Always Answer a Ringing Phone, part two

My adventures as a short order cook at the Band Box diner in the 80s

A three part series.

Part one | Part two | Part three

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This just in: Peter D may not be dead, after all! Matt, the skinny red-headed kid from the previous section, sent me a note on FB saying that two Peter Ds exist, and they both worked and owned businesses within 200 yards of each other. Peter D, the Tilt Chair Company founder, did indeed pass away. But the Peter D who owned the Band Box is still alive, and reported to be living in Nova Scotia.

Glad to hear you are still alive and in the world, Mr. D. And my respectful condolences to the family of the other Peter D. Time is a thief.

#

One of the first questions I asked myself upon getting a job at the Band Box was this: if someone attacked me (which seemed likely), what would I use as a weapon? I chose the coffee pot, because the glass would break easily and cover the assailant with a hot liquid. It presented a strong defense, but with no serious injuries.

No one ever forced me to use it. I cocked it over my head once, preparing to hit an angry late-night post-bar drunk, but he responded with a “Hey, buddy, what the fuck?” and backed away.

I don’t recall ever calling 911, though I do recall bluffing, by pretending to call. The bluff didn’t work. The guy stood there and waited for the police with me. I felt pretty stupid. Luckily, by the time it was clear the police weren’t coming, he’d calmed down. The fight had lost its fire.

#

I wish I remembered more.  This was all forty years ago.

Elliot Park, the Minneapolis neighborhood in which the Band Box resides, was a bad neighborhood at the time. It’s apparently a pretty bad neighborhood now: a site called “AreaVibes” grades it an F on crime, and other sites mention a violent crime rate well above the national average. I don’t recall feeling unsafe there, but the homeless population was high, and drug use and drunkenness were common.

I thought gentrification was coming to Elliot Park when newly refurbished and pricey condos went for sale across the street from the Band Box. As I look at Google Maps street view to see those condos I’m surprised by their condition, and then I remember: this was all forty years ago! Those new buildings that once smacked of privilege, looking all new and shiny, are now forty years old and look any other building on the block. The brick is weathered, the fixtures tarnished. Elliot Park is a nicer neighborhood than it was back then, but I wouldn’t call it gentrified.

I went out with a girl who lived at those new shiny condos directly across the street from the Band Box. She was ambitious: a nurse, working her way through law school, studying to be a lawyer. I liked her. My primary memory of her? I was standing at the grill, frying up burgers, and turned to see her leaning in the doorway.

She tilted her head and smiled. “Working hard, or hardly working?”

Yes, it’s an old chestnut of a line, but her lean against the door was a classic movie star move, and I’m a sucker for the theatrical gesture. It worked on me, well enough so that it’s stuck in my mind all these decades later. I can picture her now.  Again, I wish I remembered more. I don’t even remember her name. We only went out a few times, and truthfully, it seemed like we lived in two different worlds.

“You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

#

My shift started at 11 p.m.  It was a nice time to start working, as the dinner rush was well over, the dishes washed, and the fridge restocked. I’d get traffic for the occasional burger, or a bowl of chili, but my main rush was the 1 a.m. post-bar frenzy. It was a neighborhood with several dive bars and even more liquor stores, and you could watch alcoholism taking its tolls on the families and friendships of the Elliot Park neighborhood in real time, just looking out the front windows. The post-bar rush involved a lot of rowdiness, some big orders, and some big tips engendered by alcohol-fueled generosity. It also involved fights, and crying, and people running out before they paid their bill.  I enjoyed the chaos, but I was always happy when the rush was over.

After 2 a.m. or so the post-bar rush was done, and for a couple hours the Band Box entered its horse latitudes, a slow drip of customers coming through the door in the literal middle of the night. Often these customers were homeless, coming in for a hot cup of coffee. The homeless were nearly always polite, because their goal was to sit quietly and nurse one cup of coffee for as long as possible. They had no interest in rocking the boat. This was Minneapolis, the winters got COLD, and you could see the fear of winter in their eyes. As long as they didn’t cause trouble, I’d let them sit all night, and give them frequent refills.

I cleaned the grill every night at the slowest point of the night, which was generally around 4 in the morning, if no one came in. I loved this part of the job, but the timing was important, because the grill was down for nearly an hour.

So, first I made sure that no one inside the place wanted anything more grilled. I called out my “last call for food” to the scattered crowd, then turned off the grill, and waited for it to cool down. Then I went to work.

Warm water came first. Don’t use cold water, I was warned, that might crack the metal of the grill. No soap either. I splashed a little warm water on the similarly warm surface of the grill. The scraper came next, a little spatula that I used to scrape off all the accumulated cheese and grease and fried up onion bits. The thing has sharp points, so avoid gouging the flat surface of the grill.

The fun part came next: the pumice brick. I cannot fully explain why much I enjoyed this so much, but maybe any short order cooks out there will understand the appeal of The Brick.

