Carpet plots

Those unsure of the official commencement of the lunch hour at Sam's diner could always rely on Brian Nickels to mark the beginning of the lunch hour. The waiting staff saw Brian as a patron whose daily attendance rivaled the post office in punctuality and consistency. Its design resembled a traditional diner. A row chairs at the counter allowed patrons to see the diner's cooks feverishly working to keep up with the pace of orders that the wait staff wrote up and placed a revolving order stand. Brian admired the stamina of the diner's cooks. He noted how they effortlessly transitioned from the morning breakfast to lunch and dinner menu. Omelets on the grill became transformed into well-done burgers or pasta dishes. Out of deference to the cooks, Brian had chosen a booth in which to eat his meal. Aware of his tendency to engage in impromptu conversations with strangers, Brian had too much respect for the cooks to risk interrupting the work of the two Hispanic cooks who labored at the grill. He was determined not to re-experience the mortification he had felt when he had earned that a favorite server no longer worked at the dinner—fired for spending to much time talking with his customers. That's what Brian had overheard. He remembered hearing it from one of the busboys who thought he had whispered it softly enough to be only heard by the line cook who was working that day. But the busboys had not compensated for Brian's acute hearing. Those at the diner accepted him as Brian, the law student. Unlike his college acquaintances, his friends had bestowed a nickname that reflected their respect and fondness for him. Over time they had started to call him Brian Perry Mason. An attractive waitress with a penchant for nicknames had assigned the name of the fictional lawyer to Brian on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. The warmth of her tone in bestowing his new moniker had carried none of the vindictiveness he heard when his classmates addressed him. The top that he left that day conveyed how much he appreciated his new nickname. From that day on, he saw himself not as a lawyer, student, but as a diner patron who happened to study. His devotion would become evident in ways that were both subtle and overt. To bolster the diner's income, he gave up eating at the school cafeteria. Meetings with school advisors now took place at the dinner. Subtle changes in his curriculum choices indicated his psychological commitment to the diner. Where environmental law had once been his central focus, the vagaries of contract law and its application in settling small business suits now became his focus. The more he engrossed himself in the life of his favorite diner, the happier Brian became. Changes in Brian's mood did not go unnoticed. His peers at the law school noted with frustration that the hurling of demeaning nicknames no longer had the effect of debilitating Brian. During heated classroom debates, his breathing was even and relaxed. Should doubts arise, he would merely focus on the image of his beloved diner, and like a finely French onion soup would melt away.

On this day, he was especially appreciative of his friends at the diner, and the employees who often lingered at his table to apprise themselves of the struggles in Brian's life. The staff no longer kept count of the stories that he had shared with them. The subject matter ranged from intellectual musings on the development of contract to the failings of his landlady. Brian perceived her as an elitist and as a closet capitalist. He had lost track of the number of battles they had waged over the years regarding expenses that Brian saw as a fiduciary responsibility of the homeowner. As he did not own the house that he resided in but merely rented a room, he doggedly insisted that the cost of financially maintaining the common areas be covered by his landlady. Brian accepted the right of homeowners to increase his rent by 3 percent every year to cover wear and tear. But even this simple premise led to verbal arguments. Their battles had recently reached an apex regarding the cost of maintaining an expensive Egyptian carpet that his landlady had insisted on putting in his room with the demand that he assume financial responsibility for its maintenance. In response to his landlady's decision, Brian had emphatically stated under no circumstances would he assume financial liability for a rug he had never requested. A series of angry emails followed. Exhausted by the caustic nature of their virtual exchanges, Brian chose a quiet Saturday and approached his landlady and suggested a new approach.

"Why don't we give detente a shot," he had said to Mrs. Grotowski," as he left for class that morning.

"What would this summit be about" Mrs. Grotowski had asked, gripping his broom with both hands in much the same one that would grasp a fighting staff.

"The cost of maintaining the common areas," Brian had replied, "I'll even cover lunch."

"That won't change my position. You want to live in my house. You pay what I think is fair. You have no idea how hard it is to be a homeowner". Mrs. Grotowski had replied.

Brian clenched his jaw. He was determined not to be the one who escalated their argument. Instead, he imagined his impending lunch at the diner, but it had been a close call. It had taken every ounce of his control to complete the invitation without biting his lip.

"Is that a yes or a no to my invitation."

To his shock, Brian's landlady had eschewed her usual lecture on the woes of homeownership.

"Where and when" is how Mrs. Grotowski had replied.

"Sam Diner. Tomorrow. At one," Is how Brian had replied before sprinting to catch the N Judah line that took him to his classes.

Brian had contemplated scheduling the meeting for the following week, but he saw little advantage in delaying the meeting. In a week, none of the fundamental issues were likely to change. Brian would still be the gangly tenant with a propensity for breaking the odd coffee mug, and his landlady would always be an opportunistic capitalist. Better to negotiate a phased departure from the house than to endure endless renovations that he and the other tenants would be required to subsidize illegally.

