by Jack Donahue

Did you ever want to go to some familiar place just to be alone and do something in private that gives you a modest amount of pleasure? Then someone comes along and takes that opportunity away from you. Forever.

Let me give you a little background first. Remember those Horn and Hardart cafeterias? You’d stick a coin in a slot and pull open the white, porcelain-handled glass-and-chrome door and yank out a great chicken pot pie. Then, you’d slide your tray along the chrome pipe rack and insert a coin into another slot for the world’s best baked beans, followed by the pleasure of pouring your coffee out of the dolphin-head self-service spout.

When I was real small I thought these slots just refilled themselves automatically and that’s why the restaurant was called an automat. When I got older, of course, I’d catch a glimpse of the workers behind the scenes, the anonymous men and women wearing white uniforms and white caps. I’d see them scurrying around, keeping those slots filled. I worked around the corner from one of the very last of these self-serve public restaurants. They still had my favorite vanilla cake with chocolate icing. I remember tapping the glass once or twice so a worker could fetch another piece for me, before my lunch hour was up.

Lunchtime was the best part of my day, not because I was a big eater or liked the novelty of throwing coins into slots for food, but I had a job that I absolutely hated. It was most difficult for me to get to sleep on Sunday nights because I dreaded beginning the process of drudgery all over again on Monday morning. I spent eight hours a day filling out registration forms for students at a drafting school. I hated that place. Why did I ever agree to work there? Come to think of it, why did I ever agree to invite my boss to our wedding? I should have known then what a consummate cheapskate he was when he gave us a check for $15. And I was supposed to send him a thank you card. What were my wife and I supposed to do with $7.50 each? Needless to say, when I asked him for a raise he looked me straight in the face and personally delivered the profound humiliation from which there was no retreat, "There is only so much we can pay a clerk." That did it. I quit. But long before I quit, I met Morris one day at the automat.

If I hadn’t worked at this eight-hour a day torture machine, I never would have met the old man. Because I hated this stupid job so much, that one hour in the crowded automat gave me the anonymity I needed. I had to go to lunch by myself, to get away from the mindless, monotonous work and the cheapskate boss. I needed that hour to be alone, to take my Walter Mitty flights of fancy and eat a good meal that was kind of fun to assemble. I went there every day. It was the only place in the vicinity I could afford on my meagre, never-to-be-raised salary. Those were good cooks hiding behind the little glass doors.

One day, I gathered in my beverage, my meal and my dessert and headed for a remote corner table where no one would bother me. I always needed this one hour of peace. To be alone. To be apart from the definition of a lowly clerk, who would always be paid only so much.

Like everything else in life, the interruption of this peace came out of nowhere, without warning, without the opportunity to undo it before it impositioned itself upon me. I was blindsided while sitting down, minding my own business, my head filled with grandiose, impossible schemes when it happened. It was just a gentle tap on the forearm, the one attached to the hand holding the piece of vanilla cake with chocolate icing about to be delivered into my mouth.

"What’s your name?" this sweet old man’s voice inquired.

"Jack," I answered, not gruffly, but with a certain finality. (It was kind of like ‘Okay I answered your question, will you leave me alone now.’)

"What’s yours?"

"Morris," he said.

I looked up from my half finished cake and stared at this intruder but we didn’t make eye contact. "Great," I thought to myself, "he’s blind so I’ll just slip out of here and he won’t know any better. I’ll just walk around the block a few times and kill the rest of the lunch hour." It was snowing outside, so I stayed put.

Morris was heavy set, about 75 I guess, wearing a heavy black overcoat, black fedora and gray scarf. His stubby fingers reached inside his coat and he pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. "Could you do me a favor and read this?" he asked kindly. Everything about him was sweet, kind and gentle. Despite that, my motor was all charged up, ready to dismiss him with the big lie that I had to get back to work right at that exact moment. "What did I hate worse," I considered, "having my much needed peace interrupted or being forced to return to work even a minute earlier than necessary?"

"Sure, I’ll read the letter." I said.

Morris leaned closer to me as I removed the letter from the envelope. The rest of the world inside the automat receded into the background like a dim and distant memory. Only Morris and I sat face to face as I read his daughter’s letter to him. It was kind of newsy, not that noteworthy, but a I recall a few of the sentiments so I’ll paraphrase them here:

"Dearest Dad," Peggy wrote, "Tommy and I can’t thank you enough for paying for our classes. We’re more convinced than ever that we want to be actors. The school and the instructors are great. I think of you every day. Boys aren't much for letter writing but Tommy says tell Dad I love him very much. Somehow I thought I should’ve stayed home to look after you after Mom died. Are you sure you’ll be okay? On Wednesday night, we have a free evening so we’ll give you a call. You told us we could call collect. I hope that’s still all right with you. I’ll always love you, Dad. You’re the sweetest, most thoughtful man alive."

There. I did it. I read the letter out loud to this sweet old man. He thanked me. I returned my tray to the rack and headed back to the drafting school.

Several weeks later I saw old Morris again but I picked a different seat a few tables away from him. Every now and then, I’d glance his way. Sure enough, he nailed another sucker to read his mail. It must have been a daily routine of his. I bumped into this guy on the way out and said, "Looks like Old Morris picked your lucky number today."

"Oh, I don’t mind," this guy told me, "he’s just a lonely old man."

"Letter from his kids?" I asked.

"Same letter from his kids," the man said, matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean, same letter?"

"Morris only asks people to read that same letter, every day."

"Doesn’t he get any other mail?"

"I’m sure he does. But those are the only words he wants to hear. This is about the tenth time I’ve read it. There’s a bunch of us here who take turns reading it to him. It’s kind of sad. It’s the last letter he got from his daughter. She and her brother were killed in a car accident on the way home from a summer camp many years ago. Sad. Real sad." he said as he stepped around me.

Then this man, this regular volunteer letter reader for Morris, took his turn in the revolving door but swung back inside to face me. "You know, I always want to be alone when I come in here. But when you think about it, Morris, well, he can’t do much about it. He really is alone."