Cleaning a professional flat grill involves using a pumice brick, literally a chunk of pumice the size and shape of a brick. I’d refill everyone’s cups to buy myself some time, drizzle a little oil over the metal, and take my place at the lower right corner of the grill. I’d put my weight into it and began to scrub. Straight lines, from the front of the grill to the back, really giving it some push. You didn’t want to scrub off the patina of seasoning, the key was making sure it was a perfectly smooth and flat surface to cook on. Even one little ding can ruin a grill. After that first brick-width section was cleaned, I’d move the brick over and begin again.

When I was done, I’d wipe the grill down, add a little more oil and spread it around with the scraper. I’d turn the heat back on and within twenty minutes I’d be ready to cook again.

The first sign that my shift was winding to a close was the woman walking through the parking lot of Kenny’s Market, across the street, coughing as loud as a car back-firing. She’d stop long enough to grab a newspaper from the stack at the front of the still-unopened store (they opened at 7; I ended up working there for a few months after the Band Box closed, but more on that later), leave two quarters on the top of the newspaper stack, and then cross 14^th St. and enter the Band Box. She’d light up the first of many cigarettes and order a cup of coffee, two eggs over medium, hash browns and toast.  She didn’t tip well (hardly anyone did), but she always tipped, and always used quarters.

The sun would be climbing over the horizon behind Kenny’s as the first of the early breakfast crowd would appear through the door, often walking past the front windows before entering, checking on which of the regulars might already be there. 

#

An old man named Iver who came by every afternoon for lunch once told everyone in the Band Box that he’d won a million dollars. He named the date, which was months away, and told us all that the check was going to be presented to him on the Tonight Show. It was very exciting, and excitement only increased as the date of handing over the check approached.

I won’t build suspense any longer than necessary, especially since the outcome is pretty predictable: the day before the giveaway, Iver didn’t come in for lunch. He didn’t come in the day of the giveaway either. Some of the regulars theorized he wasn’t there because he was on his way to New York City, where the Tonight Show was taped.  Those of us who sensed another possible outcome stayed quiet about it.

The Tonight Show came and went, and several regulars watched (I didn’t own a TV).  Iver never appeared, and no one gave away a million dollars. It occurred to us the next morning that none of us had ever seen a million dollars given away on the Tonight Show before, but no one had thought of that at the time.

Iver never came back for lunch again. It’s too bad. We were obviously his number one choice for lunch. He would have had to endure some embarrassment. But people would forget about it eventually, and forgive him as well. The story would have passed into neighborhood lore. Giving Iver gentle grief about winning a million dollars would become just one more story among countless others exchanged at the counter of the Band Box. Stories clung to that place like barnacles clung to a boat.   

#

My friend Ken, who generally worked the morning shift there, pointed out after working there awhile that we were kind of neighborhood celebrities, and he wasn’t wrong. The windows of the Band Box overlooked the one of the busier intersections of the neighborhood. If you worked at the Band Box, you were visible to anyone who passed.

A steady stream of cigarette smokers also came through our doors. We had a cigarette machine inside, with reasonable prices, and unlike Kenny’s Market across the street, we sold single cigarettes for a dime each, from a little Styrofoam cup on top of the register. They were known as “loosies,” and they were illegal to sell, and we knew at the time they were illegal to sell, but we had compelling reasons to sell them. So many people in that neighborhood were unable to scrape together the two dollars needed for a pack. The cup of loosies kept people from coming in off the street to bum a cigarette.  When they tried, you just said it wasn’t allowed and pointed to the cup. If they had a dime, they could buy a cigarette. If not, they’d need to leave.

We sold single cigarettes for a dime each, from a little Styrofoam cup on top of the register.

#

A blind older man lived on the first floor of the apartment building I lived in, and sometimes he and another woman from the building would come in for a meal, him always treating her. The woman was younger than him, and had great looping eyebrows drawn on her face with eyebrow pencil, a good distance higher than eyebrows generally were supposed to be. She looked like a cartoon.

Since he was blind, he depended on her to tell him the difference between one-dollar bills, five-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, you get the ideas. He’d hand her a bill and ask what the denomination was. She’d often lie to him, and pocket the change.

Once the cooks noticed, we decided as a team to watch her, and call her out if she lied to him.

After a time he quit trusting her, and while they both continued to visit the Band Box, they did so separately.      

I entered my apartment building once, and passed his doorway. His front door was open, which was unusual, and he was calling out, “I know you’re in here with me.”  He seemed to be alone, and the whole thing felt very eerie. I cautiously took a few steps into his apartment.

“Hey. I’m the cook. From the Band Box? Do you need help?” His apartment was dark and cluttered. I was scared to go too far inside.

“There’s someone in here with me.” He spoke from one of the back rooms. I couldn’t see him. He sounded more angry than fearful.

“Do you want me to look?” Please say no.

“Yes.”

Fuck. Little light made it into the interior of the rooms. Old furniture lined the walls, haphazardly placed. I looked around the living room, and didn’t see much other than shadows. I took a partial peek around one of the doorways. Nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to look any further. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in there, but still.

“Hey!” I called out.

Tumbleweeds.

I listened. I was pretty sure no one was there other than him and I. After a few silent moments I said, ”I’m leaving!”

And I left.

Peace.

To be continued…