Those shows were easy to ignore, yet they were also the ones made by thousands of ordinary people during the course of their daily lives. They modeled their shows after the TV programs of their youth-Cheers, Seinfeld, and Major Dad for the sitcom enthusiasts; ER, Melrose Place , and Law & Order for the would-be dramatists-and tried to live up to Hollywood tradition. Convenience store clerks who fancied themselves as comedians. Night watchmen thinking they were action heros. Bored housewives staging their own soaps. Teenagers solving mysteries in shopping malls. Truck stop waitresses producing sitcoms, starring themselves in the lead role.
Joanne disappeared into the kitchen, pausing for only a moment to carefully hold open the door for the flycam. “There she goes,” Chet murmured. “Probably going to check the system, maybe put in a fresh disk, put a fresh battery in the ’cam. When she gets home, she’ll look at everything she got today, edit it down, maybe add some music and a laugh track. Then she’ll put it on the net. Joanne’s Place, staring Joanne the wisecracking waitress. Just a poor ol’ country girl trying to make it through the day.”
He picked up his coffee cup, saw that it was empty, put it back in its saucer. “Jesus H. Christ. And all I wanted was…”
The door swung open again and a lean young man in a cook’s apron carried out a couple of plates of food. “There’s Ray Junior now,” Garrett said. “Let’s see if we can get him over here.” He raised a hand. “Hey! Ray!”
Ray acknowledged him with a nod of his head before he went to the two drivers who had complained about their breakfast. He delivered the re-orders and spent a minute apologizing for the foul-up, then scurried around the room, pouring coffee for other disgruntled patrons. Bill couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him. Ray Junior had taken over the diner a little over a year ago when his dad retired and moved to Florida; he had done well to keep the family business going, especially on this part of the interstate where nearly every other truckstop cafe was owned by one restaurant chain or another, but he couldn’t afford to lose regular customers.
“Ray, what’s going on with Joanne?” Chet asked when Ray finally got to their table. “I’ve been here nearly a hour now and she hasn’t taken our orders.”
“I’m really sorry about this.” Ray had fetched a cup for Bill and was pouring coffee for everyone. “I’ll get her over here as soon as she comes off break.”
“She’s taking a break.” Chet glanced meaningfully at the others. “At least the second one she’s had since I’ve been here.”
“I’ll get her back here.”
“You ought to fire her. She’s more concerned with that damn toy of hers than with doing her job.”
“Well…” Ray Junior absently wiped a rag across the table. “Y’know, Chet, I really can’t do that. Joanne’s been here for nearly eighteen years. She’s like family. And…”
He hesitated. “And?” Garrett prompted.
Ray shrugged. “Well, y’know, we’ve never been able to afford so much as a billboard. All we’ve ever had was word-of-mouth. Meanwhile we’ve got competition from all the chain operations down the highway. But this show she’s doing… well, she always puts the name of the place in the credits…”
“So it’s free advertising,” Bill finished. “You’re hoping it’ll draw more customers.”
Ray nodded. “The ones that get popular… y’know, get a lot of hits… and, well, y’know, if it gets picked up by one of the major net servers, AOL or someone like that, then it could make us…”
“Famous,” Chet said. “Famous across the whole country. Soon you’ll be taking down the old sign, put up another one.” He raised his hands, spread them open as if picturing a brand-new fiberoptic sign. “I can see it now. ‘World-Famous Joanne’s Place.’ Maybe you can even sell T-shirts and bumper stickers.”
“You know I’d never do that,” Ray Junior said quietly.
Chet scowled. “Naw, I’m sure the notion’s never occurred to you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Bill said quickly. “Thanks for the coffee, Ray. Sorry to keep you.”
“On the house. Same for breakfast,” he added as he moved away from the table. “I’ll get her out here to take your orders.”
“Hear that?” Tom said as Ray Junior beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. “Breakfast on the house! Not bad, huh?”
“No,” Bill said. “Not bad at all.”
THERE was an uncomfortable silence at the table. “So…” Garret said at last. “Anyone seen today’s paper?”
That was how the Old Farts usually spent their Friday meetings: discussing what they had read in the paper. Baseball season was over, so now it was time to talk football. Sometimes the subject was politics, and how those damn liberals were destroying the whole country. Or maybe it would be about what was going on in Russia, or the people who were about to go to Mars, or someone famous died last week, and pretty soon it would be close to eleven and it was time for everyone to go home and do whatever it was that country gentlemen do in their golden years. Check the mailbox, feed the dogs and cats, putter around the yard, make plans to have the kids over for Thanksgiving. Take a midafternoon nap and wait for the world to turn upside-down again, and hope that it didn’t fall on you when it did.
“S’cuse me.” Chet pushed back his chair and stood up. “Need to get something from my car.”
“What did you leave?” Tom asked.
“Just some medicine. Don’t let no one take my seat.” He pulled his denim jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged into it as he walked past the lunch counter and pushed aside the glass door next to the cash register.
Garrett mentioned an awful murder that had occurred a few days ago in the big city a couple of hundred miles away, the one that had made all the newspapers. Pretty soon everyone was talking about it: how it had been committed, who had been arrested, whether they really had done the deed, so forth and so on. Bill glanced over his shoulder; out the window, he saw that the trunk lid of Chet’s Cadillac had been raised. He watched Chet slam it shut; he turned and began walking back to the diner.
“Funny place to keep medicine,” he murmured.
“Huh?” Tom cupped an ear. “What’s that you say?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Chet came back into the diner, took his seat again. The rest of the guys were still discussing the murder, but he didn’t seem to have anything to add; he simply picked up a menu and opened it to the breakfast page. Bill noted that he didn’t take off his jacket.
A couple of minutes later, the kitchen door banged open again, and there was Joanne. The flycam prowled overhead, filming her every move, as she imperiously studied the dining room. Act II, Scene II: Joanne returns from break. Cue incidental music, audience applause.
“Hey, Joanne!” Garrett raised a hand. “Could we have a little service here, please?”
She heaved an expansive sigh (the audience chuckles expectantly), then pulled pen and order pad from her apron. “Can’t a girl get a break ’round here?” she said (the audience laughs a little louder) as she came over, the flycam obediently following her.
For the first time, Bill noticed how much makeup she was wearing: pancake on the cheeks, rouge around the eyes, red lipstick across the mouth. She was trying to erase her last ten years, at least for the benefit of the camera.