posted Dec. 5, 2009   

THE CRACK

by John Merriam

Editor's note: Many years after the events below, Beth's cafe on Aurora is still in business—and still greasy. Just be careful when sitting at the counter.

Jim, Willie, Johnny and a couple more of the boys were hooting and hollering until the wee hours one Saturday night. They were finally forced to think about food after 2:00 a.m. when no one in Seattle would serve them any more alcohol. Ejected from their last drinking establishment, the revelers piled into Willie's old Dodge Dart.

The crew of Willie's Dodge was under the impression that grease was one of the major food groups and directed Willie toward Aurora Avenue, to Beth's Cafe.

Willie's Dodge Dart: a frequent source of diversion and occasionally a refuge

A greasy spoon, Beth's had already been at the same spot on Aurora for 20 years or more. It was a late-night haven for younger degenerates. Were it not one of the few places serving food after bar hours, some said the restaurant would be unable to make payments on its lease.

The boys arrived outside Beth's Cafe. It was overflowing to the street with customers. The patrons consisted mostly of men who sported "Harley Davidson" somewhere on their attire and college students not willing to go to bed before dawn.

After waiting on the sidewalk a spell, the boys were finally seated at a booth. Shoulder-high black vinyl seats extended three feet out from an aging wood-panelled wall on either side of a scarred red plastic tabletop. One end of the table was crowded with salt and pepper shakers, ketchup, a syrup dispenser, napkin holder, sugar and Tabasco sauce. The boys squinted at their menus under the fluorescent light fixture, only half of which was working. Gastric juices started flowing and all five at the table ordered omelettes—big ones.

Beth's was filled to capacity, with the line on the sidewalk getting steadily longer. The waitresses were having difficulty clearing tables and keeping up with orders. The boys had some time to kill while they waited for their food.

Every stool at the counter across from them was occupied. One rather large fellow sat just opposite with his back to their table, less than three feet away.

"Look at that asshole," Johnny observed, "he's so fat he can't keep his pants up."

Indeed, the occupant of the counter-stool showed half his buttocks, which bulged over the top of trousers secured by a belt that seemed in danger of breaking under the strain of pent-up girth.

While Johnny was making the comment, a waitress appeared with a token offering. She put butter on the table, along with small factory packets of strawberry jam.

Johnny continued his polemic after the waitress left. "Look at that guy's crack! I'll never be able to digest my omelette with him in my face. We've got to get him out of here before the food comes." These words were delivered at a rather high decibel level, but not too high since the offending patron was quite a bit larger than Johnny; larger in fact than any two of the boys put together.

No one at the table seemed motivated to action. Johnny then remembered that Jim owed him seven dollars.

"Hey, Jim, I'll forget about that seven bucks you owe me if you take this tub of jam and wipe it in that guy's crack."

Jim looked over to the counter and surveyed the situation. The person in question was not only taller than Jim but twice as wide.

"No way," Jim responded. "I'll give you seven dollars if you do it."

Now, Jim didn't have seven dollars at the time of this pronouncement. In fact, Jim had hit up the assembled company for a loan just to order food that night. Nevertheless, seven dollars was seven dollars. Such a sum would buy three of the biggest omelettes offered at Beth's Cafe. Lurching as they were from job to job—with occasional unemployment compensation in between—the boys at the table were impressed at the size of the incentive Jim offered. Johnny conducted a hasty mental review about whether or not Jim had ever welched on a debt. Concluding that he had not, Johnny proclaimed: "OK, it's a deal!"

Johnny knew that he had to act fast before losing his nerve. It was obvious he would be the loser should the situation result in a fight. The guy showing his crack could crush him like an ant. On the other hand, Johnny calculated, the guy was so fat it would be easy to outrun him.

Johnny moved quickly. He opened up the tub of jam and scooped out the contents. Then, with a large red glob of strawberry jam on the tip of his right middle finger, Johnny bounded across the aisle and deftly wedged the jam into the top of the hapless customer's buttocks.

Johnny was at the door sooner than it would take a penny to drop from the counter to the floor. But his exit didn't work as planned.

The door was hinged to swing outward toward the sidewalk. Johnny’s right hand was now so slippery it could not turn the knob. He used his left hand to assist. Even two hands were of no avail because the entire doorknob had become coated with a fine sheen of strawberry jam. Johnny could almost feel the impact of a huge fist on his skull.

To this day he doesn’t know how he got out of Beth's Cafe. Perhaps one of the people in the line outside opened the door for him. When the door did open, miraculously, Johnny was gone like a cool breeze. He ran so fast that he never felt his feet touch the ground. After zigzagging through a couple blocks off Aurora Avenue, he looped around and leapt into Willie's Dodge. He tried to make himself invisible on the floor in front of the backseat. He cowered there, shaking with fear, for what seemed like hours.

When the rest of the boys had finished their meal, and Johnny's too, they returned to the car. Johnny asked how close he had come to getting clobbered.

"The guy never got near you," Jim responded.

"What do you mean?"

Jim then related how the guy with the crack didn't even get off his stool at the counter. The large fellow was apparently stunned by the sudden clammy sensation he felt at the divide to his buttocks. He slowly reached around and touched the spot where he had felt a rapid change in temperature. Seeing the sticky substance on his right hand, he went into shock. The man was immobile the whole time Johnny was frantically wrestling with the doorknob. He had not even looked around to see where the jam had come from, according to Jim, until Johnny was well out the door. When he finally looked from side to side, trying to figure out what happened, his gaze never did fall on the table directly behind him.

"Damn," Johnny muttered, “I would have really enjoyed eating that omelette.”

Jim never paid Johnny the seven dollars.◆

John Merriam is a lawyer practicing in Seattle who represents commercial fishermen and other seamen on wage and injury claims.