The waitress wore plaid

Tired after a long day of driving, Yasemin and I arrived in Rocky Mountain House at dusk. We pulled into the Walking Eagle, the only motel in sight, checked in, and went straight to bed.

We rose early to prepare for the last leg of the journey. After dodging around a row of dusty pickups with extended cabs, we reached the lobby. Nobody was at the desk. The restaurant was empty, but open, so we seated ourselves and waited for the breakfast we’d been told was included with our stay.

A full ten minutes later, a waitress rolled up. Her spiky hair was jet black, and thick eyeliner swept up like dark wings from the corners of her bleary eyes. She wore a short, pleated skirt in Royal Stewart, with a matching scarf slung around her neck. Black sweater, leggings and Doc Martens completed the ensemble.

Seemed she hadn’t come to take our order. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Is that okay?” Ten minutes later, she returned waving a coffee pot.

“Would you like water or coffee?”

“Coffee,” I said, “with milk please.” I don’t like restaurant creamers.

We both asked for water too.

The waitress filled my cup, then turned to Yasemin. “What would you like?”.

“I’d like tea – regular black tea.”

 “We’ll have to charge you for the tea, all right?”

Yasemin nodded, then frowned, puzzled while the waitress filled her cup with coffee. “I asked for tea.”

“So sorry,” the waitress apologized. “Do you know what you want for breakfast?”

“Could we look at a menu?”

“Oh, terribly sorry.” She grabbed a pair of sticky plastic menus from an uncleared table and handed them over. Then she bustled off, saying she’d be right back with the milk and water.

“And the tea,” I reminded her.

She turned back to Yasemin with a charming smile. “Green tea?”

“Black.”

I chimed in. “And we’re ready to order. I’d like scrambled eggs with sausage and brown toast.”

Yasemin gave the waitress a minute to digest this, then added, “Two eggs sunny side up with bacon, please.”

The waitress turned back to me. “And how would you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled.” This time I didn’t say please.

“Would you like that with ham, bacon or sausage?”

“Sausage.” I’d been reduced to monosyllables.

“Did you say brown toast?”

“Yes.” She must have caught the edge in my voice, because she apologized again before bustling off.

Yasemin rose from her chair. “I’m a bit cold. I’m going back to the room to get my sweater.”

The moment she was out the door, the waitress sidled over. “Sorry, did she want bacon or sausage?”

Very slowly, I repeated. “Brown toast. Two eggs, sunny side up, with bacon.”

She gave me a look of reproach. “I got that part.”

What part? I wondered. She didn’t seem to have got any of it. Fortunately, before I could share this unkind observation, Yasemin returned wearing a sweater.

We never did get the water, but eventually our breakfast arrived. Peering at me, the young woman waved a precarious plate. “Were you the bacon?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned precipitously. “No, that was you.” She banged the plates down and looked at my full coffee cup. “Would you like another coffee?”

I shook my head. “Still waiting for the milk for this one.”

“Oh sorry. I’ll be right back with your toast.”

“And the tea.” Yasemin said.

“Oh, right.”

We settled down to eat. Eventually the tea arrived, along with milk for my cold coffee. By the time the waitress brought the toast, I’d moved my empty plate aside to spread out the Calgary Herald and work on the crossword.

“I don’t know if you want this on your newspaper.” Before I could respond, she slammed the toast plate in the middle of the crossword and turned away.

Yasemin rolled her eyes. “We’d better not remind her to bill for the tea. That’ll just confuse her, and we haven’t got time to waste.”

I nodded, and put five dollars on the table. “That should cover it. The rest can be her tip.”

“She doesn’t deserve one.”

I shrugged and set down the complimentary breakfast coupon. “No, but at least it will cover the tea.” Then we went to finish packing and load the car. After Yasemin completed the final room check, we went to the desk to return the key.

While the clerk was advising on the best route to Edmonton, the waitress materialized beside me. “Oh, sorry,” she cut in, speaking directly to the clerk and ignoring us, “they seem to have only one breakfast coupon. Do you think I could have another one?”

“Excuse me,” The clerk said to us, then made out a coupon and handed it to the girl.

“So sorry about that.” Still pretending we weren’t there, the waitress gave the clerk a contrite look. “It won’t happen again. It’s too busy to piss off any more people.”

Mystified, we glanced across at the empty restaurant, then at each other.

When the clerk returned her attention to us, her face was carefully devoid of expression. “Drayton Valley is your best bet. Highway 22 North. Just after the lights.”