Back in the days when Hollywood and magic were synonymous, giants of the golden screen like Marilyn Monroe, Robert Taylor, Eva Gabor, and Clark Gable among others whose autographed pictures lined the walls of the famous coffee shop, frequented the place.

It happened many years later, in the spring of nineteen-seventy-five, and way past the days of such glory, that one Saturday morning at about twenty minutes before the doors opened to the public, Elaine and Dotty, two of the Derby’s veteran waitresses were getting things ready for the breakfast crowd.

Elaine stood on the seat of one of the red leather booths. “Hand me the feather duster, will you Dotty?”

“I’m nowhere near the feather duster!” Dotty yelled from the front door. She sprayed and wiped the glass surface. “Can’t believe the fingerprints on this glass – from one day to the next.” Dotty’s plump body quivered as she frantically wiped off the greasy smudges.

Elaine, still standing on the red leather booth, observed: “Your ass shakes like Jell-O. Don’t you wear a girdle?”


“A girdle?” Dotty laughed. “What century did you get stuck in, girl?” 


“There’s no time limit for common sense. You shake like Jell-O.”


“Girdles make my ass itch.”


Elaine pointed to the picture of Marilyn Monroe hanging on the wall. “There’s dust on Marilyn. She sure was a pretty thing, wasn’t she?” 
“Yep, she was.”
Elaine stepped down from the red leather booth, pulling down on her brown uniform as
she walked toward the counter. She had changed her mind about dusting in favor of a coffee and cigarette. She filled her mug, sat on one of the barstools, and swiveled around to face the wall. She glanced at her bright red fingernails as she took a Winston from the pack inside her white apron pocket and fixed her gaze on Marilyn’s picture. Mesmerized, she absentmindedly tapped the end of her cigarette on one side of the pack longer than usual.
“She sure was pretty,” she repeated to herself as she lit her cigarette. The hem of her uniform pulled up when she crossed her legs. “Things change,” she said, shifting her gaze from Marilyn to her flabby knees.
“Yep, back then we didn’t need signs like this one: ‘No shoes, no shirt, no service’,” Dotty said, as she stepped into the coffee shop. “Back then, everyone always dressed up nicely. This place had glamour, remember?”
“Yep, things changed. We changed. You think they might change the length of the lousy uniforms – like we never aged, right?” 
“I don’t worry about that crap. Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s the way I look at it.” Dotty placed the spray bottle and cleaning rag under the counter, filled a mug with fresh coffee, and cigarette in hand she sat on the stool next to Elaine.
“Don’t you worry about getting old?” Elaine’s red lips quivered – her eyes fixed on Marilyn’s picture.
Dotty’s brown eyes glimmered underneath her salt and pepper bangs. “Nope! I’ve had this job for twenty years, I’m good at what I do, been married for twenty-five, I’m happy. What’s there to worry about?”
“Doesn’t Bernie mind your extra weight?”
“No. He likes Jell-O.”
Elaine twirled her fingers through her blond curls. She raised her head, and set her clear blue gaze on Dotty: “I somehow wanted more.” Her smile was almost perfect. “I once met Marilyn, you know?”
“I know; you’ve told me.”
“Sorry. I repeat myself, sometimes. We had stars back then. They gave us dreams…”
“We have stars now,” Dotty sipped her coffee.
"No. Now… now we have… ‘actors’.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” 
“The actors in those days were magical. Bigger than life, you know? Not like Ace, our honorable head waiter. He’s an actor.”
