Earplugs

The warm spring sunshine turns Dylan’s neck a shade of salmon-pink. He sits inside the diner with his back turned to the storefront windows and the bustling city street behind. His broad shoulders cast a shadow over the plastic salt and pepper shakers, his mug of lukewarm coffee, the little packets of Smuckers jelly, and his open notebook full of blue ink scribbles, sprawled about the table.

“Coffee?” the waitress asks.
“Uh, yes, please,” startled, pulling the ear plugs out of his ears.
“Whatchya readin’?”
Dylan looks up from his tattered paperback book folded behind itself. “It’s a crime novel, uh, kind of a courtroom drama.”
“Whatever you say, honey,” the waitress says with a sly motherly smile as she shuffles away under slumped sagging shoulders.

Dylan catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window beside him. The title of the book, Feminist Theory, is highlighted by a rouge sunbeam. His eyes close and his head drops with a sigh of mild embarrassment. The ear plugs go back in and the sound of breakfast downtown becomes muffled and distant. The living, moving, vibrating world is shut out, leaving him alone with his own thinking voice, that silent-reading voice echoing in his head. It asks him, “Why does man fear being a woman?”

* * *

In a cloud of cigarette smoke, in the far corner of the dinning room, a woman sits. A large, loud woman. The mother of a little girl dressed in a pink cartoon jumpsuit, barely visible over the edge of the table.

“You want some pancakes, Baby? How about a tall glass of orange juice?” The mother asks. The waitress stands by, ready to record the child’s answer in her tablet. “Today is a teacher’s conference day at school. We have the day off, don’t we, Hun? You didn’t even wake up ‘til ten o’clock this morning. She didn’t even wake up ‘til ten but she wanted to go out for breakfast, and she gets what she wants. She is the boss, the little princess--or at least she thinks she is. They’re so much easier when they’re young. It gets harder every year, twelve, thirteen, by fifteen they are complete strangers. When her brother was fifteen I couldn’t even recognize him. What happen to my baby, that precious little one that popped out of me?” Looking back at her sweet child, “So you want some bacon, Baby?” Shyly, the little princess nods her head. The waitress writes down the order on her pad and hobbles back to the kitchen.

* * *

Emerging from the dark adjoining bar, a wild-looking old man walks into the dining room. His gray, greasy hair is combed straight back and he wears an ancient black leather jacket that can’t conceal his enormous beer belly. Two women are hanging on each of his arms. On the right, a feral Indian woman with pock marks and stringy black hair. On the opposite arm, a fat middle-aged white woman with vacant eyes and a quivering-open mouth. Their heads are pushing into each of the man’s breast, arguing about how to divide “the money.” They clamor through the front door to the sidewalk where the man leaves them to argue.

Dylan is unable to hear the raucous outside, but sees it out of the corner of his eye. To put sound with image he takes out his earplugs and the windows becomes a cinematic experience for him and everyone else in the café. The white woman is pawing at the other woman, pleading and begging for her half of the money. The waitress is on the phone with the police, giving the play by play of the scene outside. Princess being the curious child she is, asks, “Mommy, what are those ladies doing?” Quickly, between drags of cigarette smoke, her mother answers, “Never mind baby, just finish up those pancakes. Okay?"

The inquisitive child-voice in Dylan’s head asks him, “What makes sweet, innocent, little girls, grow up to be hookers and drug addicts?” The silent-reading voice answers, “Never mind that question, Dylan, just finish up this chapter. Okay?”

The earplugs go back in.