The Bard of Liminga — Ray Sharp

Lake Effect

Late lunch after a quick swim at the college.  I come out of the cold into the neighborhood sandwich shop to grab something to eat back at the office.  There’s one customer ahead of me: short woman, forty-fiveish, dull light-brown hair, talking to the big, cheery blonde who works weekdays.  Looks like snow.

“Think we’ll get much today?” the customer says, nodding vaguely toward the door, then squinting up at the sandwich maker.

“S’posed to,” answers the sandwich maker.  “Lake effect.”  She pauses from her work, absentmindedly wipes her hands on her green apron, brushes wisps of half grown-out bangs from her cheek and tucks them behind her ear.  I’ve been coming in here for almost a year and never asked her name.  Call her Donna.

“Ha!  Doubt it.  I been walking every morning.  S’been a good winter,” says the short woman.  Faded jeans.  Sorels.  Parka patched at the elbow.  Call her Liz, no…Jerrie.

Jerrie’s going on kind of loudly about a movie she saw last night.  Maybe a little drunk.

“…at the Lode.  Bad movie.  Well, good director and all, lots of quick action, sorta like what wazzit called?  Oh, ya know, with those two people.  Woody Haralson and that girl…”

            “Natural Born Killers?” I offer from over by the cold drinks.  I never actually saw it.

            “Yeah, it was like that, only bad.”  She smiles at me and then resumes her story, a little pleased that the guy in the coat and tie had joined the conversation.  “I fell asleep.  Actually, I closed my eyes when there were these two guys fighting.  I hate it when men are fighting – they were hitting each other in the face.  Blood was spraying all over.  I closed my eyes and missed about a half an hour and woke up and it was almost over.  I hate that.  Donchya hate that?”

            Definitely been drinking.  And it’s only a quarter to one.  We’re the only three people in shop.  It’s starting to snow.

            “Yeah, I just saw a movie at the Lode, too,” Donna says.  “ Mayonnaise, mustard, oil?”

            “Mayonnaise.”

            “Salt and pepper?”

            “Yeah, thanks.  Whadjya see?”

            “Oh, um…I can’t remember.  Geez, what was it?”

            A brief silence.  Jerrie picks up the slack: “And didjya notice them seats?  When they made it into three theaters, how small them seats got?  I mean, ya gotta hold your arms like this ‘cause that’s all the room ya got.”

            “Not like some of those places with, like, rocking chairs.”

            “Oh, and I got some Dots last night!” Jerrie declares excitedly.  A wide grin appears like a new moon through broken clouds, and her small eyes twinkle.  “They were all chewy and got stuck in my teeth.  Isn’t that great – you know, candy they only have at the movies?”

            “Yeah, and what’s that other kind… Snowballs or something?” I chime in.

            “Snow Caps,” Donna says.

            “Yeah, I was just thinkin’ of them, too,” Jerrie says.  “Idn’t it funny that you can only get ‘em at the movies!”

            “Then there’s that whole other class of candy that you associate with the movies but you can also sometimes find in vending machines, like Raisinettes or Milk Duds,” I add, now fully engaged in the repartee.

            “Life is just so great, idn’t it.  There’s always something new to think about,” Jerrie says.  We all nod and smile.

            “I work in the deli at the IGA,” Jerrie says, as sort of an introduction.  “I make 180 sandwiches a day.  I’m quite the chef.”

            “That’s a lot of sandwiches,” I say.  “ I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t make sandwiches, professionally that is.”  I hope that didn’t sound condescending.  I order a tuna on whole wheat, with jalapenos.

            Jerrie turns and walks toward me.  “What’s on the bottom of the tie,” she asks, and begins to reach for the front of my coat, then softly brushes her thumb along her fingers, like she was about to grab my tie and then pulled back at the last instant.

            “Oh, nothing, just some old fishing lure… and I don’t even fish,” I laugh.  I pull out the tie and hold it up for her to get a better look.

            “I collect vintage ties, ya know,” Jerrie tells me.  “I love ‘em.  Fashion accessories are great.  Old purses, scarves, especially ties.  Know what I mean?”

            “I get mine at thrift stores.  They’re twenty-five cents at Vinnie’s in Hancock, but seventy-five in Houghton,” I say.  “What’s up with that!”

            “I know, I saw a great tie the other day – classic Seventies wide tie with paisley – but it had a big grease stain on it.”  Jerrie grabs a quart of Budweiser and heads for the register. 

            “Be with ya in a minute, just gonna finish this,” Donna says.

            “’Sokay, today’s my day off,” Jerrie replies.  “Goin’ to a friends house for lunch.  Beer and a sandwich.  It’s gonna be a great day.  Ya know, a hug would feel great right now.  He’s a stranger…he’ll give me one,” and with that, Jerrie puts the beer on the counter, strides over to me, arms outstretched, head tilted slightly to my left.  I take the last step forward and bend down to meet her, reach my arms around her, and our bodies meet in front of the sliced turkey breast.  The sweet smell of beer breath and the feel of hair against my face remind me of when I was younger.  I glance toward the window.  Then Jerrie turns, pays, and walks out.

            By this time, my sandwich is done.  I grab some pretzels and a Diet Pepsi and put them next to the cash register. 

            After I pay, I pull out of my pocket a folded-up flyer for a credit card company.

            “Look at this,” I say to Donna, “ They pay

you two dollars for every referral you make, and two dollars for every one those people make, right on down the line.  It says here that if you refer ten new people, and they each refer ten, and so on for ten levels, you can earn twenty billion dollars.  Only problem I see is there’s not ten billion people on Earth, and I’m probably not even getting in on this at the top of the pyramid.”

            “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Donna chuckles.  “And I’ve never even had a credit card.”

            “Really, a business owner like you?”

            “Well, I’m not the owner, just the manager.”

            “Oh, I always figured you were the owner.”

            “No, the owner mostly works weekends.”

            “Was he in here last week, helping you at lunch time.”

            “No, that was probably my husband.  Just taking orders and working the register?”

            “I guess so.  I didn’t really notice.”

            After that there isn’t much else to say.  On the way out I wish her a good day.

            “And you have a real good day, now, too,” she answers.

            It’s snowing harder now, big wet flakes, but I don’t mind.  I turn the corner, head straight into the fresh north wind, and lift my face to the snowflakes, each one perfectly unlike every other.