*Three Chicks At A Pic

...proving one hasn't changed from childhood as much as one wishes to think _SJ

Whenever we walked into Hillcrest Diner a few blocks from our house, my little sister Gail and I were relieved to see Shirley The Waitress wasn't dead yet. She was 100 years old, we figured. One wrinkle on her face for each year of life.

To Shirley, we were “3 Chicks at a Pic,” my mother, Gail, and me. That was diner talk for three orders of Chicken-In-A-Basket. The “Pic” stood for “picnic,” relating back to the basket.

I loved food names at the diner. “Adam & Eve on a raft, wreck ‘em,” Shirley would half yell, half cough to Jimbo the Cook. That meant two scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. “Burn the Brits” was a toasted English muffin.

When Shirley called out an order, her head would snap around one way toward the kitchen, and her bosoms would go the other. Sometimes her head swiveled so hard and fast, the little waitress cap perched atop her sparse blonde hair would fly the length of the counter. I don’t think there was enough hair to hold onto a bobby pin, it was mostly scalp. But nobody ever made fun of Shirley, not even me who made fun of everything.

The policemen at the counter – never less than six at a time – would dive for her cap. The highest ranking would bow and say “Your hat, madam.” They all acted like they were in love with Shirley. I told Gail once it was because of her big bosoms.

“Big Bosoms, big bosoms,” she boomed out real loud. My mother and I were horrified, but Shirley laughed and the policemen winked at her. When Gail got older and understood more about life, she didn’t say it aloud anymore, but every time we entered the diner’s silver bullet of a building, she would mouth “Big Bosoms,” and I’d clobber her. My mother threatened she wouldn’t let me punch in the numbers on the table jukebox later, so I’d stop.

The Hillcrest Diner on Reisterstown Road in Northwest Baltimore was a rundown place even in 1954 when it was new. We loved it anyway. Many years later it would be famous because of a movie called “Diner.” Barry Levinson, who wrote and directed the movie grew up in the same neighborhood I did, though he was a teenager when I was a little girl. He and his friends hung out at The Diner. Some teenage boys did, anyway. Those big boys never noticed me, despite the sexy way I’d sway my hips when I walked past them to the bathroom. “Just you wait, boys,” I thought, “you’ll look at me plenty when my bosoms grow up.”

We’d sit at our favorite booth, if possible, the one furthest from the door, because we liked to watch the action. Everyone was entertaining except us and one quiet old couple. All the regulars interested us the most, the teenagers, the police, and other families with kids such as the volatile Litsky’s (until they got thrown out one night). “You’d think they were Wops” Mr. Green the owner told my mother, and she shook her head on the diagonal. I think she agreed with him, but didn’t want us to ask her what a ‘wop’ was. She didn’t like to explain the world to her children. I learned eventually it was because she didn’t understand it herself.

There was also the occasional hungry tourist who came to see the bombs that didn’t burst in air when the Star Spangled Banner was written. The unburst bombs were still on view at Ft. McHenry in the Chesapeake Bay. We’d talk sometimes to these foreigners. They all said they could tell driving by that the food here would be just like the diner in their neighborhood in Topeka or San Bernardino or Little Rock or Altoona.

The only thing strange to them was the little cup of gravy that came with French fries. Why not catsup, they’d ask, innocently. “Nooooo,” Gail and I would shriek. Nobody ever ate French fries with catsup in Baltimore in 1954.

When Shirley brought our drinks, she’d always ask “How come such skinny little gels each get a whole order of chicken-in-the-basket? Nobody never finishes, any of youse.” It was because we didn’t like to share with each other, we explained. She didn’t believe us, but it was true. “Every man for herself,” was Mommy's motto, and she meant it.

For cold beverages, customers got their choice of cokes, cherry cokes, root beer or belch water. Diet drinks weren’t invented yet and Gail and me didn’t count belch water as part of the selection. We couldn’t forget about the latter, however, thanks to fat, ugly Mr. Greene. He always sat at the counter drinking glass after glass of belch water. As soon as we came in, he'd belch in our direction. He pretended that he was pretending to make extra big belches for our amusement. We were not amused. And we knew they were real belches because our grandmother’s eldest sibling, ancient Aunt Hinda, belched her way through every family gathering.

The very best thing about Hillcrest Diner was the absence of vegetables. The only green thing I ever saw there were peas in the “Brown Bossy,” (beef stew, Bossy having contributed the beef).

The worst thing about Hillcrest Diner was Mr. Greene. We loved his diner but hated Mr. Greene. Mr. Greene was rich. Gail and I were scared he and our mother would get married. We knew she wanted to marry a rich man, so all our troubles would go away, she said. We'd rather have troubles than Mr. Greene, we assured her.

“Can’t you see the giant sweat circle under his arms, Mommy,” I asked, laying this down like trump on the black and white table top. That evening, she had just returned to us after whispering to him for what seemed like forever. I found out later she was planning a special birthday party at the diner for me. But I would have voted for no party at all, if I didn’t have to see a picture in my mind from that night for the rest of my life. As an adult looking back, I recognize the effort it took for Mr. Green to keep his porky little hands to himself when my mother leaned conspiratorially into him. Her nearness, I'm sure, made him sweat more than usual. She had surprised him, and not knowing what to do with his hands, he put them up on the counter. I watched, puzzled, as his stubby fingers twitched. They were probably vibrating with desire to pinch her shapely tucchas.

“It’s called perperation,” Gail piped up from under the table.

“Get up here Gail. Stop pulling at the vinyl,” my mother scolded. The borscht-red bench seat at our booth was peeling off in bacon- size strips. Gail hadn’t started it, but the last few times we were here, she contributed. But now, she scooched herself up and sat properly. A few minutes later, though, she began work on squishing the tiny puddles from the water she had spilled when we first sat down, which had by then oozed into the chrome table siding and ended up trapped underneath the table lamination. With great effort, you could move the puddles all the way across the top. You could even have races with your sister, if the spill had been big enough to create two puddles.

“Ooh, Mommy, please please please don’t marry Mr. Greene. He’s got B.O.”

“Shhhhh!” I hissed. I might have hated the man, but I didn’t want to end up like the Litsky’s.

“Quiet, both of you,” Mommy said. “I am not going to marry Mr. Green, I promise.”

“Oh good,” Gail sounded relieved, but I was still suspicious. “Can we play our songs now, Mommy? Please please please? “

Mommy handed me a dime and Gail started flipping through the plastic song pages. Each time she turned, the page hit the previous one with a thonk. I groaned. I knew she was going to smack it back and forth for awhile.

Thonk!

“Want me to read the song list to you,” I asked, trying to divert her.

“Nope.”

Thonk!

“Well how am I supposed to know what –“

Thonk!

“---song you want?”

“Gee, Sandy, you know I always want to hear ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window’.”

Thonk!

“I’ll take The Wayward Wind,” my mother chose her perennial favorite. I don't know why she liked it, she always got tears in her eyes from it, and that made all three of us sad.

Thonk!

Someday, I consoled myself, I will go to diners alone. That's One Chick at a Pic, Shirley, please.