I once heard Jay Leno describe his grandmother as a Sherman tank model, as opposed to the grandmothers in L.A., who were skinny, petite older women with skimpy outfits and names like Bambi.
Ma was of that Sherman tank build. She had a hardened appearance and a heart of gold. The weight of the world seemed to be pressing down hard on her hefty shoulders. She was the only person I remember, other than the owner, who worked the counter at the diner.
She would have to have a heart of gold to work there. As I mentioned in another story, the owner was blinded by greed. The pay couldn’t have been worth it. I couldn’t understand why she worked there. There had to be other waitress jobs. Maybe because she was older, or her slightly off-putting appearance, or her obvious depression.
But she worked there, and everyone liked her. I didn’t know her name. Everyone called her Ma. I really didn’t know anything about her. Was she a Ma? Was she someone’s Sherman tank model grandmother?
Once when I was sitting in one of the booths, facing the door, with a coke and a plate of french fries with gravy in front of me, a short, fragile woman toting several bags of precious belongings maneuvered her way in. She headed for the two stools at the end of the counter, closest to the door and dropped her burden with a heavy sigh. She pushed the bags up against the wall and lifted herself by the counter edge to sit on the second stool, leaving the one closest to the wall empty. Ma brought two menus and two glasses of water, one for her and one for her “guest”.
I’d seen this little woman before but never in the diner. She was disheveled, wore layers of clothes, even in summer, and always wore a pair of plastic rain boots that were older than me. At one time they were clear, but they yellowed with age and were held together with many large safety pins. When they were new and quite the fashion, they were worn over shoes. She did manage to wear them over her shoes, but I don’t know how, unless over the years, the shoes and boots had somehow fused. Everyone referred to her as Bootsy.
Bootsy was all giggles and smiles, chatting to her companion, when Ma brought two cups of coffee and placed them by the waters. Ma spoke with her for a couple of minutes, diverted her glance to the empty place, smiled, and took the menus.
Five or ten minutes later, Ma came out from the back with two lunches of chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. She re-filled Bootsy’s cup of coffee and then looked to see if the other cup needed a refill.
Bootsy kept sharing laughs and conversation with her friend. When she finished her lunch and paid the check, she pulled together her bags of belongings and shlepped happily out the door. She didn’t seem to notice that the other plate of chicken, the coffee and the water weren’t touched.
I don’t know why, but maybe because Ma saw me watching the whole interaction, she turned to me and said, “She lost her husband years ago and never got over it. She comes in with him every month after she gets her check, and they have lunch together.”
Shortly after that, I noticed something different about Ma. Like that weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her countenance was different. She smiled more.
One afternoon, I was hanging around out in front of the diner with some friends when a huge Harley rumbled up. A stocky older man in a black leather jacket turned to wipe the seat from behind him when Ma came rushing out the door, apron in hand, hiked up her white uniform, grabbed him around the waist and hopped up on that seat. He kicked the peddle, the bike revved, and they sped off. And she no longer worked at the diner.