Dobby’s Place was one of two businesses left on Main Street after the state came through and built the by-pass. The other storefronts were boarded up and empty, leaving the center of town looking like a deserted movie set. The only other business still open– Sanderson’s Drugs – was getting ready to close and move to a better location in the new strip mall up by the interstate. On this day, (like every other) Dobby’s conspicuously well kept Chrysler could be seen turning left onto Main from Second Street around four. By four-fifteen, he was in the kitchen getting ready. Just like it did every Thursday at four-thirty, a large truck wound its way through the narrow streets and wiggled into the small parking lot next to the restaurant, delivering the weekly supplies.
“You ever think about moving to a better location?” the driver asked. “It’s hard to maneuver the truck in here sometimes. Especially when traffic’s bad.” Of course, traffic was never bad, but Dobby knew what the driver meant. Having to drive into town took longer than he wanted to spend and some of his other clients were right off the interstate, or on the by-pass. Dobby didn’t answered the question, and started humming to himself the way he always did. He wasn’t a man to waste time on useless things. He just got things unloaded and counted as quickly as possible he could so he could go about his day.
The first morning customers usually came in right after six. Dobby knew them all by name. Like Abner Wally, who came in for breakfast and lunch every single day, except Sunday. When Abner walked in, he looked like he belonged there, with the dark wood paneled walls covered with old photos and posters, news clippings, and random things like the old tractor seat that someone had nailed upside down on one of the exposed roof beams or that steering wheel to Sam Foster’s old Edsel – the only one in town. Abner settled on the same stool at the counter every day and ordered the same thing. Coffee—black. Two eggs – over easy. Toast – slightly burnt. Then he read the paper and pointed out the interesting stories to Dobby while Dobby was cooking.
“Look here. Says here that Mitchell’s farm was sold to developers. They’re gonna build houses on it.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Dobby said. “His kids split it up and sold it.”
Abner shook his head. “Too bad,” he said. “ Old Mike Mitchell, he put everything he had into that farm.”
“Yeah. But none of the kids stuck around. The three sons, not including the oldest who died in the war, and the girl.. what’s her name?”
“Judy,” Abner answered. “I think they named her Judy.”
“Nope,” Dobby said. “I think her name’s Sarah.”
“Don’t say,” Abner said.
“Yeah. She went off to college. Now she lives in Los Angeles. Works for some movie producer.”
“Pretty snazzy.”
“Yeah. Certainly ain’t farming.”
“Nope. I think the boys went off to school, too.”
“Yeah. But one of them lives here. The other two live in the city.”
Abner shook his head. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I haven’t been there in 40 years; but the last time I went was enough for me.”
“Yeah. Know what you mean.”
“Hey, Dobby. How’s your little girl doing these days?”
Dobby perked up considerably. For Dobby. “That little girl is almost 30 years old, Abner. Ashley lives in New York and works for a big publishing house. She’s an editor. Or something.”
Abner whistled. “Certainly ain’t farming. You hear from her much?”
“She calls once or twice a month. She’s doing real good.”
“Married yet?”
Dobby shook his head. “Said she can’t meet any nice guys there.”
“Tell her she ought to come home, then,” Abner smiled. “I’d take her to dinner.”
Dobby smiled at the joke. Then he shook his head. “She knows better than to trust a crusty old bastard like you. Besides,” he shrugged, “she’s got better sense than to come back to this place.”
Abner smiled and shook his head. He was about to move on to another article when the door opened and Marcus Macroy walked in.
“Coffee, Marc?”
“Thanks Dobby. Coffee sounds great.”
Dobby set the cup down on the counter in front of him. Marcus was a large man with hands the size of meat hooks. To look at him, you’d think he was mean, with his big long scraggly beard and deep set eyes and the lumbering way he walked. But he gentle; he never wanted to hurt anybody and nobody ever particularly wanted to hurt him. Just a nice guy.
“How’s that wife of yours?” Dobby asked. “Haven’t seen her around in a while.”