 Dotty laughed: “Someone asked him if he’d been on TV and you know what he said?”
“Something gross, I imagine.”
“He threw his nose up in the air and said: ‘You’ll never catch me selling toothpaste on screen.’"
Elaine giggled: “Did you notice he’s been wearing nothing but black since he started rehearsing Hamlet? I figured if he doesn’t make it in show biz, he can always go into the funeral business.”
“You’re nasty, Elaine.”
“Like the movies. Back in the old days we had movies; we could get lost inside them. You could understand lines like when Clark Gable says: ‘Frankly my dear,’” she mimicked, “’I don’t give a damn’. I remember the audience sighing when he said that. First cuss word ever on screen. Remember that?”
“Yep, I remember.”
“We were young then, but we still remember. That was a line we could understand.”
“Oh yeah? what did ‘fiddle-le-de’ mean?”
“It meant she was a spoiled brat. Everyone knew that. But what’s this we have now? Like that play Ace was in last summer. That… that thing… Waiting for Godot. Now what was that? Two guys talking for forty-five minutes like someone forgot to make an entrance or something…”
“Maybe someone had – Godot?”
“Maybe.”  Elaine patted her hair, making sure all her blond curls were in place. Yep; they were.
“Ace ever catches you talking like that, you’ll catch hell! Is Helga here, yet? I’m not setting up her station any more. I’m sick of these waiters-would-be-actors who can’t sow up for work on time.” 
Thank God for small miracles.  Ace had just strolled through the front door, as if he’d never heard the expression ‘preset your station’. 
“Good morning, ladies.” 
“Good morning, Ace.” Elaine watched him walk past them on his way to the back of the restaurant. She let him just press his hand on the swinging door, and then called: “Ace…”
Ace took a deep breath and turned to face Elaine. “Juliet forgot fifty percent of her lines on our dress rehearsal last night. I’ve got a headache – whatever it is, it better be good.” 
“Well, I was tiding things up today, just to be nice to you on account that you were running late, and took inventory of your silverware. You keep 25 of each, don’t you?”
Ace’s nostrils flared: “What’s missing?”
“Oh… I’d say about seven forks and ten knives… and… all the coffee spoons.”
Ace slapped the swinging door open and disappeared into the backroom uttering something loud and incomprehensible.
Dotty shook her head. “He’s gonna get you back, one of these days, Elaine, he’s gonna get you back.”
“He’s an idiot. He could say that line… you know… in bright Technicolor, he could say: ‘Frankly my dear…’ and twenty years from now people would only remember Clark Gable saying it. He’s an idiot actor. He ain’t not star, I can tell you that.”
“So, where is Helga? You didn’t say.”
“She’s in the back; crying. Got turned down for a part at Universal.” Elaine rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
“Why does she do that to herself? The poor soul can’t act.” Dotty blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you remember that show we went to see down at the Evergreen Theater? She played a silly little rich girl… gosh she was so bad I didn’t know what to say to her afterward. And she kept asking all week long, ‘did you like it? did you like it, huh…’?’’ Dotty sipped on her coffee.
“Yeah… I remember. This thing at Universal… well, she was competing against Susan Fox, no less.” 
Coffee spewed from Dotty’s lips hitting Elaine right on the forehead.
“Now look what you’ve done, idiot!”
”I’m sorry Elaine… you mean voluptuous Susan Fox? Oh… please don’t make me laugh. Crap! This is too funny… sorry I sprayed coffee on you… now you look like you’ve got freckles… freckles are in nowadays.”
