattle where they know my name, we have a sense of understanding. It’s good, both sides benefit. But there’s something about Jack’s that unsettles me. No matter how many times I go there, I will never feel like anything more than an outsider. I suspect that Jack’s is an enabler. Jack’s makes it okay for these people to stay in Des Moines and disregard the rest of the world. The men who come to Jack’s are men I never want to be: T-shirts held tightly beneath leather belts looped through denim shorts, knee-high socks coming out of old Nike sneakers. These are lonely men, and most are married.

Maybe Jack’s unsettles me because it’s full of waiting. A mile or so down the road from Jack’s is an old folks’ home. The residents come with their children to Jack’s and order coffee and eggs. They make surface discussion because the parents don’t care what the children are saying, but appreciate their attempt to make their lives feel normal, and because the children have no idea how to talk about death. A friend of mine said the other day as we passed an old folks home, “Just because you put the word ‘Manor’ in the name doesn’t mean it’s a nice place to live.” There was an old man seated in a walker staring blankly at the cement as we drove past. Never do that to me. I refuse to be kept like a reptile in controlled temperatures with scheduled eating times, predetermined outings, and semi-regular visits from the outside world.

The other day I was in Jack’s eying the regulars (those I assumed to be regulars, anyways) and a young woman walked in. She looked extremely out of place, as I’m sure I did. With here was a little brunette with big, bulgy brown eyes. I couldn’t tell whether this woman was her mother or her baby-sitter, either way, I was quickly disgusted with her treatment of the child. The woman ordered the girl strawberry pancakes and whipped cream. This woman, like the elderly, was in waiting. She kept looking to the door and back in the kitchen as if whoever she expected might decide to take the back door. Finally, a man walked in with a long sleeved Mariner’s t-shirt. The little girl was quite obviously frightened of this man. The waitress brought the girl hot chocolate. After a couple minutes, the girl crossed her arms and silently began to cry; that huge unfathomably sad cry that makes anyone within 30 yards want to make everything better. I was sitting almost directly across from the girl and couldn’t help but look. I wanted to smile at her, say, Really, things will get easier, but I was afraid I’d only frighten her. The couple began to develop a prognosis.

“I smiled at her and I think it may have startled her,” the man said to the woman.

“Oh, come on, did he scare you?” she said to the girl mockingly. The girl didn’t respond, the tears kept coming. “Come on, speak up. Big girls don’t cry,” the woman said. I wanted to tell the girl to cry, cry, cry, let it all come out. “Listen, stop crying. You don’t need to cry.” I wanted to through my water glass at the woman’s head. “You need to stop crying, why are you crying?” The girl could do no more than shake her head left and right.

I glanced over at the girl again and she glanced back.

“Do you like toys?” the man asked. “There’s a dollar store down the street,” he said to the woman, already prepared to buy his way into their lives.

“You like toys, right? What do you like?” the woman asked the girl. She was a terrible mother, or an even worse babysitter. “I think there’s a Toys-R-Us around here,” she said to the man. “Would you like to do that?” she asked the girl threateningly. Again, the girl could do no more than shake her head.

“Alright, you’re not doing this in here,” she decided finally, “sorry,” she said to the man and stood up to take the girl outside. They stood in the frame of the window for all to watch their tiff like a silent film in color.

The man kept himself occupied with his menu. He was lonely. He was in the wrong place with the wrong woman, that much was apparent. The girl and the woman came back and the pancakes arrived.

“Would you like more whipped cream?” she asked the girl. The girl nodded.

The entire time more old people came, lonely men left, and I watched, eating my eggs, English muffin, and sausage links. That day I decided not to order from the menu. When the waitress came I had it all closed and nicely waiting for her. I wanted to play my cards, it felt daring.

“Two eggs, an English muffin, and two sausage links, please.”

“Hasbhrowns?”

“No, thanks.” She grabbed my trifold laminate menu and pranced away to take coffee to some regular. I didn’t know how much anything I’d ordered cost, but I didn’t want any of the menu choices, I wanted to construct my own little meal of simple pleasures.

The couple finished their meal. The man looked discontent, but mildly happy. The woman looked confused but had convinced herself she was content. The girl was on her way to developing into some terrible mixture of the two.

I got up, paid, left a nice tip, and left. I haven’t been back to Jack’s since. If I went to Jack’s enough and ordered without the menu, I’d become a regular boxed up in a little café and turn stale like the crumbs of pancakes on the floor. Des Moines wasn’t meant for me. Des Moines is a town of quiet doom and invisible walls. My six months in Des Moines were more than enough to teach me I have a lot more to offer than Des Moines has to accept.