The Ballad of Earl
About a week into my job at a Rhode Island IHOP I was asked who my favorite was.
“Favorite what?” I asked back.
The person who asked me the question rolled their eyes so hard I’m surprised they didn’t pop from his skull and tumble out the front door like Cambell’s soup cans.
“Your favorite regular. Y’know the people that come every day. I got my group that comes at 8:30” She waved to a group of octogenarians sipping tea in the corner booth. “They’re so sweet but stay sharp ‘cuz they’ll talk your ear off”
When I asked why, the eyes rolled again and she intoned, “They’re just looking for someone to talk to. Who doesn’t want a friend?”
At that, my ears perked up as I realized that I also wanted a friend. My new mission: Get a regular of my own.
I had started to try to find a regular like a Dickensian orphan looking for a rich benefactor. Doting and genuflecting, quipping and refilling, I ached to establish a rapport. But each time my prize had been claimed by one of my coworkers who, of course, had known the person for years. They would greet each other at the door with open arms, usually with some folksy aphorism like, “Here comes trouble”. Each time my heart sank. Since most of the regulars were older and the waitstaff all hovering around our very early-twenties, we were less servers to them than professional children. Paid for bringing food, but tipped for the company.
I would be asked to take tables and run food for others in the hours when the restaurant was the slowest. When I asked why, I’d be wordlessly pointed to a booth in the corner where two people sat, one in a uniform and the other in a sweater, chatting away.
It was easy at first to resent the relationships that my coworkers cultivated with the various senior citizens of the community. What did they have that I lacked? There were times when the regular would sit in my section and it would be my responsibility to serve them. My tableside banter made them laugh just as hard, their orders were taken and brought (for the most part) correctly, I asked them about their day. In return, I received warm smiles but underneath there was an acknowledgment that I could never replace their true companion. Most tipped on the low side, so there was no glory in a one-time interaction. Regulars are a long-term investment.
Eventually, as I settled into my job, the rabid need for a regular to call my own faded into contentment with a core group of patrons whom I served regularly and maintained a nodding friendship. That was until Earl came into my life. A short, squat man in what looked to be in his mid-sixties, he came every day near the lunch hour with a shy smile and a polite manner. Asking for the general consensus, I found that those I worked with held mixed feelings towards Earl, ones that I’d soon come to understand. He was respectful and well-mannered, peppering pleases and thank yous into his speech. Like many, his food orders were bizarre. Grilled Tilapia with Strawberry and Banana Pancakes washed down with a Diet Pepsi. I learned quickly, however, that each person’s appetite is their own and if I was concerned about his business, I had better take his order with a clear mind and smile on my face. But what became clear right away was his crippling shyness, he’d sooner climb a tree than ask for more salt, and each time he ordered his voice warbled like a child’s. Given that, he was one of the few regulars that were omitted from the inner circle. Each day he’d come to eat, but others had long abandoned the task of attempting a kinship with Earl. My mind, side-stepping that information, had found its champion. Earl and I were going to be friends.
After a handful of times of me serving him, I had confidence that my plan was going to work. Reading into little changes, a thin-lipped smile, extra volume on a “thank you”, the dots were connecting and I believed that I was getting closer to my goal. Rolling silverware, I would tell the people I worked with about each development. They would smile in an encouraging way but remind me, don’t get too worked up, he’s like this with everyone. How naive they were, I thought, with me he’s different. With me, he’s comfortable. I make this house of pancakes a home.
One day, after his meal was finished and the bill was taken care of, he was out of the restaurant and on the way to his car. I started to clear the table when I noticed Earl had left his wallet. Snatching it, I ran desperately after him shouting “EARL! EARL! YOU FORGOT YOUR WALLET!!!”
He turned around, wearing the surprised look of a disturbed sleepwalker, and meekly offered a pre-programmed nicety. Something like, “Would’ve been a mistake to leave this.” Earl took the wallet from my hands, a bulging black codex of seemingly every card he’s ever owned, and shuffled to his car.
As he drove away, I was quick to convince myself that I did, not just a good thing, but an act of valor. Putting those paper tabs on my silverware bundles, I was certain that I had finally cracked the code, and through my heroic service, going above and beyond the call of duty, I had done the impossible. My regular was secured.
All until the next day when he returned and he looked at me as he always did, straight through. That’s okay, I thought, people display affection in different ways. But absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary, that’s what was so bizarre about it. I started to feel foolish. The regular that I had coveted managed to slip through my fingers.
Earl and I would be paired up throughout the duration of my stay there but something had died. Whatever it was, a glimmer that had died or just a realization of what had been happening all along, took the wind out of my sails. Did Earl notice the difference? Unlikely. He would take his steak knife and devour his blueberry pancakes all the same.
Looking over at him, grieving my own failures, I glimpsed in his face what looked like bliss. Just a man alone with his pancakes, happy as can be. That’s what I had wrong this whole time. Earl wasn’t looking for a friend. I was important to him as a convoy, ushering him towards his true love: Pancakes. Often we set expectations for reciprocal behavior based on what we want and, in doing so, display apathy towards the appetites of others. Maybe it was me who wanted a friend and Earl just wanted his food. Simple as that.