“Yeah. Right. I spent an hour slapping on this make up, I’ll have you know.”
Dotty handed her a paper napkin from the dispenser. “You’re a pretty woman, Elaine, why do you need all that on your face?”
Elaine’s red lips quivered. “I wouldn’t be caught dead without make-up.” She blotted the brown moisture off her face.
“How old are you? You couldn’t be more than forty-five.”
“I wish. I’m fifty.” Elaine puffed on her cigarette. “This whole damned town is beautiful, you know?”
“Well honey, no, you’re not Marilyn, so quit comparing yourself to her…”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do.” A short silence followed, then Dotty continued: “You’re you, a waitress, and a damn good one. You’re pretty. Find yourself a good man. Be happy. At the end, none of this matters one bit, you know? This place could disappear tomorrow.” 
“What? The Derby? Right. Where would they send the tour buses, then?
“To the zoo to feed the monkeys for all I care. I mean it honey. Anything can happen. We could be out of a job today. All kinds of hell could break loose. What if Hollywood ceased to exist? Here you’ll be: comparing yourself to a dead actress no one will even know then.”
“You keep talking like that, you’ll make me cry.” Elaine put the paper napkin inside her apron pocket unaware that she’d left some of the coffee smeared on her face.
“Just be yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetie.” 
A crowd had gathered at the front door waiting for the place to open. And who should be first in line?
“Oh, oh… there’s John Trusdale. Star for all times – impeccably dressed as usual. Get his orange juice on ‘his’ side of the counter,” Dotty told Elaine. “I’ll get Helga. She’s got the counter today – bless her little actress ass.” 
Dotty disappeared through the swinging door. And there was Helga. Tall, skinny, red puffy eyes, roll of toilet paper in hand, blowing her nose out of existence.
“Helg,” she said, “we need you honey.”
“I can’t….” Helga screeched.
“You must, darling, please...”
“I can’t… just can’t…” Helga’s golden pony-tail shook from side to side.
“John Trusdale is here… he sits at the counter you know… he likes you, and… you’ve got the counter today. Please don’t let us down.”
Helga took a long piece of toilet paper and blew her nose very loudly.
“There’ll be other parts, Helg. Susan Fox can’t act any way; they just like her breasts...”
“Yep,” Ace interrupted on his way out. “Those sag after a while, no one will give her the time of day and then they’ll have to notice your talent…”  His eyes fixed on Helga’s chest. “If you’ve got one.” 
“Oh… no…” Helga began crying loudly.
Dotty knew she’d stuck her foot in her mouth, but she had to get Helga out to the floor.
“Oh… there, there, Helga; there’s nothing wrong with your breasts, honey.” 
Helga crossed her arms over her frontal elevation the size of two Spanish olives.
“Oh, don’t listen to him. He’s got a feather up his ass, or something.”
“But he’s right,” Helga cried, bracing herself. “Except that by the time her breasts start sagging, I’ll be too old – I’m already twenty-three!” 
“Well,” Dotty was suddenly serious. After all, there’s only so much one can say, or do, to try and help a person. This is not my problem.  Helga would just have to get over it in a hurry. “Let me put it this way: John Trusdale is here. He sits at the counter. You’ve got the counter today – he gives us hell on account of you, you better run for your life, missy!” Having said that, she pushed the swinging door and walked back into the coffee shop which by now was full to capacity.

