Cole Wilkes wasn’t comfortable in small towns in Middle America. Emulsion Plastics employed him as the Global Human Resources Director for new production facilities. Hiring and training new employees was his only job. Only after all the staff was hired and consistent production levels were achieved could Cole move on. His latest assignment was the city of Spiner, Iowa. Emulsion insisted on professional dress, which meant suit and tie. A three-piece was preferred but seemed a little stuff for most of the locations Cole found himself. Middle America was no exception. And Iowa? Here, wearing a suit and tie meant he sold Bibles. If not Bibles, what else could he be selling? Vacuum cleaners? Scrub brushes? Or life insurance? The looks he got from the townsfolk unsettled his introverted self. Making new friends wasn’t something he was good at. Back home in Portland, Oregon, he was used to the city life. And besides the library, he spent much of his off-time inside Powell’s. Cole’s intelligence was incredible if he’d talk to anyone. The only people he spent time with were the employees he was training because he was good at it. No one spoke to him, and he didn’t voluntarily talk to anyone.

He gripped his cheap briefcase tight against his chest. “What can I get for you, hon?” the waitress asked him. Or was he supposed to refer to her as a server? She had a small tag that read Kathy.

“Coffee, please.” He let go of the briefcase, setting it on the table. “Do you have buttermilk pancakes? The nice, fluffy kind? I’d like three if you do. If not,” he patted the briefcase, looking at it when he continued, “then I’ll need a minute.”

“Gotcha. Black coffee. Three pancakes. Want syrup with them?” Kathy asked.

“Please,” Cole replied, never looking up at Kathy.

“So,” Kathy knocked on the table, getting Cole’s attention, “What’s in there that’s so important? Kinda thought you’d have it chained to your wrist, the ways you been holdin’ onta it.” Kathy crossed her right leg over her left, waiting for an answer.

“Oh. This?” Cole patted the briefcase. “It’s not all that important. Just documentation from my company.” Moving the briefcase from the table, he sat it next to him in the booth. “Lots of policy and procedural things. I imagine it wouldn’t interest a,” he paused for a second before choosing the right word, “waitress like you.” Intelligent as he was, Cole was adept at figuring out the right thing to say at the right time. This was no exception.

“I could surprise you,” Kathy winked, walking away from Cole. “I’ll get this put in for you.” Cole snatched the briefcase, hugging it. A man taller than Cole came in. A checkerboard pattern blue flannel shirt was tucked into his tight blue jeans. Cole noticed his tan-colored cowboy boots. The rugged-looking man made Cole very uncomfortable. Kathy came back with his coffee and pancakes. “Here ya’ go, mister. Three pancakes, maple syrup, and black coffee. Needs anything else?”

Cole shook his head no. Kathy sat the truck driver in a booth two tables away from Cole. Glad the tall man’s back was to him, Cole opened up the briefcase, thumbing through a stack of papers. Paperclipped to the front on a manilla file was a roster of names. His finger ran down the list. He would see ten of the residents of Spiner today and ten more tomorrow, hoping to start production by the middle of next week. Not that things went according to plan. Most of the time, six people didn’t show up. Then, he had to scramble and put announcements up in town. Or talk to the local radio station. Farmers listened to crop reports or baseball games. Music wasn’t a big thing in cities like this. He brought a small cassette player and four tapes for times like this. Two contained his own eclectic mix of music. He purchased the other two; George Michael’s ‘Faith’ and Genesis’s, ‘Invisible Touch.’ No one knew about the cassette player or his over-the-ear headphones. They sat inside the briefcase, safe and sound away from prying eyes.
After buttering the pancakes, he drowned them in maple syrup. Sitting on the edge of the booth seat, he cut into the pancakes, fork in his left hand, knife in his right. Every bite was slow, every cut as meticulous as he could make it. Cole thought all eyes were on him while he ate, but no one noticed. Kathy brought him his check after he took the last bite. She refilled his coffee three times, winking at him the last time. He wanted to lick the syrup off the plate. But how would that look in a small town in rural America? It might be a bit too much. The suit was too much for this place. Licking the plate? He was awkward enough and didn’t need any more attention.

Without a sound, he picked up the briefcase and his check, paid Kathy, and thanked her, walking out to his rental car.