“She’s visiting her sister in Florida,” Marcus answered.
“You going to eat this morning Marc?”
“I, uh… I think I’ll stick with coffee.”
“Uh-huh.” Marcus had been out of work for six months or more; he used to drive two hours one way to work the morning shift in a factory that build water purifiers for the military. Then the company lost the contract and went out of business. Marcus refused to draw unemployment and he couldn’t find another job. His wife was in Florida, along with his five year old son, because divorce cost too much. It was just easier to leave.
“You know, Marcus,” Dobby said, “I made this extra food here and it’s going to go to waste. You sure you don’t want it? If you don’t eat it, I’ll just end up throwing it away.”
“Extra food?”
“Yeah,” Dobby smiled and looked over at Abner who was skimming the sports section. “There was a guy that come in wanting food, but he changed his mind. Got a call on his cellular phone and ran off.”
“Who was it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Out of towner. He’s gone. Anyway, I got some scrambled eggs and bacon here that’ll just go to waste. You sure you don’t want it? Be doing me a favor.”
“As long as it’s helping you out,” Marcus said, trying not to drool on the plate Dobby put in front of him. “Listen, Dobby. I’m, uh, a little short on money right now…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dobby said. “You’re the one doing me a favor, remember? If you feel like paying for it sometime when you can afford it, that’s fine. But don’t worry about it now.”
Marcus smiled and said ok, then dug into his plate. Dobby gave him an order of toast and refilled his coffee. Abner mentioned the women’s softball team at the high school and how they won state for the third time in a row.
“Too bad the boy’s team can’t seem to get there,” Dobby said, shaking his head. “That would certainly be something.”
“Yeah,” Abner agreed. “Sure would.”
By eight or so, a few more people would trickle in – the old guys who retired but still needed a place to go in the morning. That was who most of Dobby’s customers were – retired steel workers, bought out farmers, and retired factory workers whose wives preferred it if they got out of the house for a few hours every day. Even if it was just to go to Dobby’s and watch baseball on the small tv with lousy reception because Dobby never got cable. Dobby kept bottles of beer cold for the afternoon. Sometimes they didn’t want to drink. But mostly they did. The township was dry, so there was no way for him to get a liquor license – not that he’d have gotten one anyway. It wasn’t worth it, having to deal with all the kids trying to sneak and drink underage and the undercover cops trying to bust you for selling to minors. Plus the insurance rates were hell. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t sit with his friends and have a beer now and again, did it?
The day was wearing on and Abner came back in for lunch. This time he was reading a different paper. “Heard something interesting today, boys,” he said, sitting down in the exact same stool he had sat in earlier. “Heard they’re wanting to redo Main Street.”
“What do you mean, ‘redo Main Street?” asked a man named Johnston.
“Just what I said,” Abner answered. “They want to repaint everything and tear down some of the older buildings to make room for parking. They say small business owners will move in to the store fronts if things are prettier and there’s more parking. There’s even talk of putting a Starbucks in.”
“Where?” The question came from Mr. Silas.
“Over where the laundromat used to be,” Abner answered. He turned and looked at Dobby. “You hear anything about this, Dobby?”
“You eating or you spreading bullshit?” Dobby asked. The other patrons laughed.
Abner shook his head. There wasn’t any point in trying to get Dobby to talk about something he didn’t want to talk about. “It’s a damn shame,” he continued to the rest of the patrons. “I hate to see people come in and change things like that. Used to be, this street was the center of everything. On any given Saturday, if you started out at the down at the Feed and Tack and ended up at the Tastee Freeze, you’d run into everybody.” He shook his head. “Things just aren’t like that anymore.”
“Things change,” another man said. “I saw it comin’ when the subsidies weren’t enough.”
“It’s them corporate farms,” another man spoke up. “Put the Little Man outta business.”
“It’s ‘cuz they import food from Mexico,” Johnston added his two cents. “They signed that NAFTA bill. They work cheaper down there, so it sells for less.”
