Maude's Den

I had just appeared last night in this town for the first time. The sign on the outskirts welcomed me to New Hopesville and it sort of threatened me that I better enjoy my stay. It spelled 'welcome' without an 'e' in the end. That added to my annoyance. I am chasing the story of a three legged dog that was in the news some months ago for stopping a bank robbery.
When you start as a journalist right after finishing college, this is what you should expect unless you are Alex Polter. Alex Polter and I began our internship on the same day. Alex's father is golfing buddies with the Editor-in-Chief of The Newsroom. My father sells dictionaries and magazine subscriptions door to door. Alex's mother is a writer and has a charity named after her, even though she is alive and well. My mother did more for me than my father, by dying, giving birth to my younger sister. That gained my scrawny stature some pity points and I wasn't beaten up too badly after school.
At The Newsroom they told me that I would make a good field reporter while Alex Polter is working with the editor of the sports column. They told me this in my second week when I got their coffee orders mixed-up. The intern before me had said something similar. He forgot the jelly donuts. He was promoted to a field reporter with an assignment 300 miles away. He was to track down and interview an old war vet who had figured out the art of levitation. Catch was that the old man could levitate only on Fridays. At least that's what the old man told the intern when he found him one Saturday.
You mess-up Chinese take away Thursdays by opting for delivery instead of picking it up yourself which according to the Chief Editor, is the quickest way and you are on your way to 400 miles south of hell, looking for a parrot who can translate Sanskrit into Hebrew. Or researching the story of the woman who eats piano keys. Or the boy who can summon the ghost of his dead goldfish. They will send you out to the unknown, faraway towns that anyone who can read has never heard of, to fish out stories that are as close to being real as any religion. I had started out as a journalist right after finishing college, so here I am looking for the savior of the bank, the three legged canine, the hound of justice with a disabled parking permit. I knew it in my heart, Alex Polter would never be subjected to this.
I am in my hotel room in New Hopesville, admiring the stale sheets on the bed and little less stale drapes on the window and there is no carpet. I opened the rusty window, the air outside is the same as inside, stale. I heard when Alex went for his first field job, he stayed at the Raddison Blu. Each room has a spa there or so they say. The Newsroom paid for it all, for Alex. I paid for this stale room myself and for the bus ride.
I left my hotel early in the morning without having any breakfast because the hotel did not have a kitchen, to look for the bank. I reached a street with no signs or names. After asking three different men, three different times and after being given three different sets of directions, I have finally managed to put myself in front of the Bank of New Hopesville.
And its doors are locked.
Opposite the street with no name I see a cafe with a little sign hanging inside its glass-door that says Maude's Den. Open. My stomach is rumbling.
I went in and sat down in one of the many booths and waited for a server. No one came. I could smell eggs and bacon and coffee and hash browns and muffins. But no one came to my booth. I went to the counter and tapped around on it with my hands but not too aggressively. I don't want some dumb redneck to shoot me for belting his plastic mahogany.
The smell of bacon intensified as the kitchen door opened and this middle aged, deformed creature appeared. His back should not have been as crooked looking for his age but I could see his upper spinal column bones peeking at me through his shirt. He smiled pleasantly and wished me good morning and apologized for not getting the bell fixed at the top of the entry door. He said that usually alerts him when a customer walks in when he is on his own. He pointed to the top of the door frame at the little golden bell and just that very moment the door opened, missing the little golden gong. A live presentation of its failure.
A man walked in, fastening an apron with little checkered squares around his waist and yelling out his sorries for being late to the man who had just said sorry to me. We all say sorry every now and then, none of us means dogshit by it. He waltzed around the counter, still trying to tuck the laces of his apron behind him. Old man told me he'll take care of me as he himself walked back in through the same door he had just appeared from smiling. Man at the counter had done his apron to his heart's content and gave up on tucking the laces all the way, so they would not dangle behind him. He pinned a name tag on his shirt that had jeremy written on it in all lowercase letters. It added to my annoyance.
jeremy asked about my order if I had decided, pointing his finger towards the ceiling at the menu on the wall behind him. Of course he had laces dangling behind him like he had a tail made of checkered squares. I need not to look at the menu, I had made my mind a few minutes earlier when I had already smelled my breakfast. I told him two eggs over easy and a side of bacon and coffee and hash browns and a muffin. I was not just peckish, I was indeed starving. For dinner, I had looked at instagram stories of Alex Polter, he was at one of those places where they charge you the price of a new car for a little dribble of food, on a square platter.
