Polka Dot Socks
By: Eve Seace
Tags: Short Story, Fiction

Image by Eve Seace

He wandered into the diner on a foggy Friday morning in April and slid into a booth. Stubble covered his aged face, his salt and pepper hair stuck straight up, from dirt or the wind, I couldn’t tell. He wore fuzzy black knee socks covered with polka dots of all colors and tan leather sandals. It was an odd mix, but the socks captured my attention. I moved to his table and smiled.

“Good morning. My name is Amy and I’ll be your waitress. Here is your menu. Would you care for something to drink?”

He looked at me with moody eyes that reflected the world in their obsidian depths. “Coffee. Black.”

“Coffee it is. I’ll be right back.” I hurried to the coffee station.

“Interesting character at your table,” said Karen, my friend, and fellow waitress. “No sharp utensils for that one.”

“Hmm…maybe, but he looks harmless. Besides, we can’t pick our customers.” I grinned and headed toward his table.

I set down the coffee mug. “Are you ready to order?”

“No food. Only coffee.”

His voice creaked like a rusty gate. “Okay. If you change your mind, flag me down.”

He grunted once, his gaze fixed out the window. After half an hour or so, he snagged my arm sleeve as I walked past. “I’m done.” He indicated I should precede him to the cash register.

“I need to print your bill.”

“Only had coffee,” he said, “Let’s not complicate things.” He tossed a twenty dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” He departed on scrawny, varicose-veined legs encased in the fuzzy socks.

“Not much of a talker,” said Karen from behind me.

“Nope, but he is a great tipper.” I waved the crisp twenty in the air. “And Lord knows I need the money.”

. . .

He returned one week later and sat in the same booth. I glanced at his feet and stifled a chuckle. He wore the same fuzzy polka dot socks. Must be his Friday socks, I thought, as I dusted toast crumbs from my hands with my apron and headed his way.

“I’m glad you came back. I wanted to thank you for the nice tip, but you didn’t have to do that.” He stared up at me with his deep, dark eyes. “I’m serious. It was too much.”

He blinked twice and then pointed at the coffee pots behind the counter.

“Coffee? Of course, you want coffee. Black, right?” Darn it, with one look, he reduced me to a stammering idiot. “I’ll be right back.” I turned and sprinted to safety behind the counter.

“I see Mr. Big Tipper has returned.” Karen’s expression turned concerned. “Honey, you okay? Your face is pale. What