Note: Those of you who took my previous creative writing classes at another local workshop will remember Bates—a curmudgeonly character who was the subject of many of the prompts we used for free writing. Last night, Bates made his first appearance at Christmas Lake Creative (perhaps drawn in by the warm candlelight and cozy fire in the hearth), and three of our four writers employed their talents to add to his ever-expanding story. Below is my effort to shed a little more light on our inscrutable friend. Welcome back, Bates! I know we’ll be seeing you again soon.
Prompt: The coffee was cold, the bacon soggy, and the juice had no business being advertised as fresh, but Bates had never had a better waffle.
Bates was skeptical as he pulled into the parking lot of the Skytop Diner. There was, of course, a lot of sky where he was—Montana, the Big Sky State wasn’t it?—but today’s sky was low and gray and dropping rain in a steady slanting silver stream that slashed across the windshield of his pickup leaving heavy drops despite the wipers’ best efforts to clear it away.
His mission—the reason he’d come all the way out here, to Helena, or “hell and gone” as his mother used to call anywhere more than 20 miles from her cozy suburb on Chicago’s North Shore—was accomplished. At least in part. He’d seen his son, Roger, finally, after a 15-year stretch of absence and silence. Seen him through the window of the Starbucks where he worked. Seen him get into his car, a Ford sedan that looked like the used car salesman had been lucky to get rid of it. Seen him drive off down the road towards the trailer that Bates had already checked out the day before. He had seen Roger, but Roger hadn’t seen him. Now Bates was outside the diner, looking in through the rain-streaked windshield of his rented truck, watching Roger chat with a waitress, who appeared to flirt with him.
Roger hadn’t inherited his father’s work ethic, or, it seemed, any of his talents (Bates was good with numbers and as handy as any professional carpenter around), but he did have his father’s—and his grandfather’s—good looks and a measure of the quiet charm that never failed to attract the ladies. Bates’s three ex-wives, whatever else they might say about him, would attest to his devilish and seemingly effortless ability to drive women wild with no more than a casual glance. This waitress was clearly smitten, and with Roger distracted by her well-formed figure, Bates saw his opportunity. He would take the chance, seize the moment, carpe the diem (his Latin was rusty). He banged into the diner like a Mack truck (he was built like one, too), swinging the glass door so hard it almost shattered, and shouted, “Roger! Roger! It’s Dad! How the hell are you, son?” Roger turned. The waitress turned. Every head in the diner turned. It felt as if the diner itself turned on an invisible axis and the world, which had been facing one way all this time, suddenly shifted.
“Dad?” Roger exclaimed? “What the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s no way to greet your father,” said the waitress, and her words were echoed by the disapproving looks of the other customers.
“I’m here to see you, son. Come on. Give your old dad a hug.”
Roger grudgingly, tentatively approached his father, who—as soon as he was within reach—gripped him into a crushing bear hug.
“It's good to see you, son. Good to see you. Been a while, eh?”
“Uh, yeah. A while…”
“Are you hungry, Rog?” Bates used the nickname Roger had insisted he’d outgrown when he turned 13. (“I’m Roger, not Rog!”)
“Uh, yeah. I could eat.”
“Well, I’m buying!” Bates brandished his thick money clip and slapped it down on the formica table. “What’s good here?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve only had the waffles,” Roger said.
“The waffles is to die for,” said the waitress. “Smother ‘em with some Aunt Jemima syrup and…mmmmm!”
And the meal was served. The coffee was cold, the bacon soggy, and the juice had no business being advertised as fresh, but Bates had never had a better waffle.