Green Peas And Socrates

                                                                                                                                   



    Everyone knew John McKimm. Everyone hated John McKimm. Everyone in the place had worked for him at least once in their life. John never fired anyone, he just had it down to a look, and you didn’t come back. Even his waitress, Maggie, worked a full year before she “disappointed” him. She served him his usual on Veterans Day—spam sandwich, instant mashed potatoes, peas and a tall glass of water. He said he did this to remind himself of WWII, and the bitter days and nights he spent in Belgium. But the truth is it was like he was—cheap. The food service business was a cutthroat one, and he was the best. Low wages, long cold hours at the line, and cheating employees would be his legacy if and when his day came. They say only the good die young, which meant  he'd live to be a hundred.

    The middle table for four was never used between five and six each day. There wasn’t a reserved sign on it; no need, it was generally understood who owned it. To his left sat the Martins, Gwen and Ray, owners of a small trucking company that hauled McKimm’s produce. They were your typical middle class couple with Ray wearing his work uniform, because Friday meetings with his mechanics and the shop steward always took longer that expected. Gwen wore her pretty blue-and-white flowered dress with heels and her hair done to a tee. Fridays at the Willows Diner was their date night, but tonight she drove herself because of her special errand.

    To his right was Amos Phillips, owner of a large farm that supplied the plant. “Honest Amos” was his nickname and he lived up to it whenever he could, except when it came to McKimm. Amos sat and pondered while rearranging the pens in his bib overalls why anyone could be so mean. McKimm was a shrewd businessman, and he consistently gave him a hard time about his. The tomatoes were too ripe or the lettuce too moist or the onions too strong and his prices too high. It was a game to get the prices down, but sometimes he beat John at it. Their greetings were cordial at best, a “Hello, John and a Hello, Amos.” Someday, Amos thought, someday.

    Behind was twice-divorced Elsa Lancaster, who laid imaginary cross hairs on the old man’s back from time to time, and with good reason. She was the town beauty in her day and a natural one at that, with flowing blond hair, hazel eyes and lips that could launch ships. She’d known McKimm a long time but he’s never going to marry me, she thought. He’s lied to me all these years, yet it’s a nice day for justice. He used her as many rich and powerful men do; took what he wanted when he wanted. The flowers on her birthday and the single rose on Valentines Day would be enough. What more could any woman want was his way of thinking. Hell has no fury…

                                                                        ***
    “If that old shyster,” Ray said earlier that day during breakfast, “doesn’t pay up by the fifteenth I’m cutting him off.  In fact, I’m so mad at him I might tell him off tonight. I’m tired of getting ripped off.” Gwen had heard this a thousand times before.

    “Ray, you know you won’t, you can’t. He’ll just get someone else, and you’ll never work in this town again. You know how vengeful he can be and some day he’ll get his, mark my words.”

    Ray didn’t know why he talked to her about his battles with McKimm—it was a man- to-man conflict and a woman could never understand such things. All Gwen did was keep the books and tend to her garden; things called botanical. She spent way too much time, he thought, mothering her newest passion--water parsnips or something like that. She’d spend hours cutting off the tiny flowers and separating those tiny green buds and telling me not to nibble on them or he'd surely die. The warning went right by him, seeing as how he was a devout meataterian.
                                                                            ***
    The three ladies met every Friday at noon to play 500 Rummy, discuss their problems, talk about their man issues and their gardens both in and out of doors. Eventually the topic came around to “him.” He was the center of almost all the gossip in Circleville, and deep down he liked the attention, although he never let on. In reality, McKimm was a miserable human being and did his best to replicate that to all in his circle.

    “So girls, do you think he’ll ever get his?” Maggie asked.

    “Not in this life,” Gwen answered. “But I’d bet good money it’ll be in the next, no doubt in my mind.”

    Elsa sat quietly arranging her spades, wanting to chime in. But the guilt of being a “kept woman” always stopped her. Although it ended years ago, small town stigmas are hard to shake.

    “I know I can’t say too much…”

    “Oh the hell you can’t,” Gwen interrupted. “That man’s hurt all of us at one time or another. You’ve got every right, so say it when you feel it, honey.”

    “Here, here,” Maggie said as she raised her second glass of wine. “I keep thinking that some day he kick off from food poisoning or a lightning strike.”

    Elsa and Maggie laughed heartily until they noticed Gwen’s stern look. She wasn’t laughing and her brown eyes seemed to get darker and darker as she said…

    “Sometimes, certain things can be arranged. Let me tell you about my newest passion plant.”

    The room fell silent as they realized their friend had a hidden devious side. The thought of his early demise had crossed their minds before, but never with a Plan A. Whispers now replaced astonished stares as plans were made for that night; the time, the unlocked kitchen back door, the old switch-a-roo and the absolutely no kibitzing during dinner.
                                                                                  ***
    “Here you go, Sir, all for you on this special day,” Maggie said as she placed the mammoth amount of food before McKimm.

    He looked long at his serving. “That’s a lot more than I usually get, young lady.”

    “Well…we all appreciate what you men did for us back then, so just a little extra to say thanks. Besides, we know how much you like your peas.”

    “You done good, Maggie girl, you done good,” he said as he gave her one of those half-on-the-waist-half-on-the-buttock pats old men do. Maggie turned sharply and walked quickly back to the kitchen. But she stopped as she laid her hand on the door and looked across the room, with a look on her face that said--Done!

    Gwendolyn gave her a wink.

    It took the old man a long time to finish his meal, and he even ordered desert. He left his usual seventy-five cent tip, paid his tab and walked slowly to his Cadillac. A few seconds later a loud thud and an “Oh my God” echoed through the diner. He had passed out and hit the left fender with his head, opening a large wound. As the paramedic’s sirens grew louder Amos bent down to check his pulse, but looked up and shook his head. The town terror was gone.

    The diner had emptied as the ambulance pulled in and then out, but Gwen, Elsa and Maggie stayed outside for a while. As Maggie took a long drag from her cigarette she said, “Well…at least he cleaned his plate. Not a pea left.” No more needed to be said by the trio—it was all understood.

    There wasn't an autopsy; the Coroner felt no need, as the cause of death was plainly obvious. Three days later he was laid in the ground, and covered over. That night someone snuck into the graveyard and stuck a homemade sign on his grave.

    Here lies a man who loved his peas and ate a bowl for Socrates.

    To date, rumors abound, but no charges have been filed. But something tells me Raymond had better mind his P's and Q's.