The bus ride to New Hopesville had taken its toll on me. And I went and sat back in a booth but this time in a booth closer to the door that had the tang of my soon to be breakfast. I scroll through my phone. It says 3G on top not 4G. It was no service most of the way here. Alex had posted a picture of his breakfast, it looks like ambrosia made by Gods themselves.
Ten minutes had passed and I see a shadow blocking the light coming from underneath the food door. And it opens and the hunched-back old man walks with a tray full of my order. He sets down two thick white ceramic plates contained with my sizzling breakfast. The all lowercase jeremy walks up to my table and he is holding a steaming pot of coffee. He fills up my cup up to the brim. Coffee is so hot that I can't tell if it is smoke or steam. I grab the fork and knife from a dented tin cylinder placed on my table. And I am about to go to the town of New Hopesville on my breakfast. I see three egg yolks on the whites. I see a whole part of the plate covered in bacon. I see two cakes of hash browns. And on the second smaller but equally thicker plate I see two muffins and a folded note. It was from the old man and it explained the extra servings. It read "thank you, for your patience". I feasted like a hog.
As I had finished the eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee, that entry door missed the gong one more time and another man with an apron walked in. Only difference between him and lower case jeremy was that he was at least, to my estimate, 10 years older than him and had not just a half untied apron around him but also a toque hanging from his balding head. He muttered 'don't say it' on repeat while approaching the kitchen door but all-lowercase jeremy had mentioned that chef-hat guy was late again. He bore no name tag.
As I sat there, waiting for the bank to be opened, staring at the muffins, I felt like being productive. So I moved near the counter with my empty mug and full muffin plate and occupied a stool opposite to all-lowercase jeremy. He was busy on his phone and moving around straws from a giant bag to small holder cups. Before I could say anything he asked if I was passing by or planning to stay. I made it clear I will most likely be gone before they close for tonight. The old gentle hunchback had now appeared again in the dining area with a mop and a bucket. Great, the janitor cooked my breakfast.
I leaned on the counter and asked the straw transporter if he had ever used that bank opposite to his workplace, to which he replied he had an unrelenting hate for the banks. He had opted to get paid every week in cash. No doubt he also considered taxation as theft but we didn't go down that conversational path. I asked him again if he knew what time it opened. I got told around 10 and it was 20 past 8 in my dollar store watch. Alex Polter wears a Patek Philippe. They both do the same thing. Only difference was, my watch had seen better times.
I sat back and my appetite kicked in once again but not as hard as it did before, so I picked up a muffin and got busy. With my mouth full of muffin, I noticed a picture of a young woman, pretty as a country girl, hanging on the wall. She must be old now as the dress she is wearing, no one wears that kind anymore. Not even in this backwards town, I thought. There was a poem next to it and it went something like this :
Phone waits on hold,
to say you're mine
Only to be told
We were on borrowed time
I'd have called often
I'd have visited more,
bedside has softened
The one facing the door
Your fragrance declining
But memories do linger
RingBox houses the diamond
One made for your finger
-Love Trev
I read it twice because it had a nice ring to it. Then I returned to my muffin.
The non-existent gong missed the door and it let in two strangers. They were not just strangers to me but to our lowercase jeremy as well. He greeted them with two separate 'good morning' as he put down the straw holders on the counter, like acne on his face, odd spaces apart. This added to my annoyance.
Strangers were busy in a conversation of their own and they took the booth near the window. They were dressed for golf. Or a yacht club meeting. They had polo shirts on and Rolex's. One of them mentioned to the other that this was the only place open nearby, which made the other scoff. Scoffer replied with 'he better get here early then'. I figured a third polo wearing Rolex was to join them. They weren't locals anymore but both of them had been here before. I suspected that when the scoffer grunted 'hasn't changed a bit, has it?', looking around the whole cafe like an owl scouting for a dead rat.
The other golfer also talked in a scoffing tone similar to his friend but not quite the same. It was more like he looked up to him and was working on his scoffing and as well as facial expressions which indicated he wasn't impressed or had seen and been to a better cafe. At this point I had concluded the original scoffer was the richer of the two. That goes without saying they were both fat and kind of bald-ish.
Now the pimple-faced, cylindrical drinking aid sorter, lowercase jeremy just abandoned our conversation about the bank and his hate for bureaucracy to take the order from the new customers. He brought them actual menus, not just his god-like erect finger. That was only for me, how special that makes me feel. They asked him about the coffee. The type, the beans and the method of brewing. All of those were answered by one word, 'usual'. Utter disappointment reflected on unhealthy golfers' faces like they didn't know it already and then they ordered two cups instantly. I heard a phone ring and it belonged to the scoffer. Whoever it was, they told him to hurry up as they were at the 'old den' and had 'better things to do'.
They also knew the hunchback janitor/chef. A sarcastic "hello Trev" from the scoffer-in-training made me want to kick his teeth in. Old guy knew them too and he nodded his head, finished the last corner of the floor and left the dining area. I don't know why I hated them, I barely knew them. I barely knew the old man but I was munching on his muffins of generosity. Guess a kind act helps you judge better or I was just in an unconscious debt that I had to pay off by visualizing myself kneeing that fat prick in the mouth.
I looked out the window, a quick glance at the bank entrance but my vision focused on a poster. A warning poster. It was on the glass window of the diner and was coming off the left top corner. It had a picture of a deer and two yellow light beams. It was an old warning that was pasted in little countryside towns where deer were known to stare down cars moving faster than sunshine. After a few horrible accidents there was a campaign to raise awareness that deer exist.
The warning was clear, a deer caught in the headlights will not move and you shall stay vigilant while driving and apply brakes safely. I have only seen deer on TV. I have not seen a real forest from the inside. I come from a city so huge and far ahead. I have never seen a sapling grow into a tree either. City workers come in big trucks from God knows where and they punch giant holes in the giant concrete sidewalks to penetrate it with giant trees.
All sidewalks look the same. So do all the trees. None of them have fruits. Wasted opportunity.
I am scared of driving a car. I don't own a driving license. This poster brings very little fear to my heart. Despite all this, I would like to see a real-life deer one day and if it is caught in headlights that would be cherry on top.
Golden gong missed again as it was not there when the door opened, a third Polo wearing Rolex walked in. This new entry completed the picture for the rich scum trinity. Fat and grey Brillo pad for chest hair, peaking out of the unbuttoned, well tucked XXXL polo.
Latest entry to our story and the den, knew the old hunchback as well. He stood in the empty space between booths, smirked with eyes on his pals and with his nose somehow pointed at the old Trev. It was fifteen past nine and the bank was still deserted inside and out. I decided to fill up my coffee cup with the help of lowercase anarchist bank-hating jeremy and sat back down in my booth with one muffin still on my plate. I had forgotten about how better Alex's life was for a brief moment. Three of his would-be uncles had my attention.
I finished my coffee and felt extreme secondhand grief for the old generous hunchback. Maude was dead. This is one of my vices that I enjoy, my reason to become a journalist. I like listening to other people without them knowing. I feel that there is nothing wrong with eavesdropping on strangers as long as you don't give your input.
Maude's den used to be just 'the den'. Maude had been the heart of this town, a beautiful woman. Rolexes talked about her and her relationship with Trevor. The old janitor / cook / owner of the den. It was heartbreaking, what had happened. They laughed at it. Many men pursued Maude until she had cancer, only Trev stuck around after that. By the sound of the conversation that my thieving ears had just pinched. No shit, She had her heart set on Trev.
Trev and Maude were to be engaged but she never made it. This filled the Rolexes with unattainable bliss that Trev couldn't have Maude who was unattainable for them. I fought a rage fit and moved on from the conversation.
In this world, we can pay back the debt of money with a whole lot of things but cannot pay back someone's kindness with anything but kindness. So I decided to pay back old Trevor's kindness by saying thank you kindly, and word about his cafe and it's hearty food will make its way into an article by The Newsroom . I must say this out loud as I want the fat rolexes to hear.
I approached the counter again to ask for Trev, so I could tell him in front of everyone with a display of a firm respectful handshake, that I will always remember his generosity of muffins and extra bacon and extra hash browns. I imagined what the look would be on the rolexes' faces. They had called this place The Cafe Quasimodo and Cafe cancer, one too many times in their reminiscing.
The lowercase jeremy breaks the news to me that Trev had left the diner through the back door as he probably had other matters to attend to.
I sat down at the counter stool again. I looked around the diner to look for the poem and the picture of young beautiful Maude. I had no other avenues to get my answers so I gave up and against all my wishes, spoke to jeremy.
jeremy said Maude was his aunt. No shit, I was wondering how this bootlicking, boy-pimple got a job here. jeremy says Maude was his mother's sister. She was studying to be a veterinarian when the cancer struck her down. Every eligible bachelor or not, of her age or not, wanted her but she said yes to Trevor. This broke many hearts and made Trevor a swarm of enemies and envies. Trevor couldn't leave town because Maude fell sick and no one in town would give him a job. So he bought the old dying diner called 'the den' and made it into Maude's den. Maude loved this place and was happy within the four familiar walls of this cafe in her last days.
Maude looked after a lot of sick cats, dogs, parrots, bunnies, iguanas as she was training to be a vet. Trevor visits that local animal shelter every now and then to adopt a new dying pet to give them their last happy days as he did for Maude with this diner. Lowercase pimple told me all of this without a shred of empathy in his voice. People with a nickel hate the people with a dime only to bend over for the one with a dollar.
I had gathered these scoffing Rolexes lost Maude to Trevor but won the share market or housing market or oil market or diamond and gold market or whatever market that gave them all the things but love. They were all so scorned still that they couldn't be nice. Men who love things cannot love people. Maybe Maude knew she would be sitting all day in a big mansion among all the two feet tall golfing trophies these fat doofies bought for each other. She was something they wanted to be laureled for.
I asked jeremy when Trevor would be back. He said he probably wouldn't today. He knew I was going to ask why so he blocked my question with his sigh, the nerve on this shit kid, and told me Trev had gone out to put down his old dog. No veterinarian in town since the one studying to be one got cancer and died. So to euthanize animals humanely, they are taken out of town, to a better town, to a better vet, for a better death. And after that Trev was probably going to go and adopt another dying animal. That is his usual.
I want to join the church of Trevor the hunched, the Holy Saint of New Hopesville.
I look back at the bank and it is almost opening time but no change in that scenery. Still looks locked and abandoned. I look at the dumb deer poster again and wonder how could this animal be so stupid to stare at an object as big as a car and still be oblivious. This poster has fallen leaves on it as well to signify that be more careful in autumn. They can sense predators a mile away with sound as quiet as of a leaf getting crunched but not a car 20 yards away blaring horns and beaming headlights. Deer only wander on open roads to look for a mate during the mating season of autumn. Worst case scenario is not them losing half their house but them getting hit by a car.
I pay for my breakfast like I died for my room and head out as I cannot stand these fat rolexes chewing with their mouth wide open like mules. The bank is now open. At least the sign says 'open'. All lowercase again. This added to my annoyance. I have never before been to a bank that uses an open/close sign.
The lady is easily a septuagenarian, sitting with her legs crossed. She must be a teller or the manager or a customer. They all look the same in this bank and in this town. I ask her if she is busy and if she has time for a chat with an intern of The Newsroom. She gets excited and tells me no journalist has been in this bank before. Gee, I wonder why.
I don't have a camera but she is fixing her hair for the big interview. I asked her about the robbery. She says that never went through. I ask her how come and I am expecting the answer that contains no animal. She tells me a dog sniffed 'marrowana' on the 'perp' at the gates of the bank and bit him. Robber's gun fell out and he asked to be taken in by the police before town folk beat him bloody. I asked for the robber's identity and she told me to go ask the diner across the road. Surprise surprise. The robber is the cousin of the bank-hating lowercase jeremy.
I asked her about the number of limbs on the dog and she told me 3. This is a first. This story is not like the piano keys eating women or levitating war vets or goldfish ghosts summoning kids or multilingual parrots. I am hopeful in the town of New Hopesville. Suck eggs Alex Polter.
I inquired more about the dog and she got a bit ruffled. She said she needs to look it up in the incident reports folder. And disappeared for 10 minutes. I looked around the entire bank and didn't find one clean window. Even the teller's window right across from where I am standing is so dark that all I see is my own worn-out reflection. This bank smells like a hospital with the lighting of a night club. I look at my grinning face in the glass barrier. I was planning to get the dog's address and click a picture with the hero canine, the good-boy of justice. My entrance ticket to get published on the second to the last page of the newspaper or anywhere even in between ads for boner pills. What a great start for my career. Alex Polter is watching all major sporting events from the VIP booth without a sentence in print.
Manger/teller/customer/whoever comes back and slams a giant folder full of almost yellow decaying papers on the bench. She opens it up and starts to look for the incident. I wonder how a deadbeat town can have so many incidents. I actually don't care, just get to my one. She hums while she looks and humming stops when she finds it. She says the robber gave up his plan of robbing the bank when bitten by an old, retired NHPD, rescue dog. Dog had three legs. I asked her what the NHPD stands for. Recent news on the three-legged dog being real has encouraged me so much that I am writing down notes for the first time since I came here. She says New Hopesville Police Department.
A switch had just clicked in my brain. I asked her again about the dog being a rescue from where. She replied with a stiff tone that rescue dogs aren't available at the local grocery stores so 'local animal shelter'. Darkness is setting in my heart. I look up at the glass again. I have finally seen a dumb deer and I am caught in the headlights. Two beams of white piercing glow, through my chest like lasers. I didn't see this coming at all. I asked her the last question to which I already knew the answer.
'Who is the owner of the said dog?'
She says Trevor of Maude's Den .
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