Mathematics

The signs on the window lured him inside. For a dollar he could get two eggs, toast and potatoes. He was three hours from the Canadian border where he was in a jurry to get to. The place looked better than most -- family-run and clean. The signs were hand-lettered and neat. The paper had yellowed some like his blonde hair, but the black letters remained bold. A maroon-and-white awning was over the door, where the name "Red's" was stenciled.

Inside, the place had an appealing and old-fashioned look. The air smelled fresh and homey, not greasy. The menu was printed on a chalkboard above the counter. It was short and to the point. It listed the kinds of toast you could choose from. One entry was erased from the middle of the list. By deduction, he figured it was rye. He didn't want rye toast anyway.

Because he was alone, he sat at the counter, leaving the emypty tables free for other customers that might come in. He kept his back to the window looking out to the street. At the time, business was quiet. Only two tables were occupied, and he was alone at the counter. But it was still early -- not yet seven-thirty. If he could get out of here in any time he could get across the border by noon.

Behind the counter was a short man with dar red hair, a mustache, and gristle-red beard, real short. he was dressed immaculately, all in chef's white -- pants, shirt, and apron, but no hat. He had a thick accent. The name "Red" was stitched on his apron.

The man ordered coffee, and asked for a minute to choose between the breakfast special for a dollar and the cheese omelette for $1.59. He splurged and got the omelette.

The coffee was hot, strong and fresh. After driving two days in the car with only one short rest in Utah, the coffee was the best he'd ever had. He spread the newspaper, the Bubble Water Rebeccan, on the counter and sipped at the mug as Red went to the grill to cook his meal.

The eggs were spread on the griddle, the bread plunged inside the toaster, when the authorities came in. He put his head down, his eyes on the obituaries. A lot of people die around Bubble Water. They grabbed Red quickly and without a word, forced his hands behind his back. He, too, said nothing. he did not resist, and they shoved him out the door and the man heard a door slam and they all drove away.

On the griddle his eggs snapped and sizzled. He looked around for another employee -- maybe out back somewhere, or in the washroom. He leaned over the counter and called for someone. No one answered. He looked behind himself toward the street and the tables. Two elderly men sat at one; two elderly women at the other. The two women were talking. The men were reading the paper. They seemed not to have noticed Red's dramatic exit.

The stranger could smell his eggs start to burn. He wasn't quite sure shat to do about it. He thought about Red and stared at his eggs. After some hesitiation, he got up from his maroon swivel stool and went behind the counter. he gabbed a spare apron with "Red" stenciled on it, then picked up the spatula and turned his eggs. His toast had popped up, but it wasn't browned, so he put it down again. While he was cooking, the two elderly women came to the counter and asked to pay. He asked what they had had. They seemed surprised that he didn't remember. He checked the prices on the chalkboard and rang up their order. They paid slowly, fishing through large purses, and went out, leaving him a dollar tip. He took his eggs off the griddle and slid them onto a clean plate. His toast had come up. He buttered it and put it on his plate next to his eggs. He put his plate at his spot at the counter, next to the newspaper.

As he began to come back from behind the counter to his stool, six new customers came through the door. "Hey, Red, can we pull some tables together?" they asked. "We're one party." He said sure. Then they ordered six coffee, two decaf.

He thought of telling them he didn't work there. He wasn't Red. But perhaps they were hungry; he was wearing an apron. Their order was simple: six specials, all scrambled eggs with wheat toast. He got busy.

Then the elderly men came to pay. More customers began arriving. By eight-thirty, he had his hands full. With this kind of business, he couldn't understand why Red hadn't hired a waitress. Maybe he'd take out a help-wanted ad in the paper tomorrow. He had never been in the restaurant business. There was no way he could run this place alone.

That was in nineteen-sixty-eight. Thirty some years ago. He's fifty years old now. Never made it Canada. The first waitress he hired, Bonnie, moved in with him over twenty years ago.