Elephant Toast

“I want some elephant toast.” The transient said. His clothing was well beyond worn and tattered. His hair had clearly not been combed in weeks, or maybe in months. His smell preceded him and lingered long after him.

The woman shook her head. She looked very tired. She said, “I don’t know what that is.”

“You know,” he said, holding his hands up about three feet apart, “The big, fat, wide slabs of homemade bread, all slathered in hot butter and fried in a skillet.” The man seemed hardly able to control himself, he was so hungry.

“Elephant toast,” she repeated. “Hmmm. Ok, fine.”

She reached under the counter and grabbed a large loaf of home-style bread. It was oblong in shape and not pre-sliced. Placing it on the preparation table, she cut three two inch slabs from the end. She buttered one side and then the other of each slice and threw them on the hot grill, next to two sizzling eggs. Immediately, the aroma of hot butter and bread filled the small diner.

“I don’t suppose you have any money to pay for this order,” she stated, without asking or waiting for a reply. She busied herself with cleaning off the counter and quickly popping the lids off several salt shakers.

The man sat perfectly still on the stool, his hands clasped on the counter in front of him, almost as if in prayer, his eyes fastened on the three slabs of bread toasting on the grill. In a very low voice, he muttered something like, “No ma’am… But would be much obliged though if you…”

She interrupted, “That’s fine. I figured as much.” She poured salt into each shaker, stopping near the top. “No sense in anyone going hungry in this world, so long as we’ve got food.”

A moment later, she turned the bread over and toasted the other side. Then she served it on a white oval plate, along with two fried eggs and three strips of crisp bacon. Then she refilled the man’s cup with black coffee. She set a small stainless carousel of syrups and jams next to his coffee.

“Anything else?” She asked.

“No ma’am,” He said. “This is just right. This is better than right. Thank you kindly.” And with that, he went after the food.

She walked quickly to the other end of the counter and grabbed an old broom to sweep the floor by the front windows. The four small tables along the front wall were now empty. Soon, they’d fill up again with the noon crowd. As she swept and straightened, she was mumbling something under her breath. She may have been swearing, or maybe she was singing softly. The man couldn’t tell.

He ate the food and drank the coffee. She filled his cup again then walked down to the other end of the counter. Picking up the phone, she called the lunch cook to make sure he was going to show up.

He saved the last piece of toast, carefully wrapping it in a napkin to take with him. He sat back a moment, rubbing his belly with both hands in obvious satisfaction.

He said, “I sure do thank you, ma’am. That hit the ol’ spot real good.” Then he rose from the stool to go, but was stopped by the woman’s sharp voice.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She asked.

He stood still, waiting to see what she wanted.

“I got some biscuits and sausage left over from breakfast.” She said, reaching into the small refrigerator by the grill. “You’re going to need something for later on, and I hate throwing away good food.” She wrapped the biscuits and sausage patties in plastic wrap and put them in a white bag. Then walking over to a snack display by the cash register, she grabbed a few candy bars and slipped them into the bag, as well.

She handed him the bag and he was on his way. A tattered business license on the wall by the door said the proprietor’s name was Abigail Perkins. The man glanced at this as he walked out.

Outside, the autumn air was crisp and fresh in the morning sunlight. He walked out to the roadside and headed east. It was a long walk down the mountain’s slope to the valley floor below.

He’d heard the stories about Abigail’s Diner in Arksonville from more than one source. Now he knew they were all true. He’d been told to look for the tiny town of Arksonville just west of the summer wheat fields, up at the top of the old mountain ridge.

And that’s just where he found a little diner by the highway where anyone was welcomed. Anyone at all. He always loved it when a good report proved true.

The shabbily dressed man turned from the roadside and walked out into the prairie grasses where he startled a small group of white-tailed deer. They silently watched him as he made his way south toward the river below.

The deer were not frighten when the man suddenly disappeared in broad daylight, simply fading into the morning wind. The bag of biscuits dropped to the ground. A fox and several noisy black birds would share them later.

The Scripture says: “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels. . . do not forget to do good and to share, for with such sacrifices God is well pleased. . . (Hebrews 13:2, 16)



©2004 Jim Sutton