Chapter 3

Rude Crawlback was a hybrid of a man, half Irish/Indian, half Neanderthal.  Six foot six with shaggy black hair and a brow that actually only seemed low because he was given to frowning.  At the age of fifty-three, a diet of hard boiled eggs and pig’s feet was taking its toll; still, weighing two-hundred-forty-seven pounds, rendered him imposing.  So in the third year after EmT came back from Viet Nam, when Mort got the idea that his son should have a job, and that job should somehow involve being at The Crawlback Inn, Mort had to tighten his belt a bit and take a deep breathe before bringing the subject up with the would-be boss.

On a Wednesday in October, Mort entered the Crawlback Inn to find Rude Crawlback dropping his three-o-clock Alka-Seltzer into a glass of beer.  Rude Crawlback’s cheeks puffed in a suppressed belch and he hit his breastbone with a lightly clenched fist.  “Rude,” Mort said shaking his head sympathetically, “You need to get you some decent food around here.”  Rude suppressed another belch.  “Well,” he said, “This ain’t exactly the Ritz. Seems to me that anything that isn’t pickled would be too much of a mess.”

Mort ordered a Seven and Seven and settled more comfortably on his stool.  “Now see how things work out for everyone?” he began, “Just yesterday Unis was talking to me about Ethyl Esther Keetone, you know, how she cooked for those six boys and three girls, and now that Hubert is gone she could use a little more income.  And here you are, burping your insides out if you don’t mind my saying, and with that empty corner over there, gathering dust, why not turn it into a place for a body to eat?  We could fix you up with some kind of kitchen, you could get Ethyl Esther to cook.”

Rude Crawlback wiped the foam off his upper lip and drew his eyebrows close together.  “It seems to me,” he growled, “That you’ve been putting some thought into what I should be doing with my own bar; you’re not usually the meddling sort, and I don’t think your doing this out of the kindness of your heart, what is it that you’re really after?  What’s in it for you?” 

The smile-lines at Mort’s temples crinkled even deeper than usual and he gave a little chuckle. “Well my friend …” he began.

Mort arranged with his bowling team to build the add-on kitchen in return for lifetime free hosting for their annual Christmas bash and Ethyl Esther premiered with roasted prim-rib stuffed with garlic, mashed potatoes, green beans, and peach cobbler; Rude Crawlback finally got to drink his beer straight.  EmT was the dishwasher. 

Mort wasn’t sure how long-range EmT’s  dish-washing career was actually going to be though, given the uneven temperament of EmT’s boss.  Rude Crawlback was not known to be the most reliable of fellows and Mort had a chess-player’s eye toward the future; always trying to play three moves ahead.  What if Rude changed his mind or decided he was getting fat?  But when he mentioned his concerns to Unis, she just snorted a guffaw through her nose.  “Oh Sweetie,” she giggled, “How much change would happen at the Crawlback Inn if you weren’t the one to get things moving?”