He had arrived fifteen minutes to prepare himself for what he expected to be a contentious battle of wills. To ensure a speedy withdrawal, he chosen the booth closest to the front exit. He saw himself waging a defensive verbal struggle that he hoped would yield a six-month rental agreement. Brian had spent the previous night reviewing his arguments. He hoped that they would shield from the inevitable shower of tears that Mrs. Grotowski manifested when her arguments failed her. Sitting at his booth, Brian felt himself empathizing with historical leaders like Churchill or Reagan, leaders who faced unrelenting political opponents with poise and skill. He was not sure if he could rise to the occasion. The gravity of Brian's mood was apparent to Brian's waiter, a muscular San Francisco native who possessed a cornucopia of sporting knowledge, and who was known simply as T.

"Your stir that lemonade any harder, and you'll break the glass," he said, hoping to elevate Brian's mood.

"Sorry. I'm meeting the Attila the Hun's grandmother today."

"The one you rent the room from," he asked, fully aware that he already what brian would say.

"The one and only," Brian replied.

"At least you're trying. You know. To bury the hatchet", said Tom's waiter.

"I'll be happy for a peaceful withdrawal," replied Brian.

"It's gotten that bad has it." Affirmed Brian's favorite waiter.

"Yup," Said Brian, sure that there was little else that he could, which would not be redundant.

"You never know," continued. "she could come in here and surprise you. For all you know, she might have had a life-altering experience on her way here."

Brian generally enjoyed T's unrelenting optimism, but today was not one of those days. Unlike T, Brian did not relate to his landlady's neurotic traits on a philosophical basis. Unlike T, she possessed the power to leave him homeless or at best provide him with only thirty days of housing. He noted the irritation as he refuted T's optimistic outlook.

"T if you don't mind. If you could just refill my coke, put in an order for a burger, and leave me be until Mrs. Attila arrives, I'd be grateful."

"Sure," Said T as he went to place Brian's order.

Brian did not have the time to notice the small grin that could be seen on T's face as he walked away to place Brian's order. Before he had time to contemplate the meaning of T's indifference to his sour mood, Mrs. Grotowski had seated herself at his booth. The willingness of Mrs. Grotowski to occupy the space around her with force was a consistent feature of her personality. It was not the ease with which she sat across from him. It was the relaxed calm, a peace that conveyed a sense of joy that left Brian perplexed and stunned. Before he could overcome his disorientation, Mrs. Grotowski had already begun to speak.

"Brian, I know things have been difficult between for a while," Mrs. Grotowski began.

"True", Replied Brian, barely able to muster more than a monosyllabic answer.

"And it's been my fault," Said Mrs. Grotowski, continuing before Brian could utter another word. "I have been petty, and I'm sorry. Now I think we both recognize that we are not a good match when it comes to the tenant slash landlady arrangement_."

The suggestion of a formal notice of eviction Brian caused Brian to brace for battle mentally. But his mental reflexes were again pre-empted by Mrs. Grotowski’s buoyant voice.

"But please, Brian, feel free to take as long as you like. Six months if you wish. It would be helpful to know that someone will be in the house for the next four months."

"Are you going somewhere well?" asked Brian, no longer sure that the woman seated opposite him was his landlady."

"You'll laugh, I know," said Mrs. Grotowski. "But I have been seeing someone, romantically and they invited me on three months cruise."

"A cruise," shouted Brian, his voice ecstatic with the thought of Mrs. Grotowski’s sustained departure from the house.'

"I can't stay for lunch. I am leaving the day after tomorrow. I'll leave my contact information on the kitchen table, and I hope you find a place that suits while I'm away."

Before he had finished exhaling, Mrs. Grotowski had risen from the table and had departed. Brian was at a loss to explain his good fortune. His ponderings were interrupted by T, who had arrived with his requested burger.

"Things go well. “Asked T, still exhibiting the grin that had formed on his face when he placed Brian's order.

"Beyond my wildest expectations," replied Brian, who found himself giggling in public for the first time since he was eleven.

"My uncle is always telling me. Nothing like an enjoyable cruise and a little romance to change one's perspective on life", added T.

"How did you know-," gasped Brian, his newfound joy now mixed the curiosity of an astronomer discovering a dark nebula.

"My bad. Forget to mention to you last week that my uncle… He cleans carpets... Specializes in rare ones… It seems he and your landlady hit it off in a big way… Did not want to say anything until I was sure it was for real. Enjoy your burger".

As T turned to respond to the demands of an adjoining table, Brian leaned back in his booth. From this day on, he knew that no diner would ever evoke such feelings of gratitude. And with the image of Mrs. Grotowski’s departure anchored in his mind, he savored his burger.