Gray Matter

“What’s the big deal?” he asked good-naturedly. “Cup of mix, some milk, and a pan. It’s not like he asked for a turkey dinner from scratch.”

“Freddie, do I tell you how to put out fires? Huh? Right! So don’t tell me how to run my diner.”

“Take you two minutes, Angie. Give the kid a break,” Freddie said in a low voice.

Then he added, “Looks like he just woke up anyway.”

Angie glowered at Freddie, then appeared to soften. She turned to the kid. “It’s gonna have to be plain,” she hollered. “No blues or strawberries. They’re back in the freezer.”

“That’s f-fine,” the kid said in a thin voice, and returned to the cartoons.

Martin watched the kid. The book was a large hardbound tome of Walt Disney animations, and he was flipping through the pages rapidly as if trying to find something.

A few minutes later, Angie delivered the pancakes and a small rack of syrups. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin noticed the kid remove the tops of the syrups and sniff each one. He was not casually taking in the aromas but deeply inhaling and processing the scents like a professional perfume tester. Dissatisfied, he then poured a little of each into his coffee spoon and continued smelling then testing each with his tongue. It was bizarre.

This went on until Angie took notice and marched up to the kid’s booth, her large red face preceding her like a fire truck. “You got a problem here?”

The kid looked up, startled. “Oh, no. N-no problem.”

“So what are you doing with the syrups?”

“Well, I’m just trying to find the … I’m just w-w-wondering if … Do you have any others … other syrups?”

“You got five different syrups right there. What else do you want, tartar sauce?”

“Do you have any ma-ma-ma-maple syrup?”

She pulled one out of the rack and turned the top toward him. “Whaddya think this is?”

“Well, I meant, you know … real maple syrup?” He sniffed the small carafe. “This is actually corn syrup with water and artificial f-f-flavors. Also, c-caramel coloring. I mean real m- maple syrup, one h-hundred percent, no additives.”

Angie took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, working to steady herself, aware that the whole place was watching and wondering if she were going to blow. “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said in a mock-apologetic whine. “We don’t have real m-m-maple syrup, so I’m afraid you’re gonna have to settle for the cheap imitation shit.” She spun around and huffed away.

The kid looked around to notice everybody staring at him. He put his hand to his brow and began nibbling on his pancakes, pretending to lose himself in the cartoons. He only ate a mouthful, occasionally sniffing the different syrups when Angie wasn’t looking.

He was clearly disturbed, Martin told himself, and operating on another level of reality. Every so often he would snap his head around as if picking up a stray scent like an animal. When he got up to go to the toilet, Martin could see that he was a tall overweight kid with a boyish face and a confused lumbering manner. He loped his way as Angie stood behind the counter wiping coffee mugs and watching him with that flat red face. On his return, he rounded the far end of the counter when something stopped him in his tracks: Blondie’s half-eaten cake in the next booth. In disbelief, Martin watched the kid slip onto the seat and lower his face to the dish, sniffing like a dog screening leftovers on the dinner table.

“Shit!” Angie muttered as she rolled past Martin toward the kid. “You gonna eat my garbage now, huh?”

The kid straightened up, and the whole place held its breath. “What kind of cake is this?” His face was intense, his pupils dilated. The earlier deferential manner had hardened into some weird purpose.

She pulled the dish away and walked around the counter and dumped it into a bin without a word.

“I said, what kind of cake is that?” The kid rose from the booth. His eyes were fixed on the woman.

The fireman at the counter sat straight up. Everybody in the place was now looking at the big bear-bodied boy pressing Angie for an answer. She seemed taken aback by his intensity. “Butter almond cake.”

“Butter almond cake,” he said as if taking an oath. “Like real almonds?”

“Yeah, real almonds and real almond extract,” she said sarcastically.

“Do you have any more?”

Angie looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, one piece.”

The kid’s eye clapped on the display case where the cakes sat. “I’ll have it.”

“What about your pancakes over there?”

“I’m finished. I want some butter almond.”

“You want it with a fork, or you gonna inhale it?”

“A fork,” he said. “And a knife.”

The kid returned to his booth, not taking his eyes off Angie as she got the cake, walked to his booth, and clanked the dish down in front of him with a fork and knife. Then she left, moving her mouth in wordless anger.

Like rays in a magnifying class, all lines of awareness had focused on the kid, who appeared to be in a trance, looking at the cake as if it were a strange and wondrous specimen.

Carefully he scraped off the white icing, then with the knife slit the cake down the middle and butterflied it open as if he were performing surgery. With a little gulping “ahhh” he lowered his face to the splayed-open piece until his nose appeared to disappear into it. From where he was sitting, Martin could hear the kid inhaling deeply and letting out little moans and gasps, then inhaling deeply again and again. Then, incredibly, he closed his eyes tightly and testing the cake with the tip of his tongue he whispered: “Almond, almond, almond …” Then with little gasps: “Almost … almost …”

That was all Angie needed. “Aw, shit!” she cried and stomped the length of the counter and shot around to the kid’s table. “You’re outta here!” She grabbed the kid by the collar and yanked his head up.

His eyes were wild. “Almond,” he said as if coming out of a dream. A piece of cake was stuck to his nose. “Almond!” he repeated, his eyes beaming as if he had just had a beatific vision.

“Get the hell out of here!” She yanked him to his feet.

Freddie got off his stool. “Okay, cool it,” he said.

But the kid didn’t struggle as Angie pulled him bodily out of the booth.

“Cool nothing,” Angie said. “He’s a friggin’ sicko!”

The boy struggled against Angie’s arms to get his hand into his pants pocket, but she pushed him toward the door, probably fearing he had a knife or a gun.

Freddie tried to separate them. “What do you have in there, son?”

“I want to pay,” the kid said, suddenly snapped into the realization that she was throwing him out.

“I don’t want your friggin’ money, and I don’t want you in my place again. Got that?” Her face huge and red, Angie pushed open the door with her foot, still holding on to his shirt. “I know who you are, kid. I know about you. And I’m telling you, I don’t want to see you in my place again, or I’ll call the cops. Now beat it!” And she shoved him through the inner door.

But the wet from the outside made a slick floor, and the kid tripped over a newspaper dispenser and came down headfirst against the glass of the outer door.

“Shit! Now the bastard broke my door.”

The kid’s head had hit the glass squarely, instantly splintering the panel in a starburst. He fell on his knees, holding his head as blood seeped through his fingers.

“Nice going,” Freddie said to Angie and went to the kid’s aid.

“He tripped,” she protested. “I didn’t push him.”

Martin pulled a wad of napkins out of the dispenser and pushed his way to Freddie who was kneeling beside the kid with his arm on his shoulders. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car,” Martin said.

“I’m all right,” the kid said. He looked at his hand and groaned at the blood.

Freddie dabbed the kid’s head. “I’ll take him to the ER.”

“I d-don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Just to make sure you don’t have a concussion. You also got some splinters that’ll have to come out,” Freddie said, inspecting the bloody scalp.

The boy got to his feet, holding the napkins on his head. He looked around but he didn’t seem dizzy or