Tales from the Busy Bee Café

by John Argeropoulos

Yianni knew that the filming of the courtroom scenes forAnatomy of a Murder would continue for at least another hour or two, yet he was needed elsewhere. He had to reluctantly close his notebook and relinquish his coveted balcony seat in order to get back to the restaurant where his parents relied on him during the evening rush hour. The filming was a magnet for everyone in the area, including Yianni, but he knew that he would soon be involved with characters and stories every bit as interesting. He covered the five blocks to the Busy Bee Café quickly and was relieved to discover that he was not late for the main event.

Like clockwork, all the regulars began to assemble for what is best described as a form of gustatory street theater. Karl Manheim, a local DJ and a high-strung loner by nature, was the first to arrive. He sought out his usual stool at the far end of the counter near the door. It was a puzzling place to sit for a person who has just emerged from the confines of a hectic studio job since it was situated directly across from the small radio that was always blaring.

Karl had no sooner placed his favorite order for baked ham and picked up the local paper than he became visibly agitated and began shouting, “That damn Bolero!” Only a handful of people knew the inside joke that was being perpetrated by Bill Thompson, his colleague at WDMJ radio, who fiendishly selected all of Karl’s most hated music for this time slot, knowing full well that Karl was a captive audience at the diner.

With uncanny timing, Ray Russo raced in, tossed his lunch bucket on the floor, and plopped down a couple stools away from Karl. In his characteristically obtuse manner, a mixture of natural ebullience and childlike innocence, Ray blurted out, “Is thatMadame Butterfly?”

“MadameNhu, you idiot!” scowled Karl.

The intended bullet missed its mark as Ray kept smiling blissfully, wondering aloud about how much things had changed since his Army days in Japan. The thought of it consumed him and Ray constantly talked of going back someday to find out. He had been saving every spare coin for that glorious day for the past three years, but he realized that it was just a dream and that it might never happen on the abysmally low wages he earned at the Cliffs Dow Chemical plant. He faithfully trekked the six mile roundtrip from his rooming house on Baraga Avenue every day, choosing to use the money saved on bus fares for his trip. Perhaps it was this motivation that propelled him with the speed that would be the envy of an Olympic race walker. “Race-Walker Ray” with the big smile and trusty lunch box was always a head turner on his way to work and back.

Lost in all the commotion was the “Bean Man,” who had unobtrusively edged his way toward a view of the specials listed on the handwritten chalkboard that served as a menu. Barney’s dress and demeanor never changed from visit to visit. A mousy-looking man with thick glasses, a floppy cap, and a long tattered coat to match his forlorn appearance, Barney’s focus was riveted on the chalkboard. If he spotted his obsession for home-baked beans, a trace of a smile would briefly betray his great joy and he would quickly sit down. If the object of his delight was not included, he would turn, crestfallen at his misfortune, and slink out the door. On occasion he might muster the courage to ask about the beans, hoping against hope that they might have been somehow overlooked, but on this day he disappeared without a word.

Not at all amused by any of these proceedings, Oscar was holding court at the other end of the counter. A tall, brawny, bald man with a booming, resonant voice, he always wore a white flannel long-sleeve shirt and baggy black trousers with big red suspenders. Oscar bellowed about the fact that chemicals had ruined the taste of everything, including his favorite brand of beer, and that chemicals would soon be the death of us all.

Charlie, who was seated next to Oscar on the end stool next to the kitchen and who worked at the sawmill where Oscar was the night watchman, simply stared straight ahead and shook his head from time to time. He knew better than to challenge Oscar’s ranting, but he also lacked the ability to speak beyond very simple statements about the weather or some other equally innocuous topic. Charlie would usually be the last customer to leave each night, often having spent hours drinking coffee and feeding the jukebox in an effort to forestall anoth