“It’s like what happened at the steel mill,” Mr. Silas spoke up. “They laid off all the union workers and brought in scabs to work at less than half the rate.”
Dobby didn’t say anything during the conversation. He stayed at the griddle, cooking and humming the same old tune. Some people thought it was an old hymn, like “In The Garden.” Others thought he was humming one of those bee-bop rock songs from the 50’s, from back when his only competition was the Frisch’s drive-in with all those cute girls in hot pants wearing roller skates. Some people thought he made it up as he went along. No one ever asked him. He probably wouldn’t answer, anyway.
Around the three o’clock Dobby broke out the beer, just in time for the baseball game. Abner didn’t usually come back for dinner, but he came back to watch the game. It was the last game of a triple header and the first two hadn’t gone well. Sometime around the fourth inning, the restaurant door swung open and Alex Tierney walked in. Dobby had known Alex’s dad since they were kids together playing hide and seek in the sacks of feed down at that Feed and Tack. The Tierneys owned and ran the Feed and Tack until that brand new home and garden center opened up just five miles out of town up the by-pass. Losing the store pretty much killed old man Tierney – but all it did for young Alex was give him an excuse to behave like the jackass he always was. He’d gone to school with Ashley, and even back then he was a mean, spoiled little shit. More than once, Dobby had to shoo him away from Ashley, who wouldn’t have anything to do with him anyway.
Alex sat down at the counter and slammed his fist down on the Formica. Hard. “Give me a beer,” he snapped at Dobby.
“Looks like you’ve had your limit today,” Dobby said.
“I wasn’t asking your opinion, Dobby. I said gimme a goddamn beer.”
“I’ll give you coffee if you want it,” Dobby answered, wiping off his hands and tossing the towel over his left shoulder. “I’ll even fix you a burger. How about a burger?”
Alex Tierney snarled. “I SAID I want a beer old man. Now. You better just give me that fucking beer.”
Dobby looked at him calmly. “Or what?”
“Or maybe the next time that daughter of yours comes into town, I’ll look her up.” He smiled and licked his lips. “Yup. She always was pretty. And I think she was always pretty soft on me, to tell you the truth. She’s been up in New York, right? Maybe she needs the feel of a REAL MAN, instead of one them dildoes like all the lezzies up there use …”
Alex had barely finished his sentence when he looked over and was face to face with a sawed off twelve gauge shotgun. Everybody behind Alex Tierney moved to the far corner to watch.
“You ever come in here again, I’ll blow your damn fool head off,” Dobby said. His voice was calm. “And if you ever even THINK about my daughter again,” he let his eyes drift downward for a split second. “I’ll blow something else off for good measure.”
“N-n-n-o-o-w-w-w D-D-D-o-b-by, you and my old man were friends for years, and …”
“Your old man don’t have any say in this,” Dobby said. “Besides, if he was here he’d tan your ass just for walking around like a bum. You’re a waste of good air, Alex Tierney. Now unless you want me to empty this into your empty head, get out.”
“You don’t have the guts,” he choked.
Dobby pulled the hammer back and looked Alex straight in the eye. Apparently he didn’t need to say anything else, because Alex stood up slowly and back out of the restaurant, closing the door softly as he left.
After Alex left, the old man shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Dumb ass kids.” He put the hammer down on the sawed off shot gun and smiled. “Who needs another beer? I know I do.”
The other old men settled back into their seats and talked about the baseball game and how some kids were just born dumb in spite of having good parents. Before he got out another round of beer, Dobby returned the gun to it’s place under the counter. Next to the place where he kept the gun, there was an open letter. He picked it up briefly. The subject line read: ORDER TO RELOCATE. He’d read the letter several times, and the only other line that stood out to him was RIGHT OF IMMINENT DOMAIN. He shook his head. There wasn’t any point. He put the letter down next to the twelve gauge. Then he served up the next round of beer, humming to himself.
