"Greetings, customers! Lesson 101 of your training. This is how I want you to begin conversations you have with all guests you encounter, with no exceptions. And, I want to hear robust enthusiasm when you speak to them."

These words of wisdom come from the owner of Merwin's All-You-Can-Eat Cafe. I hear them on the first Friday night I work while being given the dime store tour of his restaurant, and I remember them to this day.

In the back of the establishment, I see the formica bar and its wall of bottles. I know his directive includes the little old crookbacks on their walkers who shuffle along in slow, unsure, baby steps. My personal favorite customers are those who leave generous tips. A five spot is always nice. A ten is much better.

He notices my glance and reminds me, "You can serve alcohol, but you can't pour drinks. And, the key thing I want you to remember is to do whatever it takes to keep those customers coming back. That's job Numero Uno,"

I sense the feel of legal tender, as the currency runs through the fingers of his callused hands, places a smile on his face. One that is not always present.

Like all other bistros, we have our share of hard cases. Take for instance the man who thinks he owns the booth closest to the bar. Still, we try to appease him.

His voice firm, Carlyle Bramble utters to all our greeters, "Don't you dare seat anyone in my place. I expect my booth to be available the moment I enter this hash house!"

When you deal in people, they come in all shapes and sizes. Most of the time we just smile at the Army vet, nod our heads, and say in feigned compliance, "Yes, Mr. Bramble."

Out of hearing range of the A-Lister, we snicker behind his back. Now, don't take offense because it's all full-featured fun. The whole scene is comical if you ever see the transactions play out. The white embroidery on Mr. Bramble's camouflaged cap reminds all of us he was a POW. That's what matters.

The Gunnery Sergeant is quick to explain, "For eight unfathomable years, the Viet Cong held me prisoner at the Hanoi Hilton. Those were some of the toughest days of my life. But, I lived to tell about them."

Because of those experiences, Sergeant Bramble possesses plenty of harrowing war stories he likes to convey to us. You can bet we are all spellbound when the town's local hero reminisces about one of them.

A tried-and-true, blue-blood, Merwin O'Malley is the ancient owner of the road house. His flaming locks of red hair, and red beard, give him a distinct appearance, kind of like Harry of Windsor fame. "Irish Merwin," as we call him, must have sailed across the pond on the Mayflower from Galway. Bet old Christopher Columbus had a good time with him on that voyage.

Merwin explains to all who'll listen, "Galway is a real cultured place on the River Carrib." Most of them do not have a clue where that is, so Merwin offers them a geography lesson, "Found in West Ireland, the waterway is famous as one of the shortest in all of Europe."

I'm no expert on that subject, so I'll take his word for it.

If Merwin hears us greet his customers in any other but the proper manner, a frown crosses his face and he threatens to "Throw us out the door on our good ear!"

My name's Zach. I'm one of the servers here at Merwin's. This is my first "real" job, not counting the newspapers I've thrown around the neighborhood since I was twelve years old. I just got my driver's license two weeks ago. So far no tickets, at least none I'll admit to. On second thought, there's that small matter of parking in a fire zone in front of Wally World my Dad doesn't know about.

Let's return back to that scene for a moment as I futilely attempt to explain to the patrolman who stops his cruiser behind my truck, "I only dashed in to get a new charger for my phone."

My efforts are in vain. With his ticket book in hand, the gun-wielding bubblegum machine operator replies, "Don't give me no flim-flam, just your license."

Tonight, I have a bad case of butt glaucoma. Go ahead and laugh. I hear you ask like you don't know what I'm talking about, "What's that?"

A simple ailment, butt glaucoma is a malady where I can not see dragging my behind into work. I get this affliction a lot ... like every other day. But I know I have to work if I want to make the next payment on my light duty F150. Now, there's a truck to sink your teeth into. Turbocharged and fun to drive, mine's agate black. Did I mention it has the total package? My play toy comes complete with a V8 engine, an extended cab, and an eight-foot bed I never have to make. NICE! Especially for scouting the chickadees, if you know what I mean. I got the truck for my birthday.

