and a mustache that drooped to his chin. All his thinning hair had gone gray. He once said he’d been a huge boxer before old age had settled in, which was why he kept the nick-name, Bruno, and his bar-bouncer attitude.
Porter froze halfway in the glass door frame. “Just came for more fries.”
“And all my hot chocolate, right?” Bruno wore a white T-shirt, stained yellow by years of grease and the colored bulbs in the place.
“I’ll drink cup after cup ‘til you take away the ‘free refills’ promise in your menu.”
Bruno smiled and continued wiping down tables while Porter, wrapped in the restaurant’s scent of juicy chicken, took his seat. “So what’ll it be?”
“Same ol’.”
Porter chose his table by the door. He always did. Bruno said it was for a quick escape, and regularly thought up reasons which might necessitate such a flight. Porter said he might need to make a quick get-away due to the food served in Bruno’s cafe. Bruno blamed Porter’s choice of food or his uneducated taste buds. Sometimes Porter would actually come and eat a meal like normal people: biscuits and gravy in the morning, a hamburger around lunch time, or some fish or a French dip for dinner. But generally, Porter ordered a cup of hot chocolate, a plate of French fries, and a side of ranch dressing. He’d dip the fries in the dressing and order the advertised free refills of the hot chocolate a minimum of five times before leaving. And he did this at any hour of the day.
Bruno’s cafe was open between five in the morning and one in the evening. He appeared to work the entire shift, without vacations. That was a lie, but when people asked Bruno where he’d been the day before, he’d say the same thing, “In the back! Too busy for you!” Everyone knew he was probably resting at home like normal people. But no one knew where Bruno lived.
And Bruno never seemed to sleep. “Old folks don’t need sleep!” he’d say. “You young’ns sleep and play all day-don’t think there’s anything else to life! Completely forgot we’ve come to this earth to work by the sweat of our brow!”
His customers always wore smiles, and Bruno never lost his energy.
“No books?” The old man said to Porter in his usual voice full of sand and vigor. “What are you in for?”
Though others might argue that a cafe is not conducive to study, Porter found it a pleasant place to do all sorts of research. He often brought in a text, called for the regular, and sat for a couple of hours with his head bent over the pages. He would contort his face and rub his forehead, but Bruno had long ago stopped offering him aspirin.
“Meeting with Dr. Kinnard today,” Porter explained.
Bruno’s body jerked as if in surprise. “About time you got him back here! You’d think he didn’t like my cooking.”
Bruno never forgot a name or a face, so everyone loved the cafe-or all the regulars did anyway. Each had been impressed by the place’s friendly atmosphere. If anyone walked in a second time, Bruno would shout out their name and offer them something special. It was like each of Bruno’s customers belonged to a family they’d forgotten about.
The cafe was warm and usually smelled of fried foods and baked pies. Bruno loved pies. People of all sorts came into the cafe, but mostly those affiliated with the university up the street. Custodians, professors, other faculty, and students came in at odd hours-one often trying to catch another, while avoiding someone else at the same time. Bruno liked the adventure in his shack. He’d seen 241 break-ups, over 300 arguments between students and professors who’d given the former an undesired grade, and the beginnings of over 500 romantic relationships. He’d listened to cops and their cases, without their knowledge, of course. He was familiar with many of Stratford’s problems long before the students found out-like the time when graduation seating was reduced due to construction at the university and poor planning on the part of certain people who should’ve been fired. Bruno knew all the gossip, long before anyone else, and had become the silent key to the success of university journalists.
Porter was eating when Kinnard entered the cafe, but his stomach churned with uneasiness.
“Good morning,” Porter smiled as Kinnard sat down. “Try the fries, they’re wonderful.”
Kinnard slid into the booth by the window, setting his attache case protectively between himself and the wall. He didn’t look at the food on the table. His eyes moved around the cafe, stopping on Bruno, who quickly looked away to clear a few more tables.
Porter didn’t notice, or rather he did, but chose to plunge another French fry into the sea of ranch dressing and not think about Kinnard’s curious nervousness.
Kinnard barely fit on the seat, or though it seemed. He leaned forward, slouched, and rested his muscular chest against the edge of the table. “I might have something for you, Porter…if you’re interested.”
Porter stopped chewing. He met the gaze of his supervising professor and felt his prayers answered. Realizing that he’d frozen in an awkward position, Porter swallowed quickly and nodded while doing so. His eyes opened, wide and curious.
Kinnard looked down at the table and touched his fingertips together. “What I have is very…unorthodox…but it might be something up your alley. Now, the only reason I’m bringing you this idea is that I trust you as a student. You’re intelligent, and everyone knows it. I’ve read your work, and you go out on a limb all the time. You’re published, and you’re brave. You know my colleagues might consider you a little eccentric in some of your ideas.”
Porter smiled and nodded. He liked the idea of a being a peculiar person. Scholars-including Dr. Kinnard-could disagree with him, but they had to acknowledge that his arguments were good and worth investigating. A lot of people read his material, even when they suspected it would make them angry. They also knew John D. Porter published well-thought out material which others would jabber about, so it had to be read. No one else jeopardized their future career as frequently as Porter. But at the same time, those who read his stuff knew he had all the facts, and those facts would be presented in a manner which couldn’t be shrugged off with the same ease that Porter brought them forth.
“But you’re good at what you do.”
“I enjoy my studies,” Porter said with a smile. He wasn’t being cocky, especially because his position currently looked very unstable. He didn’t want to blow any opportunities Kinnard might present, and the humility showed in Porter’s face.
The smell of cinnamon simmered on the air.
“Do you know Dr. Ulman?” Kinnard said.
“Should I?”
“He’s a good friend of mine.” Kinnard looked at the table. “Always has been. Ulman has found something you might want to use to finish your work at Stratford. It provides a fixed argument, so you won’t have to spend time deciding your point.”
“I’ll use anything I can get my hands on,” Porter said with raised eyebrows.
“What do you know about Mesoamerica?”
“I haven’t studied anything in school,” Porter said, wondering what American history had to do with his dissertation. “But I’ve done a little research on my own…for interest’s sake.”
“I thought you might have,” Kinnard said. Porter was an excellent student. More than that, he excelled in his studies. Yes, he was eccentric, but some of the best professors were those absolutely obsessed with their work. So when Porter said he’d “done a little research,” Kinnard had no doubt that Porter’s grasp on the subject was stronger than his.
“This have something to do with my dissertation?” Porter said, scratching the back of his neck.
“You’re in a real fix,” Kinnard said, his face hardening. “You realize that?”
“Yes I do.”
“My colleagues know what caliber of student you are. It would look real bad on my record as your supervising professor, if you of all people failed to complete the requirements of Stratford University in the last seconds of a long, drawn-out game.”
“Wouldn’t want to blemish your reputation, sir,” Porter said. “I’ll do my best to rectify my situation.”
“That would be wise.” Kinnard said. Porter realized his supervising professor looked as bad today as he had the last time they’d met. Maybe even worse. His hair was askew, his eyes puffy, not to mention his peculiar paranoia.
“So what did you bring?” Porter said. He noticed Kinnard had a difficult time looking him in the eye. Kinnard’s hands fidgeted, and Porter wondered if the professor was taking this a little too personally. After all, it was Porter’s
