Breakfast at Quincy’s
“A warm –up?”
“No,” the petite bronze-skinned beauty replies. She pulls her mouth downward and to the left into a slight disapproving frown. Drew notices but doesn’t say anything. He knows it meant nothing. Well, it meant something, but he wasn’t about to say anything about it. Enough badly received ‘what’s wrongs and you okays’ had taught him to just let Angelique be. She always snaps into giddy quite rapidly so her curious descents into surly were easy to overlook.
“How about you, sir?”
“Yeah, one more shot. But if you see my left arm jumping do not approach for your own safety.”
A chuckle leaps from her as she deftly pours more coffee, then sways away from the table much more swiftly than her hefty roundness would have suggested possible. Angelique studies a section of the Tribune while Drew strafes his gaze around the casual eatery. Sunday at Quincy’s. He noted without surprise that they were the only Black people in the place. It was a peaceful haven of vanilla suburban banality. Silver-haired foursomes quietly sharing gossip and cottage cheese in a few of the booths. Plain, pink, thirty-something couples speaking quietly at some tables while better-off-than-normal blue collar guys trade sporting philosophies at other tables. There were few empty seats, sparing the bulky team of waitresses any chance to add more pounds through languid inactivity.
The Latin cooks, entombed in their busy kitchen fortress, amuse themselves in playful Spanish while efficiently churning out artful combinations of egg, pork, potato and griddled batter. Somebody else added the fruit cup garnish.
“Here ya’ go,” the pleasant waitress chirps and skillfully spreads the ample breakfast fare before Drew and Angelique.
“That was quick,” says Drew.
“Didn’t want you to get bored.”
Angelique says a quick prayer for both of them and they eagerly dig in. Drew stuffs forkfuls of syrup-coated sausage, pancake and hash brown into his mouth while Angelique eats her hard fried egg and fruit with a practiced, swift elegance. Drew has retained a good deal of his athletic build of youth well into his forties, so he is still fairly fit and handsome and doesn’t feel the need to be quite so careful about his diet. Angelique is more careful, but loves food.
“They got your egg right,” mumbles Drew.
“Second time,” replies Angelique.
“That’s good. We’ll make this a regular spot.”
“I’m funny about my eggs too”, adds the waitress as she appears and pours more coffee. “When I say scrambled soft, they always undercook them. I like them chopped fine and fluffy.” She rolls along to adjacent guests.
“Look at this.” Angelique’s strong, manicured little finger points at the headline of an article. The article delves into yet another vilification of the fiery pastor from the South Side of Chicago.
“Another example of White people having no clue what being Black in this country is,” Drew observes. “You know, I resent White people for that,” he continues, “they can live their entire entitled lives without ever having any reason to deal with us in any way. They don’t have to see us to get a loan, to educate their children, to vacation, to buy stuff, to go to church,” he nods toward the center of the restaurant, “or to eat.”
“That’s so true,” Angelique says. “They move way out to places like this so they don’t have to worry about anybody else. Got their house, their car, their little lives and as long as they don’t have to see us, they don’t have to be guilty about anything—or be afraid of anything,” she adds.
“Yeah, they’re scared to death of anything outside their culture,” says Drew. “They did the guilt thing already in the sixties and have moved on,” he adds. “That’s part of the reason Obama resonates with them. He gives them a pass on being guilty for their horrible history with Black people—shit, all people of color. His illusion and allusion of non-Blackness is comfortable to them,” Drew concludes.
“Yeah, look how they’re trashing Rev. Wright on being too Black.”
“I know. He sees the nation is guilty and naked, calls them on it and the uninformed idiots that make up most of this country want to lynch him. Fitting, I guess.”
“Do you think they actually believe some of the stuff they say?”
“Look around, this is the extent of their world, for the most part. Does this look intellectually challenging to you? They have no interest in knowing anything. Change is not good. Look at the sameness. It’s scary really.”
“You are right. We are about as much change as they can probably stand on a Sunday.”
“Speaking of change, you got the tip?”
“Yeah, stay away from moving trains.”
“Oh, jokes. I’ll get you later.”
“Maybe,” says Angelique, flashing a quick, sexy smile.
The couple eases out of the booth and heads toward the door. Drew veers off to pay the cashier. As they push through the door leading to the parking lot Drew notices that the back passenger door of a fairly new SUV is wide open and no one seems to be around. He turns back into the restaurant and informs one of the little grey ladies behind the counter that someone’s door is open. Drew catches up with Angelique.
As he opens her door they both notice that the older white fellow who greets people in the restaurant comes out and shuts the SUV door. After doing so, he shoots a glance back toward Drew.
“D’you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“That’s just what we were talking about. He looked at me like, ‘why didn’t you just close the damn door?’ It would never occur to him that being a Black man in America, I ain’t touching that door—better for me to just tell someone it’s open.”
“They just don’t get it. They’ll never have to think like that—like we do.” “And they ain’t gonna try.”
D.B. Robinson – April 7, 2008