Those Are not What They Seem
Dell was done with the rigors of his information technology job, at least for the day. IT was a polite way to put it; it would have been called âGeek Squadâ (which, as Dell knew perfectly well, was a quotation from the movie Heathers) in other situations. He was support. He supplied the patience that frustrated users lacked, for the most part allowing them to think though and solve their own problems. And for this he got little thanks, and sometimes people said stupid things to him such as âDude, youâre a Dell!â
Having parked his car, he entered the breastaurant. He had begun to frequent it recently and couldn't help playing detective about their own computing and security systems, as this was his area of background and expertise. Beginning in the parking lot, there were cameras so that staff inside could make sure their waitresses werenât being stalked or harassed. This was a family restaurant, allowing people of all ages, but there was a small display of fake IDs. Certain people in their late teens and early twenties thought it clever to sneak in and try to drink illegally there, and then they forgot important details such as what their (purported) birthday was. Dell took a seat by the ID wall. His own fake ID was up on a wall somewhere in Connecticut, or would be if they preserved these things for posterity the way they should. But he had been pretty straight-arrow since having that nabbed. A clean record.
The beer mat, the water, the smile and utterance of greeting from a woman heâs met before. Dell replied congenially, requesting a Heineken, and then looked around further. He could tell just based on their glances that the manager-like guy who did maintenance, Ned, and the woman who clearly ran the financial end of the establishment, Norah, had some profound and romantic connection, although Ned wore a gold band indicative of marriage and Norah had no rings of any sort. They were always professional in their interactions with each other and everyone else. Dell supposed that people here were generally professional, although other professional interactions were often more overtly friendly. And of course they usually involved providing him with visual access to T-shirt clad breasts.
Dell listened more than he talked, although he was polite and interested in what people in this establishment had to say. For instance: Lara (or however her name was spelled) was no longer around, and everyone seemed to miss her. Mike and Bob were some strange pair â the wrong age or attitude for this place, and people were worried about them, or worried about themselves because of them.
Maybe one day heâd be able to help the people here by suggesting they reboot a point-of-sale device that was acting up, or something. People are around at times to help. He had seen an ambulance outside one day, parked off the the door, and assumed that there had been no emergency â the brave EMT had just stopped in for some nourishment, no doubt. The milk of heroes. No doubt, law enforcement personnel, perhaps park rangers, also came by at times.
The Heineken was brought to him. Dell said, âthank you, Shelly.â She gave a quick, Germanic titter of laughter. âYou remembered my name?â âWell, Iâve been here four times, and you were kind enough to wait on me once before. And the other woman I met has a name that rhymes with yours, making everything easy to remember.â Again, the titter.
For a moment, he thought that he might be able to spend a long time in a friendly place like this. To settle down for a bit. They call people in diners and coffeehouses âcampersâ if they get out books or computers or what not and hang around for a long time, but what would be the longest pleasant stay one could manage here? An hour a week, over a season? Or, for some reason, a much more absurd notion came to mind: Twenty-five years?
