The accommodations at the town’s only motel, aptly named the
Relax ‘N Dream, were mysteriously comforting. Still clad in my pajama pants and
an old t-shirt, I slipped on my Cons and my favorite hoodie to make my way to
the lobby for the motels complimentary breakfast.
As I opened the lobby door, I was welcomed by the comforting
smell of sizzling bacon. The small spread was stocked with the usual continental
items, but upon closer inspection, it appeared someone had a deep affection for
apples.
Two large bowls housed a variety
of green and red apples: Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Fuji,
Gala, McIntosh, Honeycrisp, Cameo and Ginger Golds among the selections. The copious piles were stacked in such a way
that I was unsure how they were even standing. Locally made apple butter and
apple jelly were placed besides warm cinnamon apple muffins and fresh baked
apple bread. A crock-pot of warm apple cider beckoned my attention.
I picked up a ceramic mug, surprisingly decorated with… you
guessed it, apples, and began to ladle myself a cup of cider when a plate of homemade
pancakes was slide in front of me.
“Fresh homemade apple and bacon pancakes” said the voice. “I
recommend you try them with some of this Vermont maple syrup. It really completes the experience.”
I looked up to find that the voice belonged to the most
colorfully dressed man. His hair held
tints of teal against light ginger tones. He wore a pair of brightly colored
pants that swirled with bright blues, purples and pinks with flecks of orange
and yellow. This was complimented by a beautiful
teal smoking jacket and a peacock feather inspired ascot wrapped around his
neck.
He peered at me through round spectacles that hung at the
edge of his nose.
“Or if you’re in the mood for something a little more
traditional, there’s always cereal,” he said and pointed to a row of tiny boxes
of Apple Jacks.
“I never really thought Apple Jacks actually tasted much
like apples,” I bemoaned as I heaped a few pancakes next to the massive pile of
bacon already on my plate.
“I’m a bit of an apple purist myself,” he said, “I’m not
one for artificially flavored apple anything, but the kids like it.”
He paused before moving straight to the point.
“So, I hear you’re the new barmaid at Orlando’s?” he asked
“Barmaid?" I lamented. "Isn’t that term a little
old-fashioned?”
“What would you prefer?" he shot back. “Bar keep? Bar matron perhaps?”
“What about mixologist?” I shrugged.
He peaked over the rim of his glasses and paused for a
moment before conceding to my request.
“Fine then. I hear
you are the new ‘mixologist’ at Orlando’s.” he corrected and waited for my
reply.
“Yes,” I confirmed, “it appears that I am.”
I shuffled to a table near the window in the lobby and
placed my obscene portion of pancakes and bacon next to my mug of cider. As I sat, the man helped himself to a seat in
front of me.
“My goodness,” he started, “where are my manners? I’m August.
And you are…” his question trailed off and he awaited my answer.
“I’m the new bar
maid at Orlando’s.” I smirked as I bit into the most perfectly cooked piece of
bacon.
“They said you were a witty one.” August noted.
“Perhaps witty is a bit too generous. Sarcastic maybe. Wrought with bitter irony, I suppose. But, wit denotes a level of intelligence that I
wouldn’t necessarily categorize myself in, you know? Calling yourself witty is
a bit self-serving, wouldn’t you agree? Aren’t names really just personalized labels
when you think about it?
I don’t know about you, August, but I’ve never really been one for labels. Who am I? Heck if I know? Who are any of us? I mean, do any us of really know who we are?
Well, clearly you do, you’re August. I mean, look, I could tell you my name, but
is it really MY NAME? When you think about it, my name isn’t my name at
all. It’s my parent’s name for me and they
certainly don’t know who I am. What’s the deal with that anyway? Just because
you’re a baby, you have to live your whole life being called a name that your parents
gave you just because you’re not old enough to have a voice. Seems silly, doesn’t it? So, if I tell you ‘my
name’, I am, in theory, just starting off our relationship with one giant lie. And
I would hate for that to be the first impression of me you ever had.” I concluded my rant by stuffing a giant bite of maple soaked pancake in my mouth.
August stared at me, cocking his head to the side like a
confused puppy. I could tell he was trying
to process the string of syntax that had been hurled upon him. Thankfully,
after a few moments of silence and the occasional sound of crunching bacon, the
hush was broken by a family of four that loudly entered the lobby.
“Stop looking at me!” yelled the young girl in the
group.
“Stop being so ugly!” teased her brother.
“You two knock it off!” scolded their father.
“For heaven’s sake, you both just settle down and let’s
enjoy this beautiful continental breakfast,” said their mother.
I looked at August and whispered under my breath.
“Continental breakfast? Sound more like confrontational
breakfast, am I right?”
He chuckled quietly and rose from the table.
“Well, whoever you are,” he said, “we’re glad you’re here.”
I hurried through the last few mouthfuls of my breakfast as
the sounds of the young sibling’s bickering and their parent’s empty threats
filled the room.
I scanned the apple bursting buffet and pocketed a few choice
apples and a small carton of juice for later inside the pockets of my hoodie. As
I passed the front desk, I noticed August scanning the motel’s register, I assume
to find the information of which I had withheld. He looked up, still peering
through his oval rim glasses. As our
eyes met, I gave him a slight nod before asking the one question that had been
on my mind since I laid eyes on the morning’s breakfast selections.
“Hey, August!” I called. “What’s with the massive ode to pomaceous fruit?”
I asked as I tossed him a Jonagold from my pocket, totally intended for dramatic purposes.
He caught the blushed pink
apple with a snap, and as if we had been asked the question a thousand times
before remarked only.
“You gotta like apples, man!”
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