Red Robin Special

The crack, then the splashing sizzle as the egg hit the searing grill. Then another crack and sizzle. And in the back, the coolest part of the grill, the ribeye flopped down with a hiss. Only half an inch thick, but a perfect start to his day. Macey sat on this same stool at this same time, 5 a.m. every weekday, for the last three decades, the only stop on his walk to the boiler room at the high school.

“Not so hard on the eggs,” Macey said as he opened the Sun-Times on the counter.

But Tito knew how he liked them, and so did Juan and Sammy. Yet it was part of the ritual. And Tito had only been at the grill for what? Five years? He was still the new kid.

“I know. Over easy. Very, very easy.” Tito smiled.

Macey followed Liga MX on his phone, so they’d have something to talk about. He never watched a game, but Tito helped him install the app so he could follow the stats, enough to carry on a decent conversation.

And so, Tito would play along with Macey’s heartbroken relationship with the Monsters of the Midway. “Hey, what ’er Da Bears planning in the draft?”

“Don’t know.” Macey looked at the empty stool on his left. Trap’s stool.

He reached over and touched the red vinyl, letting his fingers slide across and down the cool chrome sides. Thin black stripes broke the dulled metal. He tried to give the stool a little turn, but it didn’t budge. Trap would clamber up onto the stool with his bulk, complaining they weren’t fit for real men. But it was because his stool wouldn’t turn like Macey’s. He laughed silently, then patted the red top.

“I know. I miss ’em too,” Tito said, without turning from the grill.

Trap was the diner’s resident Grabowski—as in knew all the Bears players, their salaries, a dozen stats on each, offensive and defensive strategies for the next few games, all that. For twenty-six years, he and Macey had been shooting it back and forth about this stuff. But Trap dropped dead at work three weeks ago. Heart attack.

Macey poured a splash of cream into his coffee. “I heard his sister’s trying to plan something. Like a memorial thing.”

Tito grunted. “Well, let us know. We’ll put somethin’ up on the wall.”

Macey stared into his melamine mug, watching the cream swirl as it caught the eddies of the cooling coffee. He couldn’t look up. In fact, he and Tito had barely met each other’s eyes since it happened, but that was better than bawling like two babies.

The TV on the wall showed the morning news, no sound as usual. There were images of something burning, smoke, crumbled buildings, men and women crying. As usual.

“What about Animal Care and Control? They doin’ anything?” Tito asked.

Macey chuckled. “Thirty years with them, and I heard they had his replacement in a week.”

“Sad, man.”

The door swung open, and the March wind came blasting in.

“Hey, didn’t I say, wait for the outer door to close?” Tito yelled. “You’re killin’ us here.”

“Checo,” Macey said, without looking up from his coffee.

“This seat taken?” A man of about sixty pointed to Trap’s stool. Gray hair. Limped a bit, maybe arthritis in the hip. Definitely not Checo.

Tito turned to the counter, still holding his spatula, his eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you take one of the seats over there? Nobody’s here. Give the guy some space.”

Macey paused and blinked, unsure what to say.

“Is that what you want, for me to sit over there?” The man’s expression was earnest. “It’s okay if that’s what you want.”

The man was wearing a pair of rubber work boots stained with tar, the kind the road crews wear, and his coat had reflective stripes on the arms.

“Sit,” Macey said. Tito had told him he could intimidate newcomers.

The man shrugged and pulled away.

“Sit, I said!”

The man held out his hand. “Name’s Jimmy.”

“Everybody calls me Macey.”

Jimmy nodded, and Macey took his hand.

“Hey, Jimmy. You know we’re cash only here,” Tito said, pivoting to the counter with Macey’s food.

“Yeah, that’s best for me too.”

Tito’s face fell a bit as he dropped the plate down in front of Macey with a clatter.

“Whatever happened to rare?” Macey asked.

“Got distracted.” Tito turned to the new guy. “What can I get ya’?”

“Coffee, and one of those sandwiches.” He snapped his fingers, closing his eyes. “A Red Robin. The one with egg and pastrami.”

Macey straightened. Trap’s breakfast.

“I take it, this is your first time. How’d you hear about the special?” he asked.

Jimmy shrugged and started searching around the counter. Out of habit, Macey reached to his right for the sugar pourer and set it down in front of the man.

Jimmy was spooning sugar into his coffee. One. Two. Three. “Thanks. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t.” Macey’s egg had become unappetizing, so he pushed his plate forward.

“Look, I’ll let you be. Sorry to bother you.” Jimmy began sliding his mug down the counter, but Macey grabbed his arm and held him.

“Just stop. Sit.”

Tito dropped the sandwich in front of Jimmy, and both men stared at their coffees in between bites.

“Anybody watching that?” Jimmy motioned to the TV, now showing images of flashing sirens, crime scene tape, and a reporter looking too fresh for 5 a.m.

“No cable. Just local channels,” Tito said.

“No worries. Just like my sports fix first thing.”

Macey looked at his watch. 5:25. Fifteen more minutes. He sighed.

“You follow fútbol?” Tito asked.

“Oh, yeah. Love it,” Jimmy said. “Huge Bears fan.”

“Not football. Fútbol!”

“Whatever, just so they pick up a couple receivers in the draft.”

Macey lost his grip on his knife, and it clattered to the floor.

“I’ll get ya’ a new one.” Tito was already there.

Macey turned to Jimmy, but he was all in on his Red Robin now, a bit of egg yolk tucked in the corner of his mouth. Trap’s sandwich.

When Jimmy glanced up from his plate, he smiled with such an authentic warmth that Macey’s throat tightened.

“You okay?”

But Macey looked back at his plate.

“I like this place.” Jimmy went back to his sandwich.

A rush of frigid air came through the diner again.

“Checo!” Tito called.

“¿Qué onda, bro?”

Macey glanced at his watch. 5:32. Checo was late.

And he looked up just in time. Jimmy’s back flashed out the door. “Where’d he go?”

Checo looked around and shook his head. “Who you talking about? I just got here.”

“Jimmy.” Macey met Tito’s eyes, and they grew glassy, just for a moment, then he turned back to the grill. Jimmy didn’t know he was being Trap, but Macey knew. And now Tito.

“You need to get some specs, old man. Been telling you that.” Checo grabbed the Styrofoam clamshell and a copy of La Raza from the end of the counter and hurried out.

Tito was back at the grill, some kind of breakfast meat crackling and frying away, the air filling with the aroma of sausage.

Beside Macey’s plate was the half-eaten Red Robin and a twenty. And an empty red stool. Just like it always was at 5:35.

Maybe tomorrow he’d come back.

✧ ✧ ✧

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