Eating at the Scene of the Crime.

This morning while reading the local newspaper, I saw that two restaurants in town had been robbed two nights earlier. Just a few minutes apart.

I thought nothing more about that until later, during a break at work, when I saw the same article once more.

Suddenly, I was hungry. Not just to eat, but to eat at one of the two places that had been robbed.

I was kind of glad they had robbed the first restaurant, a fast food place that puts so much grease in their food, it makes McDonald's look like a health food restaurant.

But the second place that was "hit" that night, was like a little "ma" and "pa" quick steakhouse - if your ma and pa happen to be from somewhere in the middle east. Where exactly, I do not know. It's none of my business. They pay their taxes, and they have good food.

They are just a little ways across from the street, where another Middle Eastern man had the severe bad timing to open up an oriental rug store the same week as 9-11 -01.

The store lasted about one week.

I really don't remember when the steak people moved here. I just stumbled upon them one night a few years ago when I was hungry.

And as far as I know they have not been involved in any terrorist activities.  Seems like just another guy and his family trying to run a small business.

I clocked out for lunch and headed for the place.  I had called before leaving so my order would be ready when I got there. The voice on the phone did not sound Middle Eastern. Instead it sounded like a North Eastern socialite. And there was no fear in her voice like she was afraid to be there. She was happy and upbeat.

I usually eat there about once a month, but each time they have a new waitress. I guess they can't pay much. Sometimes the waitress is a "woofer."  Sometimes not. It never hurts to have a pleasant looking waitress in your store. Even this guy knows that. The tips increase, customers come back, and maybe a robber would be put in a more cheerful frame of mind upon seeing a non-woofer.

"Gee, I was thinking about robbing you when I came in, but hey, I think I'll have the cheesecake instead."

Eating there again had slipped my mind for awhile... until I read they had been robbed.

Now their wonderful hamburgers and baked potatos seemed even more wonderful.

Maybe I was just glad no one had been hurt and they had not closed down because of an almost tragedy.

Maybe instead, I have discovered a bastard cousin of "rubbernecking" at car wrecks. A mutation called "Eating at the Scene of the Crime."

Whatever it was, I decided I was absolutely not going to ask them "What did it feel like? You know, when you were staring down the barrel of the gun?"

I was just going to eat and soak in whatever lasting atmosphere was cast by a strong armed robbery.

When I pulled up and parked in front, in my what can only be described as "raggedy-ass" old truck, I think what I was really wanting to know - besides the taste of their potato that melts in your mouth again - was, had the robbery changed the people.

I didn't really have much to judge this on, since they were never really outgoing people to begin with. Instead, they had just served me in the past, and I ate, and left. The father of the family usually would sit in a chair and just look around. Sometimes he would acknowledge me, sometimes he wouldn't.

I would just look at the "Doors of Jeruselum" posters on the wall and mind my own business.  Who knew doors could be so beautiful?

But all that was in the normal recent past. Things had changed since then. Or had they?

On the window going in, was a sign that said, "No Soliciting..."  There was no sign that said, "No Robbing," and I wondered if that might have worked, had they had one. Probably not, but you never know what is on the mind of someone looking for money for his next crystal meth splurge.

The amateur detective in me had already told me this was a drug related case. Why? Because anybody not on drugs would have robbed the first place, and ate at the second one. Whoever robbed this restaurant, had never eaten in it.

Inside, the old father was not there.  Was he in shock somewhere? Or maybe just napped out in the back room, like I hope to do often at his age.

There was however, a black man sitting against a wall. He was eating nothing. Just sitting there. Hmmm? A suspect, returning to the scene of the crime and playing it cool, I wondered.

But I knew that was false, because in this part of the country, if the suspect is black, they do not hesitate to use that info in the newspaper story.  The robber must have been white, even though the newspaper did not say, "A white man went into the store with a gun..." It just said, "a man." I guess a white man being the standard for a man in these "heere" parts.

So, me being a white man, I suddenly wondered, if I was a suspect, returning to the scene of the crime and playing it cool.

When I was young I was the kind of person, when something went wrong, I would ask myself, "Did I do that?"

However, now that I am "old," I am absolutely certain, or at least fairly certain, I did not rob the little steakhouse. Two nights ago. And I'm pretty sure I have an airtight alibi. Fighting with my wife again: which can easily be proven.

I did notice however, that somebody was acting very differently in there than before. It was ME!

 Before, after paying for my order, I would look out the window and wait for the waitress to bring it to me (Especially if she was a woofer). Tonight however, I looked inward, toward the counter.

I realized, I was afraid the robber was going to come back again. No one would be expecting it. Hit the same place again very quicky. That's the ticket. And I guess I wanted to see it if it happened.

I was totally prepared in case the robber thought like me. I was watching the front counter like it was a movie screen. That's where the action would be.  Cause that's what I would do.  Hit it two times, once for today, and once just for tomorrow. I mean, if it were me, which of course, it wasn't.

I'd hit that sucker and the other place, back to back. One two three four. Maybe five six seven eight. But I guess that would be pushing my - I mean - his luck.

So anyway the owner has swinging doors like an old time saloon, only smaller, going into the kitchen  And I can see him looking out occaisionally. He is in fact, looking a little worried, checking out me, then the door. Then me again. Then his brother or son looks. Then him again. Was I the one? "Come on," I try to help him with mental telepathy. "Remember me? I come in here about once a month in the beat up old truck."

He remembers. And goes back to doing whatever he does that makes his food mouth watering.

I'm safe. Just some white man, but not the white man, but then, they had to be sure because they all look alike, even to me. I even look like me. Or so I am told.

Anyway, I guess you can see that I am way too confused to ever put together any kind of coherent plan to rob anything. First, I would have to think about the environmental impact and if I would get my carbon shoe footprints muddy. Leaving evidence for CSI or Dog the Bounty Hunter.

I'd never get past the planning stage.

The waitress brings me my food, and it is delicious. The potato once again melts in my mouth, even though it may have been baked in fear.  And the hamburger is out of this world. Maybe fear brings out the juices in the meat. I have no idea. But then, if that is so, why have they always been good. Have the Middle Eastern people always been afraid here in the deep South?

All it takes is good sense to be afraid down here. You don't have to be Mid-Eastern or Black or Hispanic.

The waitress comes over to me when I am finished. She could have been a ballerina before working here, so tall and thin, and yet so full of grace.

And in an accent with no hint of hillbillieness nor of mid-eastery, she asked me how my food was, and I told her it was great. Then she said with a beautiful smile, "I love working here every day. The food is so wonderful."

She takes my dirty dishes away, and I sip at the remainder of my lemon lime mist.

The owner calls the black man who has been sitting against the far wall. He has been on break. He is not the robber. Never was. I'm sure glad I didn't stereotype him!

Another  worker comes out of the back and he has short pants on.  His skin is mid-eastern brown and on both calves he has the same tatoo of the face of a man, whom I at first think is Che Guevara. But it couldn't be, could it? Is he a "hero" all over the world?

Tatooed legs is carrying a mop, and proceeds to do the floor. Just like I did when I was in the Navy, except, only better..

I stand up, leave a two dollar tip for the ballerina, and exit the scene of the crime.

It's dark outside. And...

Life goes on.

Just as it went on twenty years ago, when I first got here, and robbers killed three people and left another for dead in the cooler...

in a KFC not far from here.

I can not even begin to remember all the murders and robberies

I have heard about in this typical Southern town.

Just one of thousands upon thousands

in God Bless America.

Will Bevis

Gadsden, AL

April 28, 2009.