 “You’ve got section eighteen through twenty-five. It’s full already.” Elaine was carrying a tray with three Spanish omelets, three bacon and eggs, six orders of toast, and a toasted bagel to booth seventeen.

 “Okay, who had the omelets?”

 “Here!” Three hands went up. 

 She put the omelets down, and before she got to the bacon and eggs, a well meaning individual, not knowing what was required to balance a tray, took his order from it causing the whole tray to drop.

 “Oh… I’m so sorry,” said the man. “Really sorry, Elaine.”

  “No problem,” she smiled. “MARIO! CLEAN UP!” She rushed back to the cooks’ counter. “Oscar, I need three more orders of bacon and eggs.” She took the paper napkin she had placed in her apron pocket and wiped her upper lip.

 “You’ll have to wait your turn – got fifteen orders ahead of you.”

 “Please Oscar; a customer just dumped my tray… please…” She tapped her foot.

 Oscar narrowed his Armenian eyes. His olive moon face glimmered with sweat. He puckered his small fleshy lips. “I’ll squeeze you in,” he growled.

 “Thank you, Oscar.”

 John Trusdale’s diamond sparkled under the light as he caressed Helga’s hand. “Don’t worry honey, those breasts will sag in no time at all… silicone, you know. Meanwhile, can you get me a western omelet with the works, a double side of bacon, and wheat toast with margarine on the side, and make sure it’s margarine, not butter. I’m watching my cholesterol.”
“That was… ah… a western o-m-e-l…” Helga sulked.
“Omelet,” John finished her sentence.
“…and double order of…”
“…bacon…”
“…a side of wheat toast…”
“… with margarine, not butter.”
“Your counter is full to the end, Helga dear.” Elaine brushed past her.
“Oh, Elaine, have a heart. The girl’s having a tough time.” John pinched Helga’s arm: “Now you rush that order sweetheart, I’m hungry.”
Dotty approached the cooks’ counter to place her order. “Three scrambled with Canadian bacon! – Elaine! Kay Ballard just walked in.”
“So she did. She always sits in Ace’s station. She likes him.”
“I wonder why?”
“Who knows, maybe she likes sour faces; who cares?”
“Look at him. Why does he always pucker his lips when he smiles?”
“That’s his intellectual constipated look. He thinks that’s how fine people smile.”
“Okay Elaine,” Oscar slapped the order on the counter. “Here you go… try not to drop them this time, eh?” 
“I didn’t drop them.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Oscar gulped from his Coke bottle as he pulled the next order off the spindle.
Elaine ran her hand up the back of her head checking her curls, dabbed her upper lip, stuck the moist napkin back in her apron pocked, picked up the tray, and headed back to booth seventeen where three people were about to dislocate their necks looking for their eggs to arrive.
“Here we are: three bacon and eggs right off the grill.”
“Get us some more coffee will you, honey?” One of the men patted her hip.
“Coming right up.”
Elaine made her way back to get a pot of coffee trying her best to dodge the gaze of starving patrons. Not my section! They’ll have to wait.
Someone sitting at the end of the counter grabbed her arm. “Sweetheart, can you get me a chocolate sundae? I’ve been waiting forever.”
“Yes, I’ll take coffee to booth seventeen, first. Then I’ll fix your sundae.”
Helga was still trying to decipher John Trusdale’s order. 
“Helga, your counter is still full. And I’m not making no damn chocolate sundae.” She spewed the words between her teeth.
 “I’ll get it.” Dotty jumped in.
“Oh, Dotty! Let her carry her own weight.”
“I’m waiting for my order… no sweat.”
A bald-headed man of certain elegance, wearing tight white pants and a navy blue silk shirt had sat at the counter somewhere between John Trusdale, and the chocolate sundae guy. He stopped Elaine as she headed back to booth seventeen carrying a fresh pot of coffee. “Who loves you baby? I just need a menu.” He smiled broadly.
“As soon as I get back from serving this coffee,” Elaine said, firing a stare in Helga’s direction. “Can you manage to give this poor man a menu?” 
“Where’s my chocolate sundae?” The man at the end of the counter stopped her again.
“All I need’s a menu, baby,” the bald man smiled at Helga, who was still writing John Trusdale’s order.
“I told you I’ll get your sundae. I need to take this coffee to booth seventeen first.”
“So what’s so special about booth seventeen? I’ve been waiting for ever.” 
“Here’s your sundae, sir.” Dotty rushed in.
Elaine headed for booth seventeen. When she got there, fresh pot of coffee in hand, one of the bacon and eggs people, who so far had been a very pleasant man, said:
“Listen sweetheart, I wanted my eggs over easy. They wanted scrambled. Is that too hard for you to keep straight?”
“No, sir, no… I’ll get you another order of eggs.”
“Please try to remember: over easy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait, what’s that brown stuff on your face?” The man noticed.