In the entryway of the downstairs den of the house where I live, my Dad's curiosity gets the better of him. He wonders, "What'cha think you're doing on your smartphone, Zack? Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"

Dad catches me off-guard. My covert operation is to disconnect the conversation. I'm trying to keep the date I'd arranged in Algebra class with Janet Anderson that afternoon. She's the hottie I'm speaking to on the phone when he enters the room.

Earlier that morning, my best friend, Ryan Burlington, grins in Study Hall. He looks up from his Botany book as we write our answers to the questions on Page 64, and broadcasts, "I've never seen anyone possess such overly large, twin "pocketbooks" as hers!" To illustrate his point, Ryan dangles his hands under his breasts.

I picture the pleasure the treats will present and agree, "They are well known around Carving Stone High School. That's for sure."

In my mind, I wonder if cups are made big enough to cover bazookas like Janet's? I have full intention of exploring those invitations. Just my dumb luck, though. Being busted by Dad means my best laid plans aren't gonna happen. Oh well, there's always the next time.

I respond to Dad's question with a slight untruth, "Lewis, my manager at work, called to remind me I gotta be at Merwin's by six tonight. But don't wait up for me. It's Friday, and you know what that means."

"I'll leave the porch light on so when you come traipsing home at four a.m., looking like something the cat dragged in, it won't be so dark," Dad chides me.

"You call that incandescent yellow bulb that dangles from a socket in the far corner of the veranda a light, Dad?" I remark. He and I always cut up with each other.

A frayed pull string turns the light on and off. I head upstairs for a hot shower. Having arrived home from helping our elderly neighbor haul bricks, I need one. The project isn't anything special. Mr. Sorrells is in the process of adding a walkway to his backyard. Around here they're common.

A memory washes over me. I recall Mr. Sorrells' reaction while he leans on his shaky cane and announces, "Appreciate your help, Zack. With my rheumatoid arthritis, I couldn't move those bricks myself. What do I owe you for your help?"

It did my heart good to tell our neighbor, "Nothing. The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Sorrells. You just enjoy your new walkway. If you need anymore assistance, let me know. Be glad to."

After my piping hot shower, I'll don the red and white-checkered shirt Merwin provided me when I started this gig four months ago and be on my way out the door.

Before I scoot, Dad calls up the stairs. "Don't forget, tomorrow's Saturday, and that means time to mow the lower two acres." Delight rings in his words.

A sodbuster from four generations back, caretaking our small farm runs in Dad's blood. I realize a working boy's chores are never done. My busy schedule includes school. There, I'm expected to make the best grades possible so I can get into a good college.

Dad always tells me, "To succeed in life, and have things better than I have, Zack, you've got to get into Dartmouth, or maybe Yale. You know, there's something to be said about that whole doctor or lawyer routine."

I understand all parents want to see their little tykes grow up to be successful. Maybe they'll even do something spectacular, like cure cancer. However, I possess a different vision for my future. My calling leans more to the Air Force Academy where I'll learn to fly fighter jets like the Eagle, or better still, the Falcon.

On a typical night, I stroll into Merwin's like a broken field runner slips through the line. The night crowd begins to gather. I watch the Morrison family pull into a Reserved parking space. He's a big time foreman at the Johnson Brothers Grist Mill. His dingbat wife comes in for the flounder. Light and fluffy. That's the only way she'll eat the fish.

Their kid, Bradley, tells me every time they visit, "I like my burgers to moo back at me when I bite into the bun." Believing that is the funniest remark they'll ever hear, his parents guffaw.

It doesn't take long to get to know your regulars and what makes them tick. As soon as I clock in, I know the Morrisons will ask for me. I wave a warm gesture their way as I saunter inside and admire his Lincoln Towncar as I go. Long and elegant.

The cashier notices my stare and confides, "Must be nice to own a ride like that." Julia's mind seems elsewhere as she purrs, "Some day a rich man's going to waltz in here, and like Calgon, he's going to take me away."

I study the spinster and reply, "Yeah, right." Then scoff, "Dream on."

