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(based off painting by Edward Hopper)<\/p>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cLast one,\u201d I say to Frank as I hand him a glass of whiskey. \u201cThe wife will be wondering where you are, you oughta get home.\u201d As usual he sits on the edge of having consumed too much of that liquid medication. He grumbles at me in drunken murmurs as he takes a sip. In his normal routine, he closes his eyes to breathe in his final moments in the isolated silence upon the bar stool. I can\u2019t lie, I enjoy his company. We don\u2019t talk much, but for the past thirty years we\u2019ve been at each other\u2019s side, just us, together, in the silence of the clear or cloudy nights. I stop suddenly in a little bit of awe. Thirty years? For thirty years, I\u2019ve worked here. Thirty years behind this counter, but I have just noticed the condition of the wooden stools that line the wooden bar top. They are sturdy – barely beaten or scratched or even chipped. The three-legged stools have held many passing patrons in the daytime, but in the night, they rest as we do, I suppose. They aren\u2019t required to hold the same weight as the hustle and bustle of the day, they just have to support the wandering nighthawks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Suddenly the doorbell chimes, cutting through my thoughts. \u201cYou open?\u201d The man asks me as he holds the door open for a lovely redheaded lady. Although I could see them coming through the large, glass windows, I look up a little startled by the new noise in the quiet night. \u201cWe never close.\u201d I joke, but before I got the words out, the two noticed the lone man sitting at the bar and start taking their seats. \u201cWhat\u2019ll it be tonight, folks?\u201d I ask quietly so as to mend the silence back into the uneventful night. These two don\u2019t seem too eager to rip through it, but just to be sure, I lower my voice to encourage it. \u201cTwo coffees, please\u2026\u201d The man matches my vocal level. Then, the man looks at the woman. She smiles softly, without showing her teeth. Without saying anything, the man seemed to know exactly what she wanted, \u201c\u2026and do you still have any food available?\u201d he asks hesitantly, \u201cthe lady would like a pepper, you know the little friggitello.\u201d Taken aback by this sweet, simple request, I give a side smile. \u201cLet me see what I\u2019ve got open.\u201d The man tips his hat at me in gratitude. As I turn to check in the kitchen, I see him wink at the lady. She seems impressed, but not too indulgent in her contentment. I can\u2019t help but notice her warmth. It might be the red – red hair, red lips, red dress – but she seems to burn with brightness in contrast to this dull, dark night. I feel this overwhelming desire to get her that pepper, as if the state of the world depends on me providing this one, small task for this one, random woman. I am drawn to her simplicity. It gives me hope.<\/p>\n
As I swing into the kitchen, I am followed by the scent of cigarette smoke. I glance through the window and notice the man has lit one up. It rests so easy and comfortably in his hands. The lady holds nothing among her dainty grasp, no purse, no cigarette, not even her coffee cup. Again, I feel this strong urge to find her that pepper. I rummage through the fridge, no open jar of peppers \u2013 so onto the pantry shelves, still, no peppers. After grabbing the small step stool from the utility closet, I hop up to the top shelf. I shuffle through the boxes of breadsticks, the jugs of pretzels, the cans of coffee grounds \u2013 nothing. Then, just past the olives, I feel the shape of the prized item. There\u2019s a tall skinny jar labeled \u201cAngelo\u2019s Friggitello\u2019s.\u201d I smile to myself. I feel a large relief that I can provide this service. Things seem to be getting harder and heavier in this broken world, but the diners won\u2019t run out of peppers.<\/p>\n
I fly back through the swinging kitchen door into the bar. I feel my swiftness breaking the lull in the night, it feels almost wrong to be excited about something as the world mourns. Nevertheless, I proudly hold up the jar of peppers and without saying a word, I set them on the counter and open the jar, satisfied by the sound of the seal breaking \u201cpop.\u201d I pass her a pepper. Pleased, she picks it up. The pepper in her hand, although small and strange, makes this scene right. It makes the world alright. I meet the eyes of the man as I begin to close the jar back up. I didn\u2019t notice before, but his eyes are so heavy, so wounded. But as they met mine, I could see the relief flooding into them as he smiled at the sight of his lady and the pepper. I see Frank finally stumble out. He glances back to tip his hat at the redhaired lady and the man. I grab my rag and begin to wipe the counters again. Oh nighthawks, who will ever understand our cries, our simple longings, our sweet and somber song?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Bailey Garland (based off painting by Edward Hopper) \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cLast one,\u201d I say to Frank as I hand him a glass of whiskey. \u201cThe wife will be wondering where you are, you oughta get home.\u201d As usual he sits on the edge of having consumed too much of that liquid… <\/p>\n