Day Two - Richmond, Indiana

April 3, 2010


Richmond, Indiana 8:32 am

Got up, got dressed, loaded the car, settled the bill and headed for Paulee’s. From the outside, Paulee’s looks twice as long as it really is. And the outside has recently been painted giving the impression that the inside would reflect the same. Not so. The diner has ten stools facing the compact cooking area. There are no menus. What’s offered is displayed on one of those old-fashioned black boards. I don’t mean the blackboards that need chalk, I mean the ones that are like corduroy but with much deeper ditches. Little white letters and numbers are fitted into the ditches to hold them while they spell out what’s being offered and for how much.

When I walked in, there were three men at the counter and the young cook on the other side. All looked up when they heard the door open, looked my way, and seeing a stranger, returned to their meal or paper or cooking. I sat down, leaving one stool between me and the nearest gentleman. He looked my way and we exchanged “Good Morning’s”. He reminded me of my dad’s friend, Millard Cramer. A good-looking man in a hard kind of way. A man whose livelihood requires brawn and being out of doors in all weather. His face was tanned and weathered. His eyes were buried in smile wrinkles. He sported a James Dean hairdo. The other gentlemen were at least twenty years older than he; the cook, at least twenty years younger. There was little talk. The warning whistle of the passing train filled the space.
The cook came over with a cup of coffee and asked me what I’d like. He added he could make anything I’d like as long as it didn’t come covered in syrup. A quick check of the offerings on the board and I ordered two eggs over medium, smoked sausage, and whole wheat toast. I watched as he prepared my meal. The large cook top is reserved for frying meats. A smaller electric grill is used for the eggs. A pot with clear liquid and a basting brush sits between the two. Dip, splash and swish. Dip, splash, and swish. Both griddle and cook top are oiled and ready to receive the food. Eggs in each hand, quick tap, one handed break and drop. The eggs are cooking.  Smoked sausage bigger than expected, cut down the middle and split. Slapped on the cooktop, a weight placed on top to not only hold it down and keep it straight but to make the most contact of meat on heat. Eggs flipped without breaking the yolks. Meat flipped. Toast in toaster. Somehow all came together at the same time and were served in one hand while he poured more coffee in my cup with the other.

As I ate, the men drifted off one by one while others came in. A family – mom, dad, and daughter. Another senior gentleman. A man and his wife. Elderly but spry. All greeted by first name by the cook and in at least two cases, orders filled without a word being said.

The seats taken did not offer two seats together for the couple so I volunteered to move down one to accommodate them. The husband immediately began to talk to me, teasing me about getting to sit by him. I learned that he and his wife have been married 68 years. They’ve lived in Richmond their entire life. Looking at the two of them, I blurted out, “You must have married when you were teenagers.” As it turns out that was the case. They met when she was thirteen and he, fifteen. They married when she turned sixteen. I commented that he must have seen a lot in his lifetime. He agreed and added, “But the worst has been the last six years.” I regret not following up on that comment but instead, I paid my bill and left.
As I walked back to the car past the abandoned train depot, the dumpsters filled with construction debris, and under the graffit-covered overpass, I knew I just witnessed a Saturday morning ritual for those individuals. Comfortable and predictable, yes. But too bland for me.

As I drove out of Richmond, at the last light I saw a man holding a placard, “Jesus said, Give to man what’s man’s. Give to God what’s God’s.” Across the street a sign in front of a small real estate office proclaimed, “We are all Americans.”