Take A Number

We passed through Centreville on a sunny late spring morning with the tide at its highest point and the fields of wildflowers in full bloom.  Gulls soared overhead, shrieking a welcome and the ocean rippled with white capped waves.  In the tiny harbor, the fishing boats were at rest, rocking silently with the motion of the ocean and secure in their moorings.  Like so many villages, it was picture postcard perfect.

Gus's Good Eats sat at the end of the breakwater - a landmark of sorts - dilapidated and in sore need of paint and carpentry but still churning out breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of the week save Sunday, even in the harshest of winter storms.  The poor old building sagged in places, the roof leaked, and nobody but Gus could manage the ancient wood stove but business thrived, especially in summer.  Tourists lined up for cardboard containers of lobster salad, scallops swimming in real butter, homemade chowders, sweet corn grilled in its husks and still warm bread.  There was no menu except for breakfast when you could have the No 1 (bacon and eggs) or the No 2 (ham and eggs), both served with or without toast.  Gus's only rule was that you had to take a number from the rusty old check machine which sat prominently under a hand lettered sign that read TAKE A NUMBER.  Sitting at one of the worn out old picnic tables, Nana and I watched as a family of tourists approached the counter, waited patiently for several minutes - they could clearly see Gus through the smeary glass as he could them - and then commenced to knock on the window, softly at first then a little more loudly.  Then a little impatiently.

Gus looked up, shrugged, put down the cast iron skillet and walked deliberately to the counter, slid open the glass window.

Take a number, he advised them and walked back to the stove.

The tourists looked around, nodded to Nana and me, looked around again.  The wife frowned, gave her confused looking husband an encouragingly sharp jab in the ribs.

We're the only ones here! the husband protested against the glass but not before giving his wife a narrow eyed glare, We'd like a menu!

A scowling Gus put down the skillet a second time, wiped his hands on his grease stained apron, and walked slowly back to the counter.  My grandmother began to snicker, trying unsuccessfully to disguise it by holding her paper napkin over her mouth and manufacturing a cough.  Gus slid open the window, leaned out on his elbows, twisted his face into something like a grin.

Ain't no menu, he snapped, And ain't no service less'n you take a number.  The glass window slammed shut, leaving the tourists looking a little dazed.

But we're the only ones here.....the husband repeated helplessly.

The wife, a substantial woman in a loud sundress and a fiery looking sunburn, roughly elbowed her thin and slightly frail looking husband aside and adjusted her matching tote over her shoulder with a jerk.  She planted her sneakered feet and with one tightly fisted hand, rapped so sharply on the window that the glass rattled and a small shower of paint flecks mixed with dust randomly flew about.  

And there, my grandmother muttered with a profound sigh, goes domestic tranquility.

What followed was, as Nana liked to emphasize in the frequent re-telling, an impressive display of speed, agility, and elegance.  Gus closed the distance between the back of the kitchen and the front door in two seconds flat, pausing only to exchange his apron for a double barreled shotgun, and roaring out into the open like a wounded bear.  The startled tourists flew in every direction, reminding me of a flock of geese out of formation and squawking protests.  The tourist wife and husband collided and she lost her grip on her garish tote - it slid off her ample shoulder and fell to the ground - makeup, a wire hairbrush, a family sized plastic bottle of aspirin, a handful of coins and several crumpled Nova Scotia maps spilled everywhere.  Gus took aim and with one ear splitting blast blew the forlorn bag and its entire contents to smithereens.  It was hard to tell whether it was the tourist wife - diving for cover and considerably less than dignified - or the gulls that shrieked the loudest. 

I ain't gonna tell ya again, Gus said calmly as he waved away dirt and dust and little pieces of paper floating in the smoky air, Ya hafta take a number.