The Prospect, Eliot Parker [free ebooks for android .TXT] 📗

the breakfast crowd came through Ruth’s Diner, the place was always quiet. Instead of the normal chime on the front door bell ringing constantly, the only sound heard was dishes being cleaned in the kitchen and eventually packed into plastic containers for use during lunchtime.
Ruth’s diner was a flat, elongated faded white building with a sloped awning and two large glass windows which allowed customers to look towards town and vice versa. Inside, the faded wooden tables and chairs were spaced appropriately throughout the room, sometimes resting awkwardly against the chipped, faded white and black tile floor. The counter was nestled right against the kitchen wall where meals were prepared and slid through a metal port in the wall.
Joann hated working at the diner. Not because she did not like Ruth Busby, the diner owner. In fact, Ruth was a great person to work for-mainly because she let Joann run the day-to-day operations at the diner and her son, Jack took care of the cash register and paying the bills-but because working at the diner reminded Joann of the reality of life in Sheaville.
The dishrag began to dry out so Joann dipped it into a pan of soapy water and proceeded to weave around the diner’s booths and chairs. Cleanliness was something Ruth’s Diner always prided itself upon and the customers were always quick to let Joann know if the tables were not spotless. So, she made sure each inch of the restaurant was clean and orderly.
While she wiped the tables and seats and picked up loose refuse that had fallen on the floor, the glass door to the diner flung open and the bell rang feverishly. Ruth turned around and saw a short, dumpy man waving to her was he waddled closer. It was Frank Miller, owner of Frank’s Drugstore.
“Well, I swan, what are you doing here this early?” questioned Joann. Frank just shook his head and grinned.
“I know I’m a tad early, but I wanted to come in and see ya, cause I haven’t talked to ya in ages and I’m awfully hungry today for some reason.”
The latter phrase was the excuse mechanism Joann had come to know and love from Frank Miller. He used to never come into the diner until his wife passed away. She was stricken with breast cancer right when Sheaville witnessed the majority of logging mill families leaving the area. She spent six months at CAMC General Hospital in Charleston undergoing chemotherapy and Frank had to close down his drugstore during that time because he could not find anyone to run it. Now he came into the diner every day for lunch. Joann felt that he also enjoyed having someone to talk to.
“Frank, honey, no need to apologize. I am glad to see ya. You’re the first customer to come in here since breakfast ended two hours ago.”
“Well, I’ll just walk up to that there counter and sit down and wait for ya,” he said. Frank’s usual seat on the counter was to sit in the third chair from the left.
Joann waddled her way around the counter and reached for her notepad and pencil. “So what’ll it be today sexy, the usual? Pastrami on whole wheat bread and a side of potato salad and decaf coffee?”
“Yer an angel,” replied Frank, winking as he felt his cheeks blushing.
He rested his elbows on the end of the counter and took off his black sun visor. The late morning sun always made the temperature warmer in town and Frank wore the visor so he could see everyone walking around Sheaville. He purchased the visor because many of the Sheaville Loggers players teased him about his eyesight and being 68 years old. Some of the players said he did not notice them walking to Clark Field everyday, so Frank fixed that by buying the sun visor a few years ago.
Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a receipt. “Joann!” he hollered. She immediately ran out of the kitchen. “I found this today cleaning out some of them old drawers in the back of my store. I thought you might like to see it.”
Joann inquisitively admired the yellow paper from the corner of her eye as she poured Frank a cup of coffee and gently placed his sandwich and potato salad next to it. As she opened the yellow piece of paper quickly and wadded it up and threw it across the diner into a trashcan. Joann walked back into the kitchen not saying a word.
Frank just shook his head. Before he noticed, another man plopped down in the seat next to him.
“Is my medicine ready yet old man?” said the giggling man. He smacked Frank on the back and continued to giggle.
“Why if I don’t know better, I’d say you are Mayor Mitchell.” Frank swiveled his seat clockwise. “And low and behold if it ain’t the one and only.”
The two men sheepishly shook hands. Frank tried to get along with everyone in Sheaville, but Morton Mitchell was always a unique exception.
“See, you are in here eating when you could be filling my prescriptions,” chided the mayor. His short stubby hands rested on the counter he attempted to wedge himself comfortably into the chair. Mayor Mitchell was chubby, with short arms and long but plump legs. His hair was dark brown and thick, and his face was smooth and beset with dark, protruding circles under his eyes and above his pointed nose.
“Well, if you were not sitting in this here diner as much as you do, then maybe you would not need those prescriptions,” remarked Frank. Morton gave him look that resembled a child who was suddenly disappointed by his parents. Frank just turned around and stared forward.
“Nah, a little cholesterol and blood pressure is good for us all, Frank. It makes us realize that life is too short not to eat what you want.”