 “Oh… ah… this?”  Elaine touched her forehead suddenly remembering in the rush, she hadn’t finished wiping the coffee off her face. “Ah… this is… ah… well… she… ah… was laughing… and… it’s… spit, sir.”
The six people sitting at booth seventeen looked at each other, and quickly arrived at a common decision:
“Just bring us the bill.”
Elaine, with a ‘let me kill that cook,’ attitude, took a brisk walk back to the order counter and hands on her hips, confronted Oscar: “Now you knew that order was for two scrambled and one over easy, didn’t you?” 
“I did you a favor squeezing you in, like that. Some appreciation you show, eh?”
“You know what this means, don’t you? It means,” she clenched her teeth, “no tip.”
“Hey, hey!” Dotty interrupted. “We’ve got a restaurant full of people. Can we please get back to work? We’ll settle our differences later. And by the way, Helga,” she yelled from the kitchen counter: “The tip for that chocolate sundae is mine! Don’t you dare take it.”
Ace approached the counter at that moment. His lips were pursed tighter than a drum. “Kay Ballard would like a bowl of cereal and half a grapefruit.” 
“Gee,” Elaine mocked. “That’ll bring at least a twenty-five cent tip.”
Ace forced a loud theatrical laugh. “It’ll be twenty-five cents more than you’ll get after dropping that tray.”
“I didn’t drop that tray. My customer dropped it.”
“Oh, that’s a big no-no, letting your customers grab… your tray… and by the way; about that silverware…”
“You found it?” Elaine failed miserably at feigning innocence.
“We’ll settle our differences later.”
“That’s just what I said, a minute ago. Let’s settle our differences later.” Dotty grabbed Elaine by one arm, and dragged her away from the line of fire. “ So, where did you hide his damn silverware?”
“I? Hide it? The silverware just happened to fall inside his wash tray as I was dusting the place – just doing the guy a favor.”
“I told you he’d get you. Didn’t I?”
“Oh, shut up Dotty – like I worry about him.”
John Trusdale interrupted them: “Can one of you please, help Helga with my order? I’ve got to see my agent in an hour – bad enough on a Saturday – just can’t do it on an empty stomach.”
 Dotty was about to say yes, when her gaze traveled over John’s head, beyond the counter and the line of red leather booths, and outside through the window she saw tragedy about to happen.
“Damn. Elaine. Please don’t tell me they scheduled a tour bus to come through on a Saturday morning.”
Elaine swallowed hard, and then whimpered: “They scheduled a tour bus to come through on a Saturday morning.”
“Please God, let it be a mistake.” Shiny tears welled in Dotty’s eyes.
Elaine rested her tightly girdled behind against the dessert counter. “That’s at least forty single orders of bacon and eggs.”
“Look,” said John Trusdale. “I’ll settle for a bowl of cereal.”
The people from booth seventeen, yelled in Elaine’s direction.
"Sweetheart! Bring us our bill now, or we’re leaving.”
“One bill, coming up!”
Meanwhile the place was invaded by the hungry mob. There was no place to sit; not even a lousy milk crate. They all started walking around looking at the place – their eyes filled with wonder.
“I’m starved to death.” One woman with a heavy Midwestern accent said to another.
Who gives a shit! Dotty smiled at them.
“My… my… look at that picture! That’s Marilyn Monroe. What a dish!” One man remarked. “They don’t make legs like that, any more.”
“You best not let your wife catch you staring at them legs,” said another.
“So, this is the Brown Derby.” A tall man wearing a visor cap leaned toward the counter and whispered in Dotty’s direction and over John Trusdale’s head: “Are there any movie stars here, today?”
“No.” Dotty said dryly, and walked back to the cooks’ counter.
John Trusdale swallowed hard.
The man with the blue shirt and the bald head grinned. “Can someone, please, give me a menu?”
“What are we gonna do Oscar?” Dotty asked, though at that point she would have rather died.
Oscar shrugged. “I’m just the cook. Ask Hamlet over there; he’s the head waiter.”
“Oh, great!”
 The bus driver approached the counter. Dotty stared at him from where she stood.
“Can I have another chocolate sundae?”  The man at the end of the counter yelled in Dotty’s direction.
“No, you can’t!” Dotty yelled back.
“Some service! This place’s sure gone to hell in a hand basket.” The sundae man got up from his stool, then turned to Dotty:
"Don’t you look for a tip here.”
There go twenty cents. Crap!
“How about my cereal?” Asked John Trusdale.
“All a want is a menu,” the man with the shiny head spread his arms.
“We’ve only got twenty minutes to eat,” the bus driver interrupted. “Can you fix us up?”
But fate had an ace up its sleeve. And it was one of those moments in life like what Dotty had described to Elaine, earlier: The impossible was about to happen. And all hell broke loose when Oscar poked his big, round Armenian head over the cooks’ counter and yelled:

