Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch
I was surprised to find out that I liked being a waitress, and after a few days of fumbling trays and screwing up orders, I got to be pretty good at it.
My new place of employment was a large motel, restaurant and banquet complex named The Colonial Inn. It didn't seem very colonial through a New Englander's eyes, but it was a nice place.
My grandmother had worked there for fifteen years as a hostess in the restaurant, and had become a sort of stand in mother figure for a lot of the employees. She was still friends with many of them, and as her granddaughter, I was warmly greeted by everyone.
My grandmother and I bonded immediately. One of the first things she said to me was that she had done just about every drug there was back in the sixties so I shouldn't think I was "something special". It was a great relief to get that subject out of the way so easily.
She taught me how to play pinochle, how to eat with chopsticks and how to make a White Russian. She taught me a lot of things.
She taught me about my father.
One evening, a few weeks after my arrival, she plopped down next to me on the couch. She had a large cardboard box, which she set down on the coffee table. I opened it and saw a collection of my father's belongings. There was a well worn baseball glove and a stuffed tiger. There were a few school notebooks and a Luke Skywalker action figure. I opened a tattered Birder's Guide and saw that he had checked off all the species he had seen, and a Spiderman lunchbox that was filled with toy dinosaurs.
Grandma opened a scrapbook across our laps. We looked at every report card, and at every tiny piece of memorabilia; a circus ticket, a child's valentine, a letter home from Boy Scout camp. We looked at every picture. I saw a laughing toddler. A skinny little boy, cupping a bullfrog in his hands. A proud athlete in a varsity jacket. A smiling groom standing with his bride. I saw a papa gazing with love at a baby swaddled in a pink blanket.
I looked at Grandma and saw silent tears running down her cheeks.
"Oh, Grandma," I said, as my own tears welled in my eyes, "This is all you have left of him."
"No, kiddo," she said, squeezing my hand, "You are what I have left of him."
I had not cried for my absent father since I was a small child. But Grandma taught me that he was not a phantom, but a man. That night, my bitterness melted, and for the first time in my life, I mourned him.
Acclimating to life in a huge metropolis was both thrilling and disorienting. I struggled to get used to the wide, busy avenues, with their almost unimaginable volume of traffic. Even on our residential street, I did not sleep well at night for the level of noise.
But I loved the variety of experiences available, and I spent much of my spare time just exploring. I was thrilled at the number of stores and restaurants I saw everywhere. But most of all, I relished the ability to be a part of the crowd, just another girl walking down the street without the fear of being pointed at, scowled at, treated with scorn. Grandma would warn me to be careful, that I was not in the country now, but I felt safer than I had in years.
At work, I was beginning to feel like I belonged. The other employees were treating me as a friend. One day, one of the waitresses dragged me with her on a shopping trip after work. The restaurant crew had a team in a bowling league, and I joined the group that went to cheer them on. I was doing the everyday things that I had, in the past, looked down upon.
One of the bartenders had asked me for a date on my second day of work, but I politely declined. I was reticent to start dating again, and I didn't feel much need to do so. I told myself that I needed to keep my focus on building a new life, and not allow myself to be distracted by a man.
But the heart has no interest in where the mind wants to focus. I did become interested in a man, and in a most unexpected man.
His name was Dwight. He was the Colonial's head banquet chef. He was not like any other man I had ever been interested in. My taste had always run to slender, athletic men. To the wild rebellious boys. Dwight was none of that. He was big, over six feet tall, and barrel shaped. His hands were huge, but capable of the softest touch and the most delicate work. I told him once that I thought his skin was the color of walnuts, but he indignantly corrected me, explaining that it was the color of pecans.
It was not his appearance that drew my interest, it was his bearing, his demeanor. Everything about him seemed touched with grace. He exuded an aura of dignity and nobility without ever being pompous or arrogant. He had the eyes of a wise elder and the smile of a mischievous boy.
The banquet kitchen was his personal kingdom. It branched off of the main kitchen, and I would walk by it often during the day, on my way to the bathroom or to get supplies for my station from the storeroom. Dwight would be there, behind his work table, chopping, mixing, creating. He played old Motown and soul music from his laptop all day as he worked. Everyone was eventually assigned a musical theme that he would play, and sometimes sing to them in his gruff voice when they passed his kitchen. For my theme he chose the Four Top's "I Can't Help Myself". I would walk by with an armful of ketchup bottles or a case of paper napkins, and he'd sing out "Sugar pie, honey bunch." Honeybunch soon became his nickname for me. Many people groaned or joked with him over their songs and nicknames, but I found it charming.
Soon, I made a point of stopping and chatting with him when I passed. He always rewarded me with his big toothy smile, and often with a tasty sample of something he was working on. One day I complimented him on his music and the next time I saw him, he presented me with a homemade CD. I took it home and listened to it. Marvin Gaye. Al Green. Barry White. When he asked me how I'd liked it, I told him that I loved it, but pointed that all the songs seemed to be about sex.
"Every great song is about sex, Honeybunch," he grinned.
I was coming out of the employee bathroom one day, when he called out, "Honeybunch, come here!"
I walked over to the kitchen door and he came around from behind his work table, cupping something in his hand. He leaned in close to me, said "Open up," and raised his hand in front of my face.
I froze for a moment, remembering a warm summer night, standing by a pond, when a beautiful young man offered me something he told me would be wonderful. But when I looked up into Dwight's soft eyes, I felt an utter sense of trust. I opened my mouth and he dropped something on my tongue.
It was sweet and tart and delicious, and I moaned with pleasure.
"Everybody does chocolate dipped strawberries. I'm doing raspberries."
"It's fantastic."
He raised his arms above his head in a gesture of triumph. I laughed and turned to walk away.
"Wait, Honeybunch, hold up."
I turned back towards him.
"Listen, I was wondering, I'm having a party Saturday. It's not often I get a free Saturday, you know? Got to make the most of it."
I felt a tingle of excitement while I waited for him to continue.
"So, I was wondering, would you like to come?"
"Sure," I said, "I'd love to. What time?"
He broke into a broad smile. "Eight o'clock, or any time afterwards. I'll provide wine, anything else BYOB. I've got some great hors d'oeuvres I'm going to do, too."
