Cemetery Mary

     Mary was her name; that’s all we knew. She ran the nightshift at Dukes Diner, corner of US Rt. 30 and State Rt. 501 just east of Lancaster Pennsylvania.  I stopped there two, early mornings a week for some strong coffee and conversation, a.k.a. bullshit, just to try and wake up before I headed over to Jersey for my last stop. In case you haven’t noticed, I like Diners. I always thought it’d be cool to have a celebrity interviewing another hot shot at a late-night Diner and call it “Dinerviews,” but enough of my spiel.

     She was the manager, head waitress and bouncer, if need be, at that establishment. Her husband ran the cemetery a half mile down 501 and we—privately—nick-named her “Cemetery Mary,” stolen from one of the Garbage Pail Kids’ bubble gum cards. But, she was anything but morbid and we never mentioned her nickname inside the diner. Mary had a temper and if offended she might go into the kitchen and fix up a “Salmonella Special” for the loose-lipped driver.

     She stood about five-nine to ten, kinda tall for a lady, with blond hair fixed to a tee, hazel eyes and a pleasing smile. She was a very attractive and independent-minded woman long before it was fashionable by today’s standards. All the regulars would tease her a little but none of us went overboard with it because we had respect for the lady. She reaffirmed it one night when Richard Cranium (Dick Head) came in and strutted his stuff.

     Every truck stop or diner has a Highway Romeo who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and Dukes was no different. In walks this doucebag one night who hauled meat for a living to the Philly markets. He wore the cowboy outfit, the boots and a belt buckle half as big as the steering wheel on a Mack truck. I never spoke to the prick ‘cause I didn’t like him from the get-go, but we’re a free diner society so I just had to accept it. Once a week, on Friday nights, he’d come strolling in, smelling good and looking spiffy and he’d wink at Mary. He made sure he’d sit—he’d even move if he picked the wrong booth—in Mary’s section so she had to wait on him.

     He flirted with Mary for about a month, but she politely put him off in a civilized kind of way, but one Friday he went too far. After he sat, and when he thought no one was looking, he hid the sugar container under his seat, an old trick. When Mary came to take his order, he told her a coffee but there wasn’t any sugar on the table, so she goes and gets one. As she was leaning forward to place the glass container in its proper spot a little cleavage appeared and this asshole slipped a small piece of paper between her … you know where. She stood up, looking pissed, and read the note. Then she said something that stunned us all.

     “Driver,” she said calmly. “I’d say the best chance of you gettin’ laid tonight is to just crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait your turn. And by the way, the dessert bar is CLOSED.” 

     I was sitting at the counter with two Roadway drivers, and I about lost it. We were laughing so hard one of us just about fell off the stool. And that was that.  He got up, laid down a tip, paid his bill and we never saw him again. That was the ultimate putdown and I've never forgotten it. 

     Or Mary either, for that matter.