Tate’s Plan

Contributed by Nina Perez on 19/03/10

Tate walked across the diner with purpose. He passed the All Dayers at the counter, Jeff and Syd Robideaux – brothers and widowers who dined at The Blue Spoon everyday for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Jeff ate the same thing on designated days; French toast with banana and a side of bacon with an extra slice of bacon on Mondays, a tuna melt with extra cheese on Wednesdays, and the roast beef dinner plate with extra buttery ‘taters on Fridays. One day, all of those extras would be the death of old Jeff Robideaux – he already had a bad ticker – but not today. Today, he’d use the upcoming commotion as an opportunity to swipe a crispy piece of bacon off Syd’s plate when his brother wasn’t looking.

Tate paused at a two-top, scooting out of the way as Betsy King motored by carrying a plate of high cholesterol in each hand and another two expertly balanced in the crook of each arm.

“Coming through! Move it or lose it!”

The diners at The Blue Spoon were used to Betsy’s orders and one-liners delivered with a stained-tooth smile and gravel voice – both the effects of smoking two packs a day. Betsy’s favorite quip was telling impatient customers waiting to pay their tab (she doubled as the cashier) and regulars used to her good-natured chiding to kiss her grits. This was always met with laughter though Tate didn’t get it. He’d seen the grits and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to kiss them. But what did he know? He was just a lizard.

One of the ladies dining at the two-top had placed her purse on the floor and Tate used this for cover as Betsy’s scuffed loafers marched by. Tate recognized the voices floating above him as Tami Shaw and Claire Burton. They were both secretaries at the phone company across the street and occasionally stopped in for coffee and bagels before work. He briefly considered using them to execute his plan, but knew almost immediately that wouldn’t work. They were nice girls and they liked Simon. They wouldn’t do anything to get him in trouble.

Tate could appreciate this. Simon was a likable guy. Six months ago, Tate’s mornings were spent quite differently. He’d travel from patio to patio along the ground floors of the Audobon Garden Apartments looking for bugs. He quickly discovered that the patio of apartment 6B was prime real estate. Tate had a seemingly endless supply of crickets and flies and a spot that, on most days, provided the right amount of sun and shade that could make a lizard sing… if lizards could sing. One afternoon, lulled by a belly full of mealworms and the noon sun, Tate fell asleep on the 6B patio and was awakened by a howl. Groggy, Tate wondered if he’d fallen asleep at 5C and if the cat occupants were going at it again. Tate blamed his full belly for his poor reflexes and were it not for Simon’s own nimbleness, Tate would have surely been flattened by the screaming blonde wielding a serving platter.

“What is wrong with you? It’s just a lizard for God’s sake!” Simon cupped Tate in his hands.

“Ewww! Put it down!” The blonde was now waving the platter around and hopping from one foot to the next and back again.

“He’s probably more afraid of you. Isn’t that right, buddy?” Simon cooed and Tate knew then that Simon was good people.

Their friendship outlasted the blonde who dumped Simon three weeks later citing his “creepy pet.” Simon didn’t mind Tate stopping by for an afternoon nap nor did he mind when Tate would rest on the wooden rails as Simon played his guitar in the evening. Tate didn’t know much about music, but he knew when something sounded good (Simon’s guitar playing) and when something didn’t (a screeching blonde or fornicating cats.)

“I like having you around, Tate. You don’t mind if I call you Tate, do you? I’ve always liked that name.”

Tate watched Simon flip steaks on the small charcoal grill and thought he didn’t mind at all. He liked having a name and he liked having a friend. And like any good friend, Tate prided himself on being a good listener. He knew Simon wanted desperately to leave his job at the diner and move to California. Tate didn’t know what a Los Angeles was, but it didn’t sound all that different from where they lived now. Simon said there were beaches and sun, and more importantly, opportunities for Simon to play his guitar.

Simon had brought Tate to work with him a few times and Tate knew that though Simon loved The Blue Spoon and the people in it, he hated the job. He didn’t want to serve burgers and fries for the rest of his life, but lacked the self confidence to follow his true dream. Just the other night Tate had sat on Simon’s shoulder and watched as he typed and clicked on his laptop. He’d watched as Simon debated responding to an ad on someone named Craig’s list. A band in Los Angeles was looking for a guitarist.

“It might not lead to anything.” Simon said aloud.

“But it might lead to everything,” Tate thought.

Simon needed a push and that’s exactly what Tate intended to do that morning as he made his way to the table where Margaret Rhodes sat. He was going to push his friend. It’s what any good friend would do, Tate thought to himself. He navigated the remaining tables and booths, careful not to get stepped on. The owner, Max, had told Simon that though he was a good enough fellow, if he caught Tate in the diner again, he’d have to fire him. And though that was the point, it would do Tate no good to get squashed in the process.

Margaret was perfect for Tate’s plan. She was mean and loud. Tate had seen her antics up close and personal from Simon’s uniform pocket many times. She, like a lot of the regulars, ordered the same thing most mornings; hash browns with ketchup, eggs over easy and fried ham. Margaret wasn’t happy with the red ketchup dispenser that sat on the table. She insisted that Simon – or anyone else unfortunate enough to have her sit in their station – bring individual ketchup packets which she’d rip open one at a time with her pointy teeth.

She was lining up the packets in a neat row alongside her plate when Tate made his way up the table’s leg. She was laying her napkin across her lap in preparation when Tate quickly and purposely ran across the plate, sending ketchup packets flying.

Simon’s future began the same way Tate’s had – with a scream.