Frank’s response almost coincided with Morton’s words. “Or eat until ya shorten life…it just depends on how ya say it.”
Morton decided that it was best to change the subject. After all, since Frank Miller was the only pharmacist in town, the mayor knew to instigate the pharmacist, but not too much.
“The Loggers aren’t playing very well,” said Morton as he quickly peeked at the Charleston Gazette sports page sitting in an empty seat on the right side of the counter. “Worst start in sometime.”
“I ain’t worried about that,” Frank said reassuringly. “When Joann’s son gets crankin’, you wait and see what’ll happen.”
Morton scoffed, shaking his head. “Did you see him on opening day? Jeez, he looked disorganized out there.”
“It was his first game…give him some time to mature,” Frank reminded the mayor. “Nobody learns to ride one of them bicycles in one day. I always say throwing a baseball is the hardest thing to do.”
“If you are wanting to play good baseball, it is the most important thing to do,” Morton said.
Frank snorted and rested his cheek on the palm of his right hand. “Who are you, Joe Nuxhall?” he asked.
Joe Nuxhall was a known name around Sheaville. For decades, he and Marty Brennaman were the radio announcers for the Cincinnati Reds baseball games. WCHS radio in Charleston broadcast the Reds all season, every season because Charleston and the southern end of West Virginia were considered “Reds country.” The same could be said for Sheaville. At night, the signal from Charleston boomed into town and anyone could listen to the games on radio. Sheaville always supported the Reds, especially those who can remember the organizations numerous championships during the 1970’s. During those days, the Reds were referred to as “The Big Red Machine.” Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench, and Sparky Anderson were just a few of the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame players that were the backbone of the franchise. Frank Miller remembers when most baseball games were played during the afternoon, but network television had changed that. He loved to talk about the “good old days” of baseball, but with Morton Mitchell in the room, Frank usually lost his zeal for storytelling as well as his appetite.
Morton reached down and rubbed his stomach. His stomach was always round and firm, and if you did not know the mayor, you would assume that he swallowed beach balls instead of mayonnaise and cheese soaked biscuits. Even though he was overweight and stricken with high blood pressure and cholesterol, he loved to eat and loved to tell others how to eat.
“Boy, I could really go for a good steak sandwhich today,” he proclaimed. “Yea, loaded with mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce and tomato.” He slid off the stool and turned his neck around the room several times. “Where did Joann go?”
“If she was smart, away from you.” Frank mumbled as he sipped his now lukewarm coffee.
“Now why would she leave? She is a great waitress. Besides, that son of hers is old enough to take care of himself.” Usually, this is when the mayor decided to enlighten the residents of Sheaville with his knowledge. In most cases, this was the time Frank Miller left Ruth’s Diner, but today he decided to stay, partly because he had only consumed half of his pastrami sandwhich and because someone had to defend the person Morton was going to malign.
“You know, that is the problem with single mothers today. They are always looking out for their children. I think partly because they feel guilty and embarrassed that they have to raise kids alone. So they overcompensate by tailoring their lives to each and every need of their child. It just amazes me….”
Frank fully turned his stool to the right so his eyes met Morton’s. Morton glanced into the pupils of Frank Miller. They were hollow and the dark wrinkles under his eyes made him seem like someone who needed two good days of sleep. Regardless, Morton looked away and began tapping his fingers against the countertop.
“All of this hodgepodge coming from the mayor of our town who is supposed to represent us folks,” Frank said strongly. “All of this coming from the mayor of our town who has a beautiful daughter to take care of and raise. Mayor you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Suddenly, the sound of rattling plates echoed throughout the diner. Frank and Morton assumed it was Joann cleaning up the dishes from breakfast. Morton used the distraction as an avenue to change the topic of conversation.
“So, you think Triplet has what it takes, eh,” injected Morton. “Well, he better start learning to think a little on the mound instead of trying to outmuscle hitters. I’ll swan, that homerun he gave up to Mike Hendricks was one of the worst pitches I have seen.
“You are forgetting that it was that there eighth inning when it happened and he had already thrown over 100 pitches,” added Frank.
Morton waved his hand in an abject manner. “Doesn’t matter. He did not think. Yep, I do not see him lasting much longer here in Sheaville. I predict he will get traded by July.
The mayor turned and was drilled with a soapy, wet washcloth right between the eyes. He yelped as the rag stung the skin on the bridge of his nose. When he wiped the water from his eyes, he noticed Joann Triplet at the end of the counter starting at him intently. Neither he nor Frank new how long she had been standing there, although Frank assumed she had been there since the plates rattled in the kitchen.
Gritting her teeth she spoke to the mayor coolly. “Mr. Mayor, if you want something to eat, I suggest you order it. If not, then get your scrawny patoot out that back door back there.” She pointed directly behind the mayor as she approached him.
Silently, Frank