Chapter 25

Sometimes as I approached the table I could already feel his order coming, for 10 years he had occupied the same table every morning between 11:00 and 11:45. He ordered the exact same thing every time. That’s 3,650 times he sat in that seat, 3,650 times he ate the exact same meal. Harold was not a man who had made his life from shortcuts and he was not someone who tolerated people who did. Even his order had to be placed in full...one time 5 years earlier in '77 a well-meaning waitress had brought his order back to the kitchen when she saw him come in. She poured his coffee and left it at the table, Harold sat in front of the cup for 10 minutes until she brought his order out. "what is this!?" demanded Harold "it's your order" said the young woman "you must be mistaken because I didn't order anything" he countered. The whole place watched as she was forced to take the order back and have the exact same thing remade, then as the line re-cooked his meal, the outcome they had all predicted, the young girl was subject to an angry lecture on how such efforts to suck up only lead people to think less of you, in the 10 minutes it took to make his order she had been broken down completely.

I would never dream of perpetrating such a heinous act of kindness, and lucky for Harold I'd serve him every day but Sundays for the past 5 years, Sundays as it were, belonged to Jessica. Jessica was a big-haired girl with Bertinelli-sized looks and Diana-sized dreams, who spent her entire shift and probably most of her life loudly chewing gum at people. As much as I hated her for having her whole life ahead of her, I also knew that she was probably the only person in that place that would actually make something of themselves, most of us were too old to dream anymore, the rest were too defeated by circumstance.

Every morning at exactly 10:59 I got the signal that my shift was a quarter of the way done, that signal was Harold, sauntering in slowly, wearing what seemed to be a small collection of pre-owned coats, in the beginning, many people figured that he was a part of Vegas’ homeless population, the majority of which had been pushed off of the strip and outta sight of the tourists. As it happened he probably wasn't homeless, in fact over the course of the week he would spend a grand total of $13.50 eating at the diner, surely there are people with more lavish expenditures, but for a girl like me, heck, if nothing else I'd have saved up for a car.

By 11:00 am Harold was settled in his seat. I took a deep breath, if it'd been Tuesday I would've shot Jessica a knowing look, instead, I walked with a sense of duty and solitude toward table 4.

I made with the necessary formalities and prepared for his order. "Two eggs over…." As he continued I blocked him out while pretending to take detailed notes, all the while he continued to explain his order: two eggs over hard - but he didn't want the crispy edges and he wanted hash browns, but homestyle, not that shredded nonsense. As he spoke, I thought of Jessica, how absolutely bored she must look sitting through this every Sunday.

I had accepted my fate a long time ago, but Jessica, she was young, not stuck here like me. she still had stars in her eyes, and when you had that much hope, it was even harder to deal with Harold. He was the kind of person who sucked the hope out of you, not so he could have it for himself but rather so he could break it in half while you watched.

Taking Harold's order was comprised of several steps, the first of which was watching him come in and avoiding any type of friendly or familiar greetings, Harold hated them. Step 2 was taking his order. Step 3 was the long walk to the kitchen, all the while knowing his eyes were fixed firmly on me; he'd just watch me, but it wasn't sexual...not the way it was with the countless men that stared at Jessica as she walked away, the men who thought their wives and little girls didn't notice, but they did. No, the way Harold watched me leave wasn't sexual, it was almost worse, it was just...disapproval. like both my presence and the audacity to walk away from him had been of equal offence.

Harold was almost always the most notable part of my day, sad really, the amount of theater that went into pretending to take his order and all but ignoring the fact that he is a cold and demanding constant in my life. After him, the row of hungover customers just became blank faces until I climbed aboard the number 7 bus home.

2 floors up in an offensively ugly little apartment building I turned the key every night around 6:00 pm.

Inside I'd eat whatever I brought home from work, typically a Reuben that had been at its best, not a high bar, some 45 minutes earlier.

From there a range of entertainment options sat at my disposal, firstly I could re-read one of the 30 some books that took residence beside my bed, I could write in my journal, or I could watch tv. I loved to watch tv but the 16-inch black and white that sat in the living room was in its final days. Every time I turned it on it would last for a little while and then the tube would dim, leaving behind only sound. Every time this happened, it happened sooner and sooner. I had decided some time ago to budget the remaining time, so on Wednesdays, I allowed myself to watch Dynasty. Most of the other nights I wrote in my journal.

