The rumour mill has subsided for a bit. Haven't heard anything for a while about the Motel being bought and shut down. Which is kind of weird.
Last night we had the usual robust crowd. I arrived at 6 and most people had already been served, since the food was ready early and so were the diners.
I love walking in there into the cloud of conversation. It's a very warm and inviting thing. Like a massage for your brain. A sauna for the soul.
CL always sits in the same spot. The farthest side from the door, but facing it so she can see who's coming and going, and closest to the serving table so she's available if anybody needs to ask her a question.
We chatted over Dinner. She's had a few rough days this week, dealing with one guy who lost his temper and started throwing things, then with a couple of guys who had their music cranked in the middle of the night. She bangs on the door 'til it's opened, then rips a strip off them 'til they step in line.
She's pretty respected at the Motel and has been doing the work of a manager for some time. Organizing, threatening, helping.
So she was thrilled yesterday when the actual manager told her she'd been promoted to manager. I asked, "What about him, the other manager?"
She shrugged and said he's still there. But more like an owner now and she's a manager. I didn't quite get it, but she was so happy I congratulated her. Said it must be nice to have the title.
She said, "Now I have some authority around here." and she grinned.
That whole thing was a bit perplexing, but then I got talking to W.
W. and her man C. are relative newcomers to the Dinner. They don't live at the Motel, but in an RGI apartment in town. Nice people.
She's short and walks with a bit of a limp, speaks with a lisp partly because she's got 3 teeth. She laughs easily and loves to tease. She sometimes bakes muffins and brings them to Dinner for dessert. Friendly and fun.
He's a big bear of a guy, smart and compassionate. Always talking about a landlord who ought to be doing something right, or a friend who's having a hard time getting his health card, or somebody who's not feeling well.
W. came up behind me where I sat, grabbed my shoulders and said in my ear, "Who stole my seat?" She laughed and sat down next to me.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine. But guess what?" and she grinned her toothless grin.
"What?"
She cupped her hand around her mouth for secrecy's sake, leaned close and whispered, "It's my birthday on Friday!" Glowing.
"Hey, congratulations! How old are you?"
She told me.
I said, "Should we sing Happy Birthday for you?"
She hiked up the grin a few notches and nodded. Clenched her hands into fists and clapped them together and pressed them into her lap, smiling.
So I stood up and hollered out the news and we all, about 40 voices, sang Happy Birthday to W.
While we sang, I turned to look down at her, expecting to see the grin. But she was sitting hunched over the table with her back to the group. Curled up a bit with her chin in her hand and her eyes down, frowning fiercely about something. She looked like she was going to cry.
After the diners had finished singing out her name, and I sat down again, she put her arm around me and hugged me and whispered "Thank you." There was pain in her eyes and the grin was gone.
She was very subdued for a while after that, went out for a smoke and came back for dessert, her usual bubbly self, grinning again because she'd been given the leftover beets to take home.
But I couldn't help wondering what she was thinking in that minute or so while we sang.
So desperately wanting to have everybody sing for her, and looking so sad when we did, but then so grateful.
This small woman, who you'd probably never really notice, is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a secondhand winter coat.
She laughs and weeps, gives and takes, and mourns things she'll never tell you. And she's inexpressibly lovely.
r
Last night we had the usual robust crowd. I arrived at 6 and most people had already been served, since the food was ready early and so were the diners.
I love walking in there into the cloud of conversation. It's a very warm and inviting thing. Like a massage for your brain. A sauna for the soul.
CL always sits in the same spot. The farthest side from the door, but facing it so she can see who's coming and going, and closest to the serving table so she's available if anybody needs to ask her a question.
We chatted over Dinner. She's had a few rough days this week, dealing with one guy who lost his temper and started throwing things, then with a couple of guys who had their music cranked in the middle of the night. She bangs on the door 'til it's opened, then rips a strip off them 'til they step in line.
She's pretty respected at the Motel and has been doing the work of a manager for some time. Organizing, threatening, helping.
So she was thrilled yesterday when the actual manager told her she'd been promoted to manager. I asked, "What about him, the other manager?"
She shrugged and said he's still there. But more like an owner now and she's a manager. I didn't quite get it, but she was so happy I congratulated her. Said it must be nice to have the title.
She said, "Now I have some authority around here." and she grinned.
That whole thing was a bit perplexing, but then I got talking to W.
W. and her man C. are relative newcomers to the Dinner. They don't live at the Motel, but in an RGI apartment in town. Nice people.
She's short and walks with a bit of a limp, speaks with a lisp partly because she's got 3 teeth. She laughs easily and loves to tease. She sometimes bakes muffins and brings them to Dinner for dessert. Friendly and fun.
He's a big bear of a guy, smart and compassionate. Always talking about a landlord who ought to be doing something right, or a friend who's having a hard time getting his health card, or somebody who's not feeling well.
W. came up behind me where I sat, grabbed my shoulders and said in my ear, "Who stole my seat?" She laughed and sat down next to me.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine. But guess what?" and she grinned her toothless grin.
"What?"
She cupped her hand around her mouth for secrecy's sake, leaned close and whispered, "It's my birthday on Friday!" Glowing.
"Hey, congratulations! How old are you?"
She told me.
I said, "Should we sing Happy Birthday for you?"
She hiked up the grin a few notches and nodded. Clenched her hands into fists and clapped them together and pressed them into her lap, smiling.
So I stood up and hollered out the news and we all, about 40 voices, sang Happy Birthday to W.
While we sang, I turned to look down at her, expecting to see the grin. But she was sitting hunched over the table with her back to the group. Curled up a bit with her chin in her hand and her eyes down, frowning fiercely about something. She looked like she was going to cry.
After the diners had finished singing out her name, and I sat down again, she put her arm around me and hugged me and whispered "Thank you." There was pain in her eyes and the grin was gone.
She was very subdued for a while after that, went out for a smoke and came back for dessert, her usual bubbly self, grinning again because she'd been given the leftover beets to take home.
But I couldn't help wondering what she was thinking in that minute or so while we sang.
So desperately wanting to have everybody sing for her, and looking so sad when we did, but then so grateful.
This small woman, who you'd probably never really notice, is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a secondhand winter coat.
She laughs and weeps, gives and takes, and mourns things she'll never tell you. And she's inexpressibly lovely.
r
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