THE PLACE (Part One)

Our favorite restaurant in the downtown area of College Town was a little bar and grill called, THE PLACE. Downtown only had one dusty street, and THE PLACE was the only restaurant in town, so naturally, it was our favorite. We saved our pennies so we could treat ourselves to TGIF (Thank God, it’s Friday) each week, but since THE PLACE was the only spot in town that offered food, as well as booze, we had to get there no later than 5:00 pm. We preferred to sit in one of the booths as far away from the bar as possible---especially on football weekends, but to do that required leaving work early and arriving at 4:30, which wasn’t always feasible, especially when the boss dumped extra work on my desk saying, “Have a nice weekend.”

Every week we’d treat ourselves to a steak with French fries and a salad with Roquefort dressing. Actually, the dressing was French dressing with an occasional piece of Roquefort cheese. Dena, our long-suffering waitress had been with the restaurant for many years. As a matter of fact, I suspected that she emerged from her mother’s womb carrying a tray of dirty glasses.

The owner/chef was a former Army cook, and it always helped our digestion and appetite when he did not show up outside of the kitchen. He was a hairy, shirtless fellow, who wore a long dirty apron and usually carried an extremely big cleaver. No one was allowed in his kitchen, but only a fool would want to know what went on in there.

W.S. had an excellent relationship with all of his professors, but his relationship with Dr. Taser was marginal. For some reason, W.S. found it difficult to carry on a conversation with the man who was his major professor and held his professional future in his hands.

One Friday night we got to THE PLACE just in time to grab the last booth available, not in the back, but up toward the front right alongside the bar, where the overflow crowd would either seat themselves on the stools or be asked to leave. The local law prohibited people from drinking while standing, so the owner/chef was already rudely throwing people out---telling them they could wait in line outside in the snow, but they couldn’t hang around inside unless they were seated.

W.S. had spent the day wrestling with statistical charts and hadn’t bothered to shave or change clothes. I had taken pity on him and hadn’t mentioned more than once, “If we run into anybody you want to impress, you will definitely make an impression.” W.S. insisted, “Look, we travel in different circles than faculty, and the probability of any of them showing up in this dump is infinitesimal at best.”

So, there we were, sipping our beers, when in walked Taser, the professor whose smile or frown made or broke academic reputations and careers. I forgot who saw him first, but I remember that W.S. hit his chin on the edge of the table as he started to slide down in his seat. Too late! Taser had spotted us.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006