Kathy pulled into the parking lot of Janice’s Diner, dust flying over her new 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. It drove like a luxury vehicle, unlike Jack’s Studebaker. The cloth seats felt like butter compared to the pseudo-pleather of the Studebaker. All electric controls meant she could roll down the passenger window. It wasn’t a convertible but with all the latest technology? She didn’t care. The crème-colored car had a thin layer of dust from the gravel parking lot, but that didn’t matter to Kathy. The Olds was all hers, free and clear. The first ‘new’ car she’d bought with her own money, saved for what seemed to be a lifetime. It wasn’t brand new, but with over three thousand miles on it, she got it for a steal! Thankfully, Janice was paying her well, better after Janice fired the so-called ‘kitchen manager,’ Kenny.

Kenny claimed to have worked for some of the finest restaurants in Chicago and Atlanta. Kathy thought he looked like an overweight Jack Nicholson, sweating through at least three aprons per shift. Janice paid extra to wash his sweat stained uniforms, which he changed at least twice, sometimes three times each shift. The smell in the kitchen was overpowered by Kenny’s body odor. Sometimes, it was rotten eggs mixed with rotting cabbage. On other days, it smelled like a boys’ junior high school locker room; feet and rancid sweat. If the kitchen door stayed open, those patrons sitting at the bar could and often would gag. “If you don’t do something about that,” Pastor Theodore whispered to Janice, “I’m afraid that congregants of Spiner First Baptist will find a different place to spend our Sunday afternoon money.” He leaned closer to Janice, “I’m pretty sure the health department will find out about this as well.” The Pastor winked at her. “Ms. Kathy? You have an excellent day, you hear?” Tipping his hat, he tried to step through the front door, remembering to turn sideways before he could fit.

Janice fired him nine days later after a visit from Pastor Theodore’s boss at the health department stopped in for breakfast. Janice didn’t know about the visit, but Theodore did. The Pastor of First Baptist felt it was only fair that she be allowed to correct the problem before the department fined her for not properly cleaning her establishment. Between scrubbing the kitchen floors, countertops, and any other surface exposed to Kenny and fans, deodorizer, and sanitizer, it took four days for the kitchen to smell like grease, pancakes, and Janice’s constant cigarette smoke.

Smirking, she opened the door to the diner, thinking where Kenny would get another job. Maybe a chicken farm? Or on a dairy farm where no one cared how you smelled. Floyd never smelled like a barn. Cigarettes and coffee? Sure. His dairy always needed extra hands with the amount of work. Walking inside, Kathy heard the door closing behind her, and the sound of ringing bells was in her ears. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, inhaling the diner’s core smell of bacon and sausage grease, the faint hint of thousands of cigarettes smoked, their carcinogens clinging to the walls and ceiling, and the ever-present smell of pancake batter. You might even smell the maple syrup’s sticky, sweet scent if you took a big enough whiff.

Her purse got stuffed under the cash register with a light jacket she carried with her, just in case. That was Kathy’s first stop before turning on all the lights and the overhead fan of the grill. Humming to herself, she flipped on the inside lights, a panel inside the kitchen door, lighting all the overhead lights in the dining area. The bar lights were connected to the same set of switches, coming on at the same time as the ones above each table and booth. She danced her way through the diner, clicking on the radio in the kitchen. The a.m. station played various music, including classical pieces like Mozart and Beethoven mixed between the Beatles, Elvis, and Hank Williams. The station played whatever they felt like, and for a second, Kathy wondered if Kenny lied to the station manager and told him he was a disc jockey in Atlanta and Chicago. Kathy startled herself when her laugh erupted, almost doubling her over. Then she shuddered, thinking about the poor station manager explaining to the next DJ they hired, after canning Kenny, what the stench in the booth was from.

Technically, the diner didn’t open until Janice arrived, so Kathy was careful not to flip the sign from closed to open. Janice did that. Kathy felt that to take that away from her would be disrespectful. Even with the radio on and Kathy sweeping under the diner’s tables, which were swept nightly before leaving, she heard the crunching gravel under the wheels of Janice’s Cadillac.

Those living in Spiner, especially those growing up in Spud, knew Janice’s Cadillac. It was hard to miss the Pepto Bismol pink convertible with the zebra print interior, accented by the horns of a steer protruding three inches past each side of the front grill. It was a land boat. Even those who never made it outside of Spud called it a tuna boat, assuming they knew the size of such a boat.

Kathy stopped sweeping long enough to watch Janice climb out of the car, cigarette half-smoked, clenched tightly between her teeth, eyes half-closed, keeping the smoke tendrils out. Taking one last drag, she flicked the smoke from the building into the parking lot. Not that she did that very often. If Kathy had to guess, Janice was in a mood. Not a bad one per se, but a mood nevertheless. How she pushed the door open spoke volumes to Kathy. Today wouldn’t be the day to ask for some time off. Or a raise.  

Janice held papers in her left hand when she climbed out of the Caddy, doing her best to not ash or burn them with the cigarette. Once inside, she lit another smoke and plopped down in the booth closest to the front door, facing both the door and the cash register. She didn’t say a word, just waved her hand at Kathy. “Good mornin’, Ms. Janice,” Kathy said, laying the broom against the cash register. “What can I get for you?”

“Coffee started?” Janice thumbed through the documents, not looking at Kathy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go pour us two cups and come sit down.” Janice continued to scan the pages, flipping them over one at a time. Janice read, waiting for Kathy to bring over the coffee. “Sit down, Kathy.” Janice finally looked up from the documents, sliding them towards Kathy. Janice picked up the coffee, slowly sipping it. Her knuckles were white because she was gripping it so tight. “Look ‘em papers over careful like. If youns want to, find an attorney in town to help youns understand what you’ll be signing.”

Kathy read the first page: Transfer of Ownership of Janice’s Diner: New Owner, Kathy Hanover. Her vision went fuzzy, then blurry. She scrubbed her eyes, unsure what she was reading. She flipped through the pages fast, scanning them for anything unusual. Kathy never read a contract before, but this looked like one of those. When she was in high school, she read everything, even challenging books like Moby Dick, Shakespeare’s King Lear and Hamlet, and Little Women. She once thought about writing professionally, but after Daddy died, she lost sight of her dreams and focused on survival.

“That there’s an official document.” Janice took a puff. “Official and legal like. Sign ‘em,” she pointed first to the papers, then to everything inside the diner, “and everything inside and outside the building is yours. The profits. And losses. The repairs. And all the tips. The headaches. The catering jobs.” The last catering job Janice did was years ago, mainly because she no longer had the staff to support such ventures. “And anyone you hire or fire,” she winked at Kathy, “is’ns all youns. I’m out.”

Kathy slumped back in the booth, playing with her cup of coffee. “All mine?”

“Yup. Youns put in all the time, all the work. I figured I ain’t got nothin’ left to give this place. ‘Sides, you got what it takes to do this. Hell, youns sweepin’ under the table, hummin’ to youns self ‘afore I git here every day? Youns was doin’ it today too, I’d bet.”

Kathy took a few deep breaths, Janice holding a black ballpoint pen in one hand and her smoke in the other. “Whadya say, girl? Youns up for it?”

Kathy took the pen from Janice. Twirling it through her fingers, Kathy stared at the documents. Flipping the contract to the last three pages, the ones requiring her and Janice’s signatures, Kathy stared at it. With one signature, Janice’s Diner would be owned by Kathy Hanover.