Several guests sit in the waiting area. The need to be seated. The smell of frying onions wafts off Robert's grill. That puppy's as hot as the neon sign out front that lures customers into the joint. Robert's a real cracker for you, but don't get the muscle-bound, Harley-riding, ex-Golden Gloves champion in a boxing ring. The thug's also one of Merwin's bouncers, which triggers another recall. One night, not long after I begin my shift, I watch Robert toss a trouble-making drunk out the window. The action results because the boozer slaps the dainty buttercup he brings in with him. That doesn't sit well with Robert.

Ever a stickler for details, Merwin points out, "I don't care how dolled up she is. That girl can't be more than fourteen years old."

Evelyn Larson turns out to be a runaway from Prescott, Arizona. Sirens soon scream into the night.

A disgruntled customer grouses as he storms out the front door, "It sure didn't take long for the cops to crawl all over the place, did it?"

When the police question him, Robert's only words are, "Can't say the creep didn't get exactly what he deserved." We all agree. Robert faces no charges for his assault.

Merwin's doesn't pipe music in. Instead, a vintage 1960s Wurlitzer stands in the corner and fires up like it just doesn't care.

I don't know how many times I've told guests, "All the top Country songs from the legends who made the music famous, to the current crop of cookie cutter cowboys playing on the radio, fill that sucker up. So, you never know what lyric you'll hear."

One of my favorite responses to that comment came from Doris Defalo, a local wannabe keyboardist who said, "Guess that all depends on whose quarter slides down the slot."

Believe me, the jukebox swallows plenty of mine. I'm not much of a singer, and sound like a pterodactyl when I warble, but I tote a Gibson six-string around and fiddle with the instrument from time to time.

I tell Julia, "Although the dance floor's hopping, two-stepping most definitely is not one of my favorite pastimes."

"You play baseball, Zack, so I bet you'll make a good dancer if you will only try," she encourages me.

"No way, Jose," I grin. Well known for stating my opinions, I say things others think. In rare form, I exclaim, "Would you look at all those idiots out there line dancing? C'mon, don't they have anything better to do with their lives than weave, heel dig, and triple step? Why don't they just hurry up with their meals, then get up and leave, so the next guest can be seated? No wonder we're getting way behind tonight."

Lauren smiles back at me. She's not my type of chick, but she's okay. I ask her, "How long have you worked at Merwin's?"

Not missing a beat she replies, "Since the place was built twenty years ago."

Due any day, Lauren's preggo belly is another reason I watch my P's and Q's around her. She's got three rug rats running around and a deadbeat husband who's never home.

Lauren does not hesitate to explain, "The last anyone's heard out of him around these parts is he drives big rigs in California. I think he probably has a Lot Lizard in every nook and cranny between LA and Seattle."

Baby Number Four is not his. Plenty of speculation circulates as to who fathered the child?

Above the bar, I notice the hand-carved wooden sign that hangs on the wall - the one that reads, "In God We Do Trust." The "All Others Must Pay" portion of the plaque disappeared a long time ago.

As he admonishes someone at the cash register, Merwin mutters, "I ain't running no charity organization here."

I didn't look up to see what the commotion is about. However, the notion makes me chuckle.

Merwin proceeds to reiterate, "Everyone pays for whatever they consume in this restaurant."

Though he only charges us half price, our complaints of, "When you work for peanuts, the costs still add up," fall on Merwin's deaf ears.

I enter the kitchen and watch the short order cook flip a burger. Junior's a real good friend of mine. He's the one who landed me this job. At the ready sits a sesame seed bun that contains ketchup, mustard, lettuce, a slice of tomato, and two slices of dill pickle. I find a stash of fries on the other side of the platter.

Junior looks up from his work and acknowledges me with a wave of his spatula, "Hungry?" he asks, "This burger's made just the way you like 'em."

"Slap some cheese on it you bald-headed, vertically-challenged, runt," I tease as I pass by. Junior smiles.

So, what'cha waiting for? Y'all c'mon in! We've got two-for-one drinks. I recommend the strawberry daiquiries. Meatloaf's our Blue Plate Special. It comes with broccoli and steamed carrots. I'll be back to check on you later. Right now it's pig out time. Welcome to another Friday night at Merwins All-You-Can-Eat Cafe.