 “EIGHTY-SIX EGGS!” 
Dotty and Elaine looked at each other. They were catatonic. 
“Now who ordered eighty-six eggs?” Helga asked as she finally placed John Trusdale’s order on Oscar’s spindle.
Oscar looked at her long and hard. “I can’t believe you’re that silly. Eighty-six is a restaurant term. It means: we’re out.”
“You mean… out of eggs?”
“That’s right; out of eggs.” His fleshy lips stretched to a devilish smile.
“Right in the middle of breakfast?” Helga started crying again.
“Yep. In the middle of breakfast.” 
“But… what do I do about John’s…”
“He’ll have cereal.”

 Dotty had bent over the sundae counter and rested her face on her arms. She thought she wanted to cry, but started laughing, instead. She laughed so hard her whole body trembled like Jell-O all over. Tears rolled all the way down her cheeks, neck, and into forbidden spaces. The Brown Derby had ran out of eggs during Saturday’s breakfast rush. This was too tragic to be serious. “I can’t believe it. God, I can’t believe it!” She kept repeating into the hollow of her arms.
Elaine grabbed the edge of her white apron and pulled on it. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Restaurants don’t run out of eggs during breakfast, least of all the Brown Derby.
“So why are you laughing, Dotty?”
Dotty was still bending over the sundae counter. “Because,” she snorted. “Because… I don’t know why, it just hit me funny, that’s all.” 
“That’s it, we’re leaving!” The shout came from one of the people at booth seventeen. “Did you hear us? We are leaving!
“Have a nice day sir, sorry for the inconvenience.” Oscar couldn’t have cared less.
Helga was crying buckets. No. Helga was howling. Loudly.
“Hey… who loves you baby? C’mon, give me a menu.” said the man with the bald head.
“How about just a piece of toast?” Said John Trusdale.

The shift eventually ended – it always did. The bald man got his menu, John Trusdale got his toast – Oscar threw in a side of bacon on the house.
Dotty sat at the waiter’s booth – way in the back by the swinging door.  “Thank goodness the tourists settled for a continental breakfast… on the house! The misers didn’t even leave a lousy tip.” 
Elaine carried two mugs with coffee to the booth and sat next to her. “Ah… tourists: nickel and dimes, that’s all they are.” 
The two women, exhausted, held on to their coffee mugs, puffing on their cigarettes and staring into space. Helga joined them after a while; she was still crying. 
“I’m fixing you guys a special lunch.” Oscar yelled from the kitchen.
“Not hungry.” Helga sniffled.
“Fine by me,” Elaine muttered. “Starve yourself.”
“You two: shift’s over – cut it out.”
“What did I do?” Helga whimpered.
Dotty raised her eyes to the ceiling.
Ace flung through the swinging doors as if nothing had even happened.
“I’ve got a 7:30pm curtain. Sorry I have to skip lunch, but got to get home, shower and get ready.”
So, who cares? 
Dotty caught the look on Elaine’s face, and interrupted before words had a chance to form in her mouth: “Good luck, Ace, or is it break a leg?”
“Break a leg. Never wish an actor good luck.”
Break your head, Elaine grinned.
Ace was half way to the front door, when he turned around: “I almost forgot. Tonight is comp night. Would any of you like to come see the show?”
His invitation was met with silence. He shrugged, and continued toward the front door.
“I’ll go.” Dotty called from the booth.
“Good! I’ll buy you a drink afterwards.”
“Sounds good, Ace… sounds good.”

