Story:"The Waffle House"

This is a story from "The Doctor's JourneyFrank Waffle 12 Oct. 1990 I have been a "regular" at the Waffle House since I came to town seven months ago to run the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder program at the VA hospital. My wife spent the summer with me but she is back in Israel for the last month to be with the children, grandchildren and her family, and for the holidays. Almost every day after work, late in the afternoon or early evening, I stop at the Waffle House to read the local newspaper and to unwind from the stresses of working with twenty-five hospitalized Viet Nam veterans who seriously suffer from PTSD. I am sitting at the counter drinking a cup of coffee and Frank, the cook has been chatting with me. He says, "That's the reason I'm so darn depressed, you know?' "No I don't, Frank, maybe you could explain it a little more." He is in his early forties, blonde hair, partially bald, with deep facial creases. A paper Waffle House cap sits tall on his head, pushed towards the back. He is average in height, stocky, with thick forearms and upper arms. He moves gracefully. He speaks slowly as he does everything, with a slow, steady rhythm. He nods, turns away from me to reposition the big knife on the cutting counter, and to wipe the clean surface one more time.He pushes his Waffle House cap more tightly on his head. "You see," he says, turning to face me, "I got 2 things that get me down. I'm a Viet Nam vet and I got it all, nightmares, anxiety attacks, all over the place. But I learned to live with it for more than twenty years. It's the second one that breaks my balls - oops, sorry Doc. I ain't supposed to talk like that to an educated gentleman like you." My smile and nod encourages him to go on. "All I earn is five dollars an hour and by the time I pay taxes, and my food bill here for the week, and my insurance, all I come home with is one hundred and forty three dollars a week. That ain't much to gamble with, to live on, even though I'm living alone. So all I can afford to gamble is thirty two dollars a week at the dog track." He pulls the napkin box towards him, stares at it for a moment and then daintily pulls out one, carefully folding it so that the printed logo of the Waffle House is hidden. Pulling a pencil stub out of his back pocket, licking the point lightly with the tip of his tongue, he begins to write slowly. He speaks as he is writing. "Two dollars for each Quinella, which makes twenty four dollars cause there are twelve races, right? Then I bet a two-dollar Suspecta on the third, sixth, ninth and twelfth races. Let's see. Uhm...That's another eight dollars. So all told thirty two, you see?" I say that I do though I really don't because I have no idea of what a Quinella or Suspecta is. It is very quiet in the Waffle House, the two waitresses are whispering together by the coffee machine, there are two customers silently eating in a booth at the back. A big jukebox is pumping out loud country music and there is a strong, vibrating thrum from the fan over the grill. Frank continues to speak. "If I had a bankroll of say, a thousand dollars, I'd be able to go to the dog track every day and in two years I'd triple the money." I finish my coffee, slightly raising the cup off the counter in the direction of Pat, my waitress, and she comes over immediately, smiling easily. She gives me a refill while Frank and I watch her. I am excited. One of the reasons I came to the V.A. in town was to improve our financial condition. Maybe this is the miracle I had always been hoping for. If Frank is right, and he sounds so sure of himself, then I could scrape together a thousand dollars and give it to him. He seems reliable and he is always in control even when the place is busy. Suppressing my excitement I lean towards him and ask him to explain what a Quinella and Suspecta is. Now he is getting excited. He picks up the napkin, turned it over but discards it when he saw the logo. He carefully pulls another one out of the box and for the next five, slow minutes, explains what they are. A Quinella is picking the two dogs in a race to come in first and second, or second and first, in an eight-dog field. A Suspecta is picking the exact order of the first four dogs in an eight-dog field. "You know, in the last two years I picked twelve Suspectas and the most money I won was more than two thousand dollars." I am getting more excited, as I lick my imaginary pencil and make fantasized napkin calculations. "This is it," I shout exuberantly, to myself. A customer comes in and I feel a slight irritation and frustration. Here I am going to make my fortune and this man comes in to bother Frank and me. Frank, Pat and the other waitress greet him warmly. He sits in a booth by the window. Meanwhile, Frank has pulled today's newspaper from under the counter; it is folded to the sport's page and the columns of yesterdays results from the local dog track. He tells me that he mind bets the dogs every day and he's ahead. "Then why don't you go to the track every day," I ask naively? "I can't because I don't get off from work until nine p.m. and the races start at eight. I could make the bets in the morning. They have advanced betting, did you know?" "No I didn't. So?" "I ain't got enough money for gas to get there, besides, I'm riding a pickup that ain't registered because the guy who sold it to me didn't register it and he ain't about to pay for it now." His explanation sounds strange to me but my excitement shrugs off my doubts. I only have eyes for the big bundle he is going to make for me. He pauses to look at the man at the window and then over at the waitresses, indicating that he wants one of them to take the order. Then he grins at me, exposing the gap where his four upper front teeth used to be; he nods slowly and says that he can show me how well he would have done yesterday - if he had gone to the track. He pauses dramatically and then says apologetically, "But I won't. I'll tell you which are the winners today." My imagination almost lifts me off my seat, while my heart revs up. Everything seems normal in the Waffle House: The man in the window booth is reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee, Pat attends to the couple who are standing at the register. I suddenly realize that Frank's voice has stopped. I have been day-dreaming all the way to the bank and I haven't been listening to Frank. "I'm sorry but my mind was wandering, could you repeat that?" "Don't you mind any, Doc, I know about that. I'm depressed too because of my money situation. I can't work on another job cause I ain't got the energy or the time. Where was I?" "You were explaining about today's winners." He circles his choices with his pencil stub and I ask him to write them down for me as I might go to the track tonight. He says he'll be glad to and does it, mumbling, shaking his head from side to side, nodding, and grimacing. When he's finished Pat is speaking loudly above the loud music and the exhaust fan noises. The man has ordered and she is calling it out to Frank. Without looking at her he turns to his grill and prepares the order. In two minutes it's done and he's back, leaning on the counter, pushing back his cardboard Waffle House cap. "I'll write it down for you." He pulls another napkin, and laboriously writes his picks. He hands the treasured napkin to me and I take it, saying that I'm not sure if I'll go. (I am lying, now.) He reassures me that he knows I'm busy and I shouldn't worry. I thank him, leave a tip for Pat, pay my bill. Frank is scraping the grill that looks clean to me. I go out with a song in my heart. I went. I won the first race and began making plans for a contract with Frank and what I'd do with the money. I lost the second race. I lost the third race. I lost all of Frank's touted races, costing me twenty-two dollars and forty cents. The next day I was back in the Waffle House for my late afternoon coffee. Frank smiled at me when I came in. He was busy all the time and we never did get to talk. Pat gave me coffee. Before I left, I told Frank that I didn't have time to go to the track. I said, "Maybe some day we'll go out together." "Sure Doc, he answered, as he slowly wiped his clean counter. "Anytime. With you it's money in the bank. You just name the date." As I walked slowly and thoughtfully out of the Waffle House, I was saying to myself, "Don't bank on that, y'hear?" (Copywritten by Irving Bronsky M.D.)