When I was 7 years old I had seen a small black notebook sitting in the window of a local emporium. The price tag said ‘Chatwin's Paris moleskines $1’, But it didn't matter, to me that was the same as a million dollars. I asked mama but she always sluffed it off, "that's the type of thing European men carry" she'd say "executives, people with something worthwhile to write down". Perhaps it was stubbornness but I knew immediately that I had to have it. For 3 years, before every birthday, before every Christmas, and any other chance I saw, I asked for that notebook. All the while, what I would write in it seemed of little consequence compared to proving to mama that I needed it as much as I had said I did. Then one day, I passed the shop with aunty, when I pointed out the notebook she simply said "who am I to understand the wants of a child" and purchased it for me.

At first, desperate to use it for something my mother would deem ‘worthwhile’, I began chronicling all the details of my day, mama obviously saw right through it, but over time the journalling became less out if spite and more of a treasured part of my day. Soon I began earning an allowance and started replacing it regularly. In a pair of boxes at the back of my closet sat each and every one of them and every day after work I still came home and wrote about my day, and about fond hopes and dreams that I knew would never come true. If I could, I'd write, I'd pack everything into my car and drive to Hollywood, but I don't have a car, and I'm not pretty like Joan Collins, Heather Locklear, Or even Jessica from work.

Unlike Jessica though, I knew my dreams could never come true, still, every time I wrote about them I felt a little bit better, like at least my dreams where real. Even if they weren't attainable, they had become words, more than a boring and aching old emotion.

Then came April 25th 1982, everything was different that day, first of all, it was a Sunday and I was listening to my alarm go off, something I detest, earlier in the week, Jessica and a friend decided to l drive out to L.A. for the weekend, so of course it was my job to cover. I had barely finished doing my mascara when there was a knock on the door. It was Terry, a soaking wet bar rag of a man with a thin red mustache and little else in this world. When he was 24 his old man dropped dead and left him this old apartment building which he had begrudgingly run since...in fact these days he was probably the rowdiest tenant in the building, a career alcoholic who played Sinatra too loud at 4:00 am, in another life he may have been a wealthy real estate mogul in the Big Apple, but Terry's dreams died the day his papa did.

He was there that morning to tell me, that for the second time in as many months, he was raising the rent...this time I wouldn't be able to afford it.

When I got to work I waited until 10:59, but as soon as the clock struck 11:00 I felt like I was in a dream...in 5 years not a day had passed without grumpy, stick in the mud, Harold, coming through that door at exactly 10:59. I suddenly began to feel as if I'd been dropped into someone else's life. Without Harold, my whole day just fell into limbo.

When people die...the news has a strange way of getting around, on the 3rd day without Harold the news got around to me. It wasn’t like I missed his conversation or the charade of serving him, but also, he had become something predictable and solid; an anchor of sorts in otherwise unremarkable days, but after April 25th, days just sort of slid away in a frenzy of club sandwiches and soda refills.

It was almost 2 weeks later, Friday the 7th, when an old man in a suit showed up shortly before 1:00 pm, he seemed out of place in the small diner and he greeted me by name before I introduced myself. We sat at Harold’s table and he explained the purpose for his visit as I sat in awe, letting his words wash over me, never actually penetrating my mind, no, it would take days before I really knew it was real. I’d have this feeling several more times in my career, most notably getting the call back for Freddy's House in ‘86.

The well-dressed man explained to me that Harold’s last will and testament had included my name; rude, disapproving, condescending Harold, had left me something? The man who couldn’t leave a tip had left $20,000 in my name, the man who could barely look at me like a human being, had left me more money than I’d make in the next 2 years.

Finally, I could pay my bills on time, I’d never be late on rent again, but I wasn't going to give that money to Terry, in fact, I’d never look at Terry again, May 30th I packed everything into a used Bronco that I snagged for $1000 and headed west for what would be the most important drive of my life.

(Excerpt from America’s Mom: The Memoirs of Elise Thomas…5x Emmy award winner as Mrs. Daffodil on Freddy's House", Academy Award winner for Best Supporting Actress in The Smell of Dreams )