When I was in college, there was a place called the Colonial Kitchen, just a couple of blocks off of the St. John's campus, right on State Circle, across from the statehouse. It was run by a woman named Vicky for pin- money, and to keep her busy through her husband's philandering. She was very generous with her subs and pizzas, compared to most places, and she worked from about 10 or 11 am until 2 or 3 after midnight, depending upon how long it took to close down.It was pretty slow most of the day, but would load up with Johnnies and Middies after 10 pm, and especially after midnight. She had a hard time keeping help, and family help came and went, so sometimes she would ask me to take telephone orders for her. That ramified into taking orders at the counter, or taking out the fries and salting them, and so forth. Sometimes, I would help her out for an hour or more, sometimes just 15 minutes or so, but she would usually reward me with a tuna fish sub and a hug.
I would meet all sorts of characters from around town there. There was a man who was about 90, still fairly spry, who could remember the time before Eastport had been annexed to Annapolis, and when the fishing industry was still big in town; there was the fellow who wanted to be a rock star, even though he was not in a band and did not play and instrument, and thought that chanting Nyo Myoho Renge Kyo was going to do more than guitar lessons; there was the Middie who was having a "gung- ho" crisis, since he really just went to the Academy because they paid you to go to school. The obligation to serve didn't bother him, but the constant expressions of military esprit got on his nerves.
My friend Clark, who would frequently accompany me to the Colonial Kitchen, would get mad at me for letting Vicky take advantage of me. He never understood that that is not how I felt about it at all. Rather, it was homey, Vicky was like an aunt or grandmother, and it was a place to go when I needed a little warmth....... |
