“Deal.” As they approached the door, Laura’s hunger pangs sounded like gongs at a Buddhist monastery, the reverberations filling every void.
Except for two.
Her Two Billionaires and a Baby
The waitress’s giant set of balls always threw her off.
Jeddy’s was one of those neighborhood holes in the wall that had probably been a breakfast joint since Laura’s grandma was a kid. During the height of factory shift work it had been open twenty-four hours and, as a relic to the Industrial Age, had never stopped. Even as the fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked and the streets were empty in that surreal hour between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. when everyone in the world is asleep and you’re not, Jeddy’s still had the cheap red vinyl bench seats, gummed-shut sugar containers and a few ancient men scratching their balls and chewing on a piece of something from 1983.
And then there were the waitress’s balls. Someone, years ago (since Laura and Josie were in college) had taken a cut-out cardboard life-size person, put a Jeddy’s uniform on her, and attached a pair of those truck hitch plastic balls to it.
It had, uh...stuck. So the waitress with balls greeted every customer with a smile, except that the cardboard cutout was actually Julian Sands from the old ’80s movie, “The Warlock.”
The stuff of nightmares and cheap Netflix thrills. Everything about Jeddy’s screamed old, forgotten, ratty and dated.
Except the food.
One of the owners had passed the restaurant on to a family member who had earned a degree at Le Cordon Bleu in Boston, and this had created as schizophrenic a restaurant as ever there was, for as Josie and Laura greeted the ball-bearing waitress, which involved giving her nuts a squeeze and saying “How you doin’?” in the best Joey Tribiani imitation, the aroma of the restaurant was strictly gourmet. Better than gourmet. Cheesy roadhouse Top Chef Gordon Ramsey Fucking Awesome gourmet.
Chipotle maple sausage. Cinnamon caramel ricotta crepes. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake. You name it, Jeddy’s had it, including honest-to-God real fried green tomatoes, but with a dill agave tarragon cream sauce for dipping instead of ketchup.
All served on chipped, ancient industrial-grade restaurant wear by an old woman named Madge who’d been working the booths since 1948. And could still walk and talk faster than Josie on three espresso shots.
“Whatcha want, Sweets?” Madge asked Laura, her breath the graveyard where old cigarettes and Chanel go to die. The woman had to be at least eighty but looked fifty—except for her mouth, where smoking lines were grooved so deeply her lips looked more like an elephant’s puckered asshole than anything resembling human flesh.
“Oh, let me see,” Laura said, amazed at how quickly she downshifted into comfort here. The glare of the overhead strip lights and the cracked vinyl held together with duct tape didn’t faze her. Madge’s bags under her eyes, though, were mesmerizing, with caked-up foundation in the creases. Who knew undereye circles could have wrinkles in them that would hold enough makeup to cover a small community theater’s needs?
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China blue eyes reminded her of Mike, and when Madge started tapping her stylus on her ordering tablet, the incongruity hit her.
“You guys use a wireless ordering system?” She pointed to the smartphone-like device in Madge’s hand.
“No. This is a chisel and a chunk of marble. Grog back there deciphers it all with hand puppets and grunts. Now what are you two eating? I’ve got work to do.”
Josie craned her neck around, surveying the nearly-empty joint. “It sure is hopping.”
Madge smirked. “The silverware don’t roll itself.” Those eyes. Mike. A pang of despair hit her—hard. His hands on her. Dylan’s tongue on her.
Josie shot Laura a skeptical look and turned to Madge. “What are your specials?”
“At 4 a.m. you get the fryer and the desserts. And maybe a limp salad. Jeff ain’t here now to cook the good stuff.”
“Do you have coconut shrimp with that aioli?” Laura perked up. Despair faded a notch.
“Yep.”
“Two of those, an order of chipotle maple saus— you got that tonight?” Madge nodded, not looking at them, hand flying with the stylus. “With cheesy potato pancakes. One piece of Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake and a giant peppermint hot fudge sundae,” Josie declared.
“And drinks?”
“Just water,” Laura replied.
“Watching yer weight, huh?” Madge snickered, walking away. Fortunately for Laura, she’d looked at Josie when she said it. The last thing she needed right now was a comment on her weight. Eating comfort food—even at 4 a.m.—no, especially at 4 a.m.—was exactly what she needed.