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action and dirty dishes started flooding my sinks.
Every morning, at our busiest time, a cop and a trustee from the Moses Lake jail came in. They sat at the counter and drank free coffee while they waited for a large wooden box of pancakes and a big pot of coffee they would bring back to the prisoners. The trustee had to carry both containers. All the cop had to do was stick a thumb in his belt and look as tough as a short fat cop could.
My all night shift ended at 8 a.m. I pulled off my wet apron and took a seat in a back booth. Union dishwashers got two free meals per shift. In between times I was allowed to drink unlimited amounts of pop and coffee. A piece of pie occasionally disappeared when there was time. By the time I sat down, the café was only half full.
“What’ll ya have, Paul?” one of the pretty young waitresses asked me. They were all young and pretty, but not as young as me. I was only sixteen.
“How about sausage and eggs over medium?” That’s what I ate every morning. The sausages were huge, with two eggs, a pile of my hash browns, and toast with jam on an oval platter. “Can I have a large milk too, please?”
“Of course you can.”
Everyone treated me kindly and even watched their language around me, probably because my stepfather, Bill, was the manager. I lit a cigarette and contemplated my walk home. We lived about three miles from the café. Four of us, including my mom and Bill’s eight-year-old son, Duane, lived crammed
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