truck, and we headed out to Le Sink.
Luckily, Rusty’s air conditioner had kicked in, and
we had a few puffs of coolness coming from the vents.
Pop Pop took ten minutes to fasten his seat belt and then
leaned his head back on the headrest to recover from his
efforts. At least I had a few minutes of quiet as I drove
to Le Sink.
This was turning out to be one heck of day: Madame
Geri’s ominous predictions about an island killer, watching a man die, and then hurting the two men in my life.
When would I finally get my act together?
Pop Pop coughed a few more times, and my attention
swung back to my date. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah … just some phlegm.” He cleared his throat,
opened the window, and spit.
I just kept my eyes on the road, almost clapping when
I saw the sign for Le Sink.
“Here we are!” I turned into the parking lot, and Rusty
lurched over the potholes into a spot near a Porta Potti,
which I assumed served as the public toilet for the
restaurant-as per Sandy’s warning.
I vowed not to drink any liquids.
We climbed out of the truck and ambled toward the open-air restaurant that appeared just like the image on
the Web site: a trailer with a serving window, a dozen or
so paint-chipped picnic tables, and ceramic sinks littered
around as yard ornaments.
A middle-aged couple sat at one of the tables; they
both wore that resigned, desperate look of people who’d
long given up ever expecting any food-or service, for
that matter.
As we headed for a table, I realized that, in fact, the
Web site didn’t quite do it justice. The picnic tables had a
layer of grime not apparent in the picture, and the sinks
seemed to emanate a moldy smell that couldn’t quite be
captured in a visual image.
Charming.
I settled Pop Pop at one of the tables and signaled the
waitress to come over. She looked at us and commented
to the guy at the grill, “Crap … more customers.”
Grabbing a couple of paper menus, she sauntered over
and slapped them onto our table. “You want some water?”
she asked in a bored tone.
“I’d like an iced tea,” Pop Pop said.
“All we have is water,” she answered, a hand on her
hip; the other hand shoved back her stringy Goth-black
hair.
“Sounds good to me.” Pop Pop smiled but received
no reaction in response.
I glanced over at the Porta Potti briefly. “Nothing for
me, thanks.” I sneaked my notepad out of my hobo bag,
ready to start taking notes for my review.
As she stomped off, the middle-aged couple waved
their arms overhead for attention like a ground crew trying to land an aircraft. She ignored them, and the man
shouted: “We still don’t have our burgers, and it’s been
almost two hours!”
“Order up,” the cook said from the trailer grill. She
grabbed the plastic baskets containing burgers and fries
and took them over to the couple. The man stared down
at his meal and then looked up in disbelief.
“This is burned to a crisp,” he said, nudging it as if it
were contagious.
“You said you wanted yours well done,” she said. “So?”
“Mine is raw; I asked for medium,” the woman with
him complained.
The waitress muttered something under her breath,
turned her back on them, and strode back to our table.
“What do you want?”
I scanned the menu. Two items were typed on the paper: Burger and Cheeseburger. “I guess I’ll have the
cheeseburger-medium well.” I figured that I might luck
out and get something in between raw and burned.
“I’ll have a fish sandwich.” Of course, Pop Pop couldn’t
read the menu.
“You’ll have the burger,” our waitress said, ordering
for him, and left.
Pop Pop turned to me with a smile. “Isn’t this place
great? I’d come here every week if I could get Wanda
Sue to give me more time off.”
“But you don’t drive,” I pointed out, not to mention that his job at the Twin Palms wasn’t exactly twenty-four/
seven-if you didn’t count his nap time.
Luckily, Rusty’s air conditioner had kicked in, and
we had a few puffs of coolness coming from the vents.
Pop Pop took ten minutes to fasten his seat belt and then
leaned his head back on the headrest to recover from his
efforts. At least I had a few minutes of quiet as I drove
to Le Sink.
This was turning out to be one heck of day: Madame
Geri’s ominous predictions about an island killer, watching a man die, and then hurting the two men in my life.
When would I finally get my act together?
Pop Pop coughed a few more times, and my attention
swung back to my date. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah … just some phlegm.” He cleared his throat,
opened the window, and spit.
I just kept my eyes on the road, almost clapping when
I saw the sign for Le Sink.
“Here we are!” I turned into the parking lot, and Rusty
lurched over the potholes into a spot near a Porta Potti,
which I assumed served as the public toilet for the
restaurant-as per Sandy’s warning.
I vowed not to drink any liquids.
We climbed out of the truck and ambled toward the open-air restaurant that appeared just like the image on
the Web site: a trailer with a serving window, a dozen or
so paint-chipped picnic tables, and ceramic sinks littered
around as yard ornaments.
A middle-aged couple sat at one of the tables; they
both wore that resigned, desperate look of people who’d
long given up ever expecting any food-or service, for
that matter.
As we headed for a table, I realized that, in fact, the
Web site didn’t quite do it justice. The picnic tables had a
layer of grime not apparent in the picture, and the sinks
seemed to emanate a moldy smell that couldn’t quite be
captured in a visual image.
Charming.
I settled Pop Pop at one of the tables and signaled the
waitress to come over. She looked at us and commented
to the guy at the grill, “Crap … more customers.”
Grabbing a couple of paper menus, she sauntered over
and slapped them onto our table. “You want some water?”
she asked in a bored tone.
“I’d like an iced tea,” Pop Pop said.
“All we have is water,” she answered, a hand on her
hip; the other hand shoved back her stringy Goth-black
hair.
“Sounds good to me.” Pop Pop smiled but received
no reaction in response.
I glanced over at the Porta Potti briefly. “Nothing for
me, thanks.” I sneaked my notepad out of my hobo bag,
ready to start taking notes for my review.
As she stomped off, the middle-aged couple waved
their arms overhead for attention like a ground crew trying to land an aircraft. She ignored them, and the man
shouted: “We still don’t have our burgers, and it’s been
almost two hours!”
“Order up,” the cook said from the trailer grill. She
grabbed the plastic baskets containing burgers and fries
and took them over to the couple. The man stared down
at his meal and then looked up in disbelief.
“This is burned to a crisp,” he said, nudging it as if it
were contagious.
“You said you wanted yours well done,” she said. “So?”
“Mine is raw; I asked for medium,” the woman with
him complained.
The waitress muttered something under her breath,
turned her back on them, and strode back to our table.
“What do you want?”
I scanned the menu. Two items were typed on the paper: Burger and Cheeseburger. “I guess I’ll have the
cheeseburger-medium well.” I figured that I might luck
out and get something in between raw and burned.
“I’ll have a fish sandwich.” Of course, Pop Pop couldn’t
read the menu.
“You’ll have the burger,” our waitress said, ordering
for him, and left.
Pop Pop turned to me with a smile. “Isn’t this place
great? I’d come here every week if I could get Wanda
Sue to give me more time off.”
“But you don’t drive,” I pointed out, not to mention that his job at the Twin Palms wasn’t exactly twenty-four/
seven-if you didn’t count his nap time.
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