When I first started working at the Diner, lucky for me, Kissy was on vacation. Once every year, he and his family would travel as far north as they’d ever been – Jacksonville, Florida – to participate in some kind of “CRAZY BIG” Flea Market/Antique Fair. It was the only seven days a year he ever missed work, unless on the rare occasion that someone actually died.
Titled “Head Dishwasher,” mainly because he was the only full-time dishwasher, Kissy was known as the Boss Lady’s “pet.”
A native of Florida, Kissy was a true Southern cracker. As back woods as they come, he was also as clever as a fox, as strong as an ox and as loyal as a little boy’s puppy. The Boss Lady loved him with all her heart, and she treated him like he was family. She was also the only one at the Diner that could calm him down once he got into one of his MOODS. Every once in a while, for absolutely no reason, Kissy would snap. It could be at a co-worker or a customer, it could be with the service guy dropping off our soda delivery or the produce man asking where to put the case of tomatoes.You never knew what would trigger it. But, everyone at the Diner knew how to fix it lickedy split. Just call in “The Mrs.”
Kissy had worked for the family for decades. He worked his regular hours at the Diner and he and his mom ran a thrift store that the owners of the Diner also owned. Any free time Kissy managed to find, which wasn’t much, he would spend going to garage and estate sales and checking through every local advertisement he could find. He drove an old beat up van that looked like a homeless person lived in it, which he used to cart all the stuff he bought and sold from one place to another. Not to mention, the outside of his 20-year old vehicle screamed “WASH ME!Mainly because Kissy lived somewhere out in “Nowheresville.”
Kissy’s family had their mail delivered to a P.O Box within the city limits, basically because they lived where no man should reside, in an unincorporated area of the county that is not represented by MODERN TECHNOLOGY more or less postal service. Seriously. To get from the Diner to Kissy’s home, the property his family has owned since before the Civil War, you first get to drive on a normal paved US Highway. Then to a paved county road, before you get to a gravel road, which leads to a dirt road, to a narrower dirt road that guides you to the painted rock that marks the red sand road you have to turn onto to get to Kissy’s road. And then, you still have to drive through the woods in the sand with no signs of life and no phone service for at least another mile or so before you get to his property line.
Yeah. Too much for this Jersey girl. I never really hung out in the woods up north even as a child, so I definitely don’t see myself opting to live somewhere out in the Florida forest. For real, I am a firm believer that it is better to be shot in the head by a total stranger on a paved street than taken hostage by some woodsy to be his new pet.
So, I was hired at the Diner on Kissy’s first day off. The Mrs. hired me that morning, and because I had so much experience and availability, she basically handed me a menu and a book of guest checks and a told me to try my best in section FOUR, which was the slowest section in the restaurant. I had been waitressing since I was a child, I had just never served breakfast. It seemed easy. It was all about keeping coffee hot and getting customers in and out quick. Early mornings were all about feeding them and getting them back on their way so they could get to work on time.
My first week of four shifts, I thought went pretty well, especially seeing I really never received any formal training. They just threw me in and I ran with it. Carol Ann, my new best buddy, my Jersey girl, was the Diner’s veteran opening server, so I knew I always had someone to turn to if I needed help. Everyone seemed friendly enough. Sure they made fun of my “Jersey accent,” but they had been razzing Carol Ann about hers for years. I didn’t mind, I’d been picked on for worse by my own peeps.
So, it’s the first day of my second week at the Diner. I entered the restaurant looking a bit frazzled, holding my apron in one hand and my purse in the other and barely holding on to either. “I almost over slept,” I said to Carol Ann as I dropped my stuff down on the table at a booth the employees used. “This morning stuff is going to kill me.”
I reached for a large Styrofoam cup and began to concoct my NEW morning medicine. I poured in some chocolate milk and some hot, fresh brewed coffee, before I added 5, 6, 7 swirls of sugar. Oh, how good it is, I thought. I was never one to drink coffee, but then again I am also not a morning person. Something had to change. Coffee seemed to work. It was FREE. It tasted REALLY GOOD. And, it’s LEGAL! What could be better?
I took my first gulp and as I did I swung around quickly without any thought and I twirled right into this rather large, kind of scary looking, really hairy man. Oh my God, this poor guy was now not only wearing the coffee I just tossed at him from my cup, but he was also wearing the mouthful that I spit at him, when he scared the living crap out of me.
I never knew anyone was even standing behind me. How could he get that close to me without me even sensing he was there? “Oh my,” I said as I watched my back-wash drip down his face.
Speechless and extremely uncomfortable, I managed to blurt out, “I am so sorry…I can’t believe I just…”
Unaffected, the man wiped his face with the back of his hand and very oddly licked it off. GROSS! I thought, but before I could say another word, Carol Ann walked over, surveyed the mess and said, “Kissy, meet the new girl.”
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