The Spoon Diner Trilogy

Hash-House Annie

Dropped off at an orphanage as an infant,
I never had a real family.
I began work here when I turned sixteen,
Learning to dismiss Lucius Atherton's advances
With a wink, a joke and a smile.
I was holding out for "Mr Right,"
But he never showed up.
Soon I became accepted as "The Waitress;"
The early morning farmers and their hands
Or the noon banker, lawyer and merchant crowd
Felt free to continue talking business
With me hovering over them, pouring coffee,
Bringing their food, clearing their dishes.
Eventually I learned enough about them
To worry about their health, their work
And to follow the lives of their children.
My regulars became the family I never had.
I put on weight over time.  Our food was good.
Forty-six years into my job here,
I sat down to take a load off my feet
And my heart gave out.
The last words I remember hearing were...

"Say Annie  When you're up and moving again
Would you mind freshening up my coffee?"

Fry-Cook George

For years I labored over the grill,
Almost as long as Annie,
My head down, my back turned to you all.
I took some good-natured ribbing about it.

"How come we never get to see your homely face?"

"That's George's way.  He's a just a bit anti-social."

When it came to their breakfast or lunch though
They were content to "Let George do it."
The truth is, every day of my God-cursed life
My mind trembled with the secret dread
That someone who knew me from St. Louis
Would stop here to eat, get a glimpse of my face,
And remember me as that young college student
Who let liquor go to his head one evening,
Flexed his muscles in a bar fight, and fled,
Leaving the body of a friend on the barroom floor.

That's why I always stood at the grill,
My back to you all and my head bowed.
My companions were the fear that held me
In a grip that any constable would envy,
And my ever-present shame.

Gerta Sundvik

I owned the diner where George and Annie worked.
I'd come in and help out during the noon rush,
But for the most part they did a good job for me.
Their labor made us all a good living.
I was lucky enough to get to stay home,
Baking my pies for the noon lunch crowd
Or canning fresh fruit to use during the winter.
I'd work on a quilt for the church bazaar
Or read my Bible during my spare hours.
I prayed for both George and Annie to come to Jesus
But could never talk either into joining me in church.
Annie always said that she was "too tired;"
George just hung his head like he always did
And mumbled that he just didn't belong there.
They were good people though, despite all that.
May our merciful Savior touch them with forgiveness
And open the gates of his Paradise to them.

Beatification of the Stooges

Beatification:  the official act of the Pope whereby
a deceased person is declared to be enjoying the happiness
of heaven, and therefore is a proper subject of religious honor
and public cult in certain places.

Let's not talk of someone's blood shed for my sins,
The bitter solace or the triumphant "I told you so"
Of a Last Judgement.  Let's not talk of Jihad
Or Holy War.  I don't need some downer religion.

Give me a creed that will banish my cares,
That will lighten my oppressed spirit and send me
Out of the Church in side-splitting laughter.

Let us kneel and pay grateful homage to
The Holy Trinity of Larry, Curley and Moe,
Benevolent dieties who spurn eternal punishment.
You do something stupid
Moe thunks you on the head
Or maybe slaps you silly.
Divine retribution comes via knuckle-rap,
A box to the ears or poke in the eyes.
No long range ramifications, no guilt trip;
A little pain and you've done your penance.

And such miracles!  Christ's pale in comparison.
Eye pokes that never cause blindness,
Sledgehammer blows to the head that never
Fracture a skull or cause a concussion.
Talk about loaves and fishes, how about
The never ending supply of pies to be thrown.
Get thee back, Satan.  Evil can be warded off
By the Curley shuffle or a well-timed "duck"
Or thwarted with a hair pull or a conk on the head.

The patron Saints of knuckleheads
Nitwits and numbskulls,
These are dieties who failure never daunts,
Resilient as a pair of suspenders,
Able to bounce back from adversity
Higher than a rubber ball.

All hail these princely puncturers of pomposity.
Let us build them a cathedral of Silly Putty.
Let us glorify their names with the sacred snicker

"Nyuk" Nyuk" Nyuk" Nyuk" Nyuk" "Nyuk."

Sing loud their praise with the holiest of chants

"WooWoo"  "WooWoo" "WooWoo" "WooWoo"