 Oscar walked around the counter carrying two chicken enchilada orders and placed them before Dotty and Elaine.
“Sure you don’t want any, Helga?” 
She shook her head.
“She’s watching her figure…”
“Cut it out Elaine!” Dotty stopped her. “Like I said: shift’s over. Now shut-up and eat.”
Oscar sat on a barstool by the counter facing their booth: Hmm… guys… ah… girls, ladies, whatever they say nowadays…”
“Girls is fine by me,” Elaine rushed in to say. “Even when Ace is here.” She shoved a big bite of chicken enchilada in her mouth.
“Oh… c’mon, Elaine!”
“Oh… c’mon, Dotty! Have you ever seen him with a girl? He’s as limp wrist as they come.”
“That’s none of your business. Now, what’s wrong with you?”
“Any way… ah… girls…” Oscar puffed on his cigarette. “They cut my budget again… I didn’t expect such a crowd… didn’t even know about the tour bus … well… I cut the egg order in half.” 
Dotty raised her brows. She almost choked on her chicken enchilada. “What do you mean they cut your budget?”
“It’s this new management. Crap! They don’t care about the coffee shop.”
“It’s the coffee shop that made us famous!” Elaine protested.
“Yep.” Oscar took another puff from his cigarette. “Things sure ain’t what they used to be.”
They all knew that. No sense on elaborating further.
Dotty interrupted the brief silence: “Helga, are you sure you wouldn’t want to join me tonight? Ace said he’d buy us drinks afterwards.”
“No. I don’t want to see another stupid play for as long as I live.” She stood up, walked away from the booth and threw her sweater over her shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I quit!”
Elaine and Dotty looked at each other.
“You’ll quit acting?” Dotty dropped her mouth.
“No. I quit this lousy job!” And on that note she walked out.
All three of them dropped their jaw as they followed her theatrical exit. She stood on the sidewalk; decidedly looked to the left, then looked to the right, the left again.
“Maybe she forgot her way home.” Elaine muttered.
 “Not a damn brain in her head, that one has… not a damn brain.” Oscar muttered.
“Well,” Dotty stood up pulling down on her uniform. “I’m going home. Sure you don’t want to come to the show with me, Elaine?”
Elaine just shook her head no. She remained seated. “I’ll just sit here a while.”
Dotty shrugged: “Suit yourself,” and she walked away.
Elaine’s gaze traveled back to Marilyn’s picture: “She sure was a pretty little thing, wasn’t she, Oscar?”
“Yep. But dead, cold, and buried like the rest of them on that wall. This coffee shop is dead and buried. You need to step out of that stupid dream Elaine, whatever it is, or you’re just as dead as they are.” 
Elaine looked down. She glanced at her bright red nails, took a napkin from the dispenser, and wiped the tears welling in her eyes. This had to be the most humiliating moment in the Brown Derby’s history. She had started working there right out of high school – a young girl full of ambition; over thirty years ago. Back when the stars came in by the carloads; during the golden dream days. In all that time, the Derby had not ever run out eggs during breakfast.
Jack the lunch chef, walked past them. “You two make a somber duet – must have been some hell of a breakfast!”
“Oh… shut up!” Oscar stood up, pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared into the backroom.

Elaine remained seated, holding on to her coffee mug. Her star-filled gaze traveled back to the wall. 
She sure was a pretty little thing…  

THE END

Carmen Ruggero ©2005

Famous actors still frequented the Brown Derby, even in 1975 when I worked there. One I mention by name: Kay Ballard. The allegation to her order of cereal and grapefruit, however, is purely fictional. The other character is implied. The bald man who always said: “Who loves you, baby?” was of course Telly Savalas. However, the situation and dialogue depicted in this story never took place, it is also fictional.