Page 15 of Pity Play

Living in Chicago has been great. I like being in a high rise right in the middle of all the action. I love having my favorite sports teams so close, and the food is incomparable. But even with all its pluses, I’m not a true Chicagoan. Natives of the Windy City are known for their love of a deep-dish pie and Chicago-style hotdogs. I’d take a good beer and fried cheese curds over both any day of the week.

With that thought in mind, I stand up and get back into mycar. Driving over to Pop’s, I remember when my parents bought the place. Kelsey and I were both little. Up until that time, my dad worked the grill at another place in town. When Pop’s location became available, my parents took out a second mortgage on our house so that they could buy it and make a go of owning their own place. It was the American dream through and through. It was also an insane amount of work. More days than not, Kels and I would go to the restaurant right after school and do our homework there while our parents fed the citizens of Elk Lake.

A myriad of sensations hit me as I was walking into Pop’s, but the biggest one is a sense of coming home. It’s the same traditional diner décor that I remember—red vinyl upholstered booths surrounding white Formica tabletops. The floor is a scarred pine. Nothing is in pristine condition, but that adds a sort of authenticity to the atmosphere. It says, “This is a great place to eat,” without any of the pretense you find in restaurants where the owners feel like they have something to prove. Pop’s has nothing to prove. It’s withstood the test of time and as a result has earned its reputation as some of the best food in the area.

I don’t know the girl standing at the hostess station, and I don’t bother to introduce myself. Instead, I ask her, “Who’s cooking today?”

She looks mildly affronted, in that teenage kind of way, before countering, “Who wants to know?”

“I’m a friend of the Phillips family.” I don’t know why I don’t just tell her who I am, but if I were to guess, I’d say a small part of me is toying with the idea of running back to Chicago. My dad didn’t welcome me with open arms, not that I really expected him to, but even so, I had hoped it would go better than it did.

“Have you heard about Mr. P?” I nod my head, so she says, “Jim is picking up the slack.”

Jim Parnicky has been working at Pop’s since it opened. He’s as much a part of the landscape as my dad is. I’m halfway past her before asking, “Mind if I go back and talk to him?” I’ve gotone foot inside the kitchen before I hear her say customers aren’t allowed in the back.

Jim is standing at the grill cooking up a pile of onions in preparation for a busy night. He’s as tall and thin as ever and his dark skin shines with beads of perspiration. Jim started as a dishwasher and has done every job that’s needed doing here, even when that job wasn’t his. Every restaurant needs at least one employee like him. Although he’s always felt more like family than staff.

“Slim Jim!” I call out, which causes the man himself to turn around.

His eyes open widely in shock at seeing the prodigal son return. Dropping his spatula, he takes three long steps toward me, all the while opening his arms for me to make up the distance. “Luke, welcome home!” There’s nothing but pure joy in his tone and it warms my heart. If only my dad could have greeted me the same way.

Stepping into his embrace, I tell him, “I’m here to help you out. You can’t run this place single-handedly.”

“Hallelujah!” he declares while patting my back. Then he steps back and stares at me. “Where have you been all this time?”

There’s no sense in beating around the bush, so I tell him, “I’ve not exactly been welcome.”

He grunts deeply. “Nonsense. Your daddy wants nothing more than for you to be here.”

“Here, permanently,” I clarify. “Not just to visit. And I’ve got a whole life waiting for me in Chicago.”

Jim nods his chin up and down. “Things ain’t always how they seem, boy.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t know how things are unless someone tells me. You want to do that?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not my place, son. But I sure am glad to see you. I’ve been here since six this morning and I’d like to take a load off for a while.”

“Why don’t you take the night off?” I walk across the room and pick up an apron off the stack.

He shakes his head. “I’ll just grab some lunch and then we can do the night together. You here for a while?”

“I’m planning to be,” I reluctantly tell him. “At least until my dad is back on his feet. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t advertise my arrival. My mom thinks it’s best if Dad doesn’t know I’m working here.” Rolling my eyes, I add, “She doesn’t want him feeling indebted to me.”

Jim’s black eyes twinkle knowingly. “I’m guessing she doesn’t want him to get his hopes up. Who are you gonna tell people you are?”

“Most people never give a second thought to the person who cooks their meals. If they ask, I’ll just tell them my first name and let them know I’ll only be here for a short time.”

“What about the staff?”

“I didn’t see anyone I recognized when I walked in, so I’ll feed them the same story.”

Jim flips a burger on the grill before slicing an entire beefsteak tomato and fanning it across a white dinner plate. “I’ll get you up and running and then we can make a schedule between the two of us.”

“You still eating all the tomatoes?” I tease him.

He simply smiles and drops the burger on his plate. “Check over the menu. We’ve added some new things and taken away some others. I don’t imagine you’ll have any trouble.” Then he walks through the swinging door that leads to the dining room.

Being back in Pop’s kitchen is a surreal experience. I worked here from the time I was in tenth grade through summers at college. I spent hundreds of hours right here chopping onions, washing dishes, and scrubbing down the stainless-steel counters. Those tasks led to me working the line and learning how to not only make an exceptional omelet, but the perfect burger, as well.

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