DEPORTATION AT BREAKFAST
The signs on the windows lured me inside. For a dollar I could get two eggs,
toast, and potatoes. The place looked better than most—family-run and clean.
The signs were hand-lettered and neat. The paper had yellowed some, but the
black letters remained bold. A green-and-white awning was perched over the
door, where the name “Clara’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. 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, I figured it was rye. I
didn’t want rye toast anyway.
Because I was alone, I sat at the counter, leaving the empty tables free for
other customers that might come in. At the time, business was quiet. Only two
tables were occupied; and I was alone at the counter. But it was still early—not
yet seven-thirty.
Behind the counter was a short man with dark black hair, a mustache, and a
youthful beard, one that never grew much past stubble. He was dressed
immaculately, all in chef’s white—pants, shirt, and apron, but no hat. He had a
thick accent. The name “Javier” was stitched on his shirt.
I ordered coffee, and asked for a minute to choose between the breakfast
special for a dollar and the cheese omelette for $1.59. I selected the omelette.
The coffee was hot, strong, and fresh. I spread my newspaper on the counter
and sipped at the mug as Javier went to the grill to cook my meal.
The eggs were spread out on the griddle, the bread plunged inside the toaster,
when the authorities came in. They grabbed Javier quickly and without a word,
forcing his hands behind his back. He, too, said nothing. He did not resist, and
they shoved him out the door and into their waiting car.
On the grill, my eggs bubbled. I looked around for another employee—maybe
out back somewhere, or in the washroom. I leaned over the counter and called
for someone. No one answered. I looked behind me toward 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
Javier’s exit.
I could smell my eggs starting to burn. I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.
I thought about Javier and stared at my eggs. After some hesitation, I got up
from my red swivel stool and went behind the counter. I grabbed a spare apron,
then picked up the spatula and turned my eggs. My toast had popped up, but it
was not browned, so I put it down again. While I was cooking, the two elderly
women came to the counter and asked to pay. I asked what they had had. They
seemed surprised that I didn’t remember. I checked the prices on the chalkboard
and rang up their order. They paid slowly, fishing through large purses, and went
out, leaving me a dollar tip. I took my eggs off the grill and slid them onto a
clean plate. My toast had come up. I buttered it and put it on my plate beside my
eggs. I put the plate at my spot at the counter, right next to my newspaper.
As I began to come back from behind the counter to my stool, six new
customers came through the door. “Can we pull some tables together?” they
asked. “Were all one party.” I told them yes. Then they ordered six coffees, two
decaffeinated.
I thought of telling them I didn’t work there. But perhaps they were hungry. I
poured their coffee. Their order was simple: six breakfast specials, all with
scrambled eggs and wheat toast. I got busy at the grill.
Then the elderly men came to pay. More new customers began arriving. By
eight-thirty, I had my hands full. With this kind of business, I couldn’t
understand why Javier hadn’t hired a waitress. Maybe I’d take out a help-wanted
ad in the paper tomorrow. I had never been in the restaurant business. There was
no way I could run this place alone.
