Hop’s Shawnee Tavern
BY CHARLIE PECK
Where for three sloppy months of summer ’19
I was their short-order cook, slinging the best
biscuits and gravy this side of the Tennessee.
10:30 sharp Jimbo would stagger in, slip three
quarters in the jukebox and blast the Eagles,
Life in the Fast Lane, which was my cue to slap
a sausage patty on the griddle and give the gas
a boost. Ginkgo leaves, plastic bags, syringe:
collage of rotting Indiana neighborhood,
all night the red and blues flashing in
through bedroom bay windows. I slept
like I always had a morning appointment —
one, two, three a.m., finally drifting off between
two shoulder blades of night to wake
gasping to an alarm. The house was infested
with raccoons, and no exaggeration
my landlord laid traps and caught six
in the ceiling, another seven below
the front porch. What’re you gonna do
with them? I begged. He shrugged, What
do you think? In messy ketchup & mustard
evening light I sat on the saggy steps
watching patches of people walk the block
to the bus station. I read only Agatha Christie
and drank martinis. I collected the spare French fry,
tater tot, chicken wing boxes from the bar
and filled them with my frozen, par-cooked life,
drove them 600 miles to Omaha. I slept
in my childhood bedroom, woke
in the night to cougar tracks in the garden,
a half moon and no wind. Mornings now
I let the stereo sing. On my stove
the sausage browns, flour and milk,
biscuits puffing in a small oven. I whistle
to the birds down below, I light
a candle for the hell of it. I eat.
