CAN I HELP YOU, HON?

CAN I HELP YOU, HON?
By Jeanne Gibson (DiagoCat)

To My Friends at the Thursday Morning Writing Group,

Greetings from Diamond Lake.

For a long time, I have had a dream of me sitting in a lawn chair overlooking a beautiful lake. On my lap is a battery-operated computer which I am using to write the 6th of a series of well- received children’s books. So well received that my editor calls me daily on the cell phone which rests on a small table beside my chair. “Can you speed this one up?” she pleads. “Your fans are screaming for more.” “I’ll do my best,” I answer her, “but you know how busy I’ve been with book signings, my appearances on Ophrah and Sally Jesse, along with the constant requests from Hillary to ghost write her next book, “People Who Live In Glass Houses Shouldn’t Throw Stones.” She says it will be a real eye-opener for a certain person she knows.....or maybe it was, a certain prosecutor she knows.

Anyway, my friends, I want you to know that my dream has come true. Well, at least part of it. Last week, I took the plunge and bought a Macintosh Laptop that cost so much, I sat down and cried after I made the purchase. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it. I had been saving what I make for doing our shop books, for just such an occasion. I guess it is something deep down inside of me left over from depression days. I find it difficult to spend money. Especially when I spend it totally on myself and when I spend quite a lot of it at one time.

My husband, Malcolm, couldn’t understand why I was making such a fuss. I had the money; I had done the research and knew exactly what I wanted. They even threw in a free modem, because I chose the right time to buy. What more could I ask? He had been telling me to buy it for months, but the thing that finally pushed me over the edge was the thought of me in that lawn chair at the lake. From it, I have already written more in 3 days than in 3 months at home. It could be my editor on the phone...if I had an editor. And, who knows. Perhaps, a couple of years down the road, it will be.

As soon as I get back home, I will have a garage sale to sell my treadmill, which is in worse shape than I am from disuse, a few Macintosh programs I never boot up, the guitars I bought for the now defunct Granny’s Gang Band, and various other items that recline in the back bedroom of our house....a room some in my family have been rude enough to call Jeanne’s Follies. Maybe that will satisfy my “Need To Justify” demon until my next wild spending spree.

Anyway, here I am at Diamond Lake. I do sit in my lawn chair by the lake, but mostly, I sit at the table inside our fifth wheeler and type. Besides a half chapter of my George Eastman book which has been my work in progress for the last 4 years, I have written a letter to a friend in Prineville, this letter to you my fellow writers, and the beginning of an article called Beyond Food, Clothing, and Shelter. I have also written a few prayers....mostly asking God to please forgive me for wasting all that money on a computer while people are still going hungry in the world. Maybe, when Hillary pays me for my ghostwriting project, I can buy a few extra sacks of beans for the mission to make up for it.

So much for the computer. I want you to know I am doing a few things this week other than wearing my fingers to the nubs on its keys.

Every day, we walk about 4 miles. The reason we are walking so far is that we are camped on Diamond Lake about 2 miles from the lodge, and, as usual, my better half doesn’t want to bother unhooking the trailer unless he has to. Only an hour after we arrived, I discovered that I had forgotten to buy cheese. Malcolm wouldn't think of eating a sandwich without cheese so I hiked to the little store by the lodge and bought some. Of course they didn’t have the fat-free brand we eat so we only had one slice in our sandwiches. I was so glad to see the pickup when I got back, I almost fell down on my knees in gratitude, but, by then my knees were pretty stiff and sore, so I tottered inside and flopped on a chair, instead. I often do two miles at home but never four in a row.

The next day, we decided we needed a newspaper and so off we went. It was very warm when we got to the lodge so we bought a dish of chocolate yogurt for each of us. The short rest while we ate helped a lot and we decided to walk to the lodge for a yogurt break every day for the rest of the week. (Actually, Malcolm made that decision after hearing the waitress call the man at the next table Sweetheart when she refilled his coffee cup. I think he was hoping to get that waitress the next time we came in, even though I assured him that she looked much too intelligent to sweet talk him with me sitting right beside him.

Nevertheless, Tuesday morning, even though it was sprinkling and looked as though we were in for much worse, we headed for the lodge right after our cheese sandwiches...to get another loaf of bread, Malcolm said.

He was in luck. The sweetheart lady was our waitress. When we ordered yogurt, she turned her back on me, put her hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, and said, “Oh, I’m real sorry, Hon. Our yogurt machine is broken.Can I get you some ice cream instead?” Of course, Malcolm, who is not supposed to eat ice cream because of the fat in it, said, “That sounds great. Make mine chocolate, please.” I settled for a cup of coffee and tuned my ears into what was going on around us.

The guy behind us, also with his wife, was treated to three different terms of endearment. Big Guy, Honey, and Sweetie. I turned half-way around to look at him. Why, it was the same guy that had been in there alone the day before. He was lapping up the sweet talk like a dog after fresh beef. I guess his wife was used to it, as she didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

By that time the friendly waitress was helping the side table next to us. This guy must not have been a very good tipper. She only called him, Babe. That was when I noticed that she was only being nice to older guys. Anyone under 60 just got food. No Hon’s, Sweetie’s, or Big Guy’s for them. When I mentioned this to Malcolm and said I thought her behavior was condescending, he said he thought she was just the friendly type. When I pointed out that she hadn’t been friendly to me, he said it was probably just an oversight, and that if I came in alone, she would probably call me Hon or some such nickname.

Then something even more interesting happened. The friendly waitress went to lunch. When her replacement came to present our bill, she placed it in front of Malcolm and said, “There you are, Hon. Can I get you anything else?” When he declined, she moved to the table behind us. “Hi, Big Guy," she said. "Want some more coffee?”

We left trying not to burst out laughing. Either the first waitress had clued her replacement in on what pet name to use or whatever male occupied table #1, where we were sitting was always called Hon; the side table, Babe, etc. But how could the table behind us, where that man was called, Sweetheart, Big Guy, and Honey, be explained? Maybe the night before, when they chose the names for that week, there had been three men seated there.

It was almost enough to make me apply for a job there just to find out, but, if I did, who would finish my George Eastman book? I’m afraid I am doomed to forever wonder about the strange waitresses at Diamond Lake Lodge.


Copyright 2003
Jeanne Gibson