He moved from Oklahoma to California, a refugee of the dust bowl, and got a job in a diner as a dishwasher then worked his way up to fry cook. He saved enough wages and tips to eventually buy the place but never gave up his place as fry cook. And he was a one heck of a fry cook. He always wore a crisp, clean white uniform complete with a black bow tie and white cook’s hat. Customers loved to watch him work behind the counter. He was a real piece of work back there. They say that when either of his hands left his side it took something with it and brought something else back. He worked day and night and loved it. He also loved everyone who came into the diner to eat—especially if they told him how great the food was. When anyone would walk into the diner and sit down he would swing around from the grill, spatula in hand, and ask the newcomer a series of questions. He looked people right in the eye when they talked and seemed to be recording their answers in his mind. Eventually he knew just about everything about everybody who frequented the diner. Folks seemed to get used to his string of questions and sure enough liked his cooking. While he was cooking he would listen in and laugh at every joke and comment on much of the gossip and opinions expressed as people ate, drank and smoked.

He talked to me about many things including religion and dying. One time he surprised me by saying that when he got to heaven he wanted the job of polishing the gates. Nothing glamorous like singing in the choir, giving flying lessons, or even helping fit the halos. Just polishing the gates. I didn’t laugh, but told him they didn’t actually do any work in heaven. That probably set him to wondering what kind of jobs they had in hell. See, worked defined him and he didn’t perceive work as work. To him, if a fellow did a job well, that was his reward.

He’s dead now and whenever I think of him I imagine people walking through the golden gates only to have this guy holler “Hey!” at them, run up and start up a conversation like “Hi, I’m John. I used to be a fry cook but now I’m a gate polisher. How’d you die? Where’d you come from? What do you think about the shine on those gates? Almost puts your eyes out, doesn’t it?” Then he’d leave the new arrivals and return to his perpetual job of polishing those gates.

I think when the scythe carrying guy dressed in black comes calling to escort me to my eternal home I’ll see that old fry cook again. I guess he’ll leave the gates long enough to run up to me and say something like, “Hey Jim! It’s about time you got here! I thought maybe you were headed for that other place.” And he'll bend over and laugh at his own joke until tears come to his eyes.

When he finally stops laughing I’ll say, “Hi Dad. It’s good to see you. Man, those gates look great.”

Copyright © 2006 Jim Dupy