Philip Dampier's Blog

Episode 3: Her Name Is Sally

“Do you do this hangover thing very often?”

“First time. The very first time. And, last time. The very last time. Never again…” I mumbled.

“Oh. If you had told me, I could have got you just the right thing. We have two or three hangovers a week in here, so I’m familiar with what’s going on. But most of them are older men who tie one on every week or so.”

She continued to ask questions and I continued to nibble at the food and sip my coke. Listening to the questions and trying to answer them took my mind off my turning stomach and spinning head. By the time I finished eating, she knew more about me than anyone else in the state of Idaho. I knew nothing about her and that didn’t seem fair, although the conversation got me through the worst of the morning-after. I thought I should try my luck.

“Excuse me miss; my name is Jack Reynolds. Might I know yours?”

“I’m Sally Day. Nice to know who you are, Jack.”

“I’d like to thank you for your kindness, Sally. When do you get off work?”

“My dad owns the diner. I can get off whenever I need to, but I don’t abuse the privilege.”

“Do you think you could abuse it today?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I would like to get to know you. I’m new to Boise, maybe you could show me around town and we could get a burger later or go to the movies or…”

I ran out of ideas because it seemed pretty far-fetched even to someone as naïve as me.

“I’ll think about it.”

She moved across the room to wait on two gentlemen who could have been bankers or lawyers or guys who just liked to dress up on Saturday mornings. They tried flirting with her but she just laughed. I watched for a few moments, but felt embarrassed staring at her so I turned my attention to others in the dining area.

Since I was only a few months past twenty, the elderly gentleman sitting two tables across from me was probably not as old as I made him out to be. Even so, he was old, as was the lady sitting across the table from him. She was wearing her age well, but he was obviously struggling with his.

What drew my eyes to him was the dark brown hat he was wearing. It was the kind worn by sports car drivers, only in his case, it was a good two sizes too large and causing a problem with the visual observation of his breakfast. The hat emphasized that the old gentleman was much thinner than seemed healthy. He was having trouble spearing the syrup-laden waffle with his fork but did not complain or show any impatience. I wasn’t sure if it was poor motor skills or failing eyesight, or both.

His face almost touched his plate and the hand holding the fork was unsteady. I concluded he may have lost some of his eyesight even though he wasn’t wearing glasses. Without saying a word, his wife reached across the table with her own fork and pushed a piece of the waffle right up to his fork. I first thought, how sad, but as I watched the same scene play over and over, I realized I was viewing love, real love. They were not speaking out loud but the communication was there as much as if they were talking out loud.

My mind drifted back to another childhood memory. It seemed like every night my mother lit into my father almost as soon as he came in the door from work and he would try to calm her down. I remembered lying in bed at night, hearing the arguing and fussing going on until I fell asleep. It got worse and worse as the years went by until one day, just before my eleventh birthday, my father didn’t come home from work. He never walked into our house again.

I wondered, sitting there observing the older couple, what it would have been like to have parents as much in love with each other as these two elderly people seemed to be. I guess I hadn’t seen enough of the real thing to really understand it. I was so caught up in that surreal scene and my reaction to it that I missed the return of Sally.

She interrupted my daydream with, “Are you all right, Jack?”

Her voice startled me and when I swiveled around to look at her, I was startled again. Sally had changed clothes, added some jewelry, unclasped her hair and renewed the lipstick. I couldn’t speak at first. Then I didn’t speak because I was afraid I would say the wrong thing and spoil the whole deal. My heart didn’t stop, but it sure wavered something awful.

The white uniform shirt had been replaced with a long sleeved dark red sweater and the waitress skirt had been changed to a woolen black A-skirt. The sweater did for her figure what the shirt could never do. Her hair had bounce to it and seemed to shine even in the filtered light. She had a heavy coat across her left arm. Did I mention that she had the most beautiful dark eyes?

“I guess I was wrong,” I said.

“Oh, and how is that?”

“I thought you were pretty when I first saw you. But, in retrospect, you have to be the most beautiful girl in the entire Potato State.”

“Um. That’s a nice line. Where are we going now that I’m no longer working?”

“I’m a new comer to Boise and I’m easily pleased. Anywhere, as long as I can be with you. First, I need to go to the restroom and try to wash up and comb my hair. I don’t have a razor handy so you’ll have to wait till I see a barber shop. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

Not only did I want to wash up and comb my hair, I also wanted to pinch myself and see if I was actually still alive and awake. I had only asked God to let me live, not send me to paradise. I didn’t deserve His love.

I’d only been in Boise for a few weeks and had seen very little outside the building where I was employed and the streets between the warehouse and the grocery stores. Now all I wanted was to spend time with Sally. As I pulled my comb through for the last time, I thought seeing the town with a beautiful girl would be the best way to spend a Saturday, sober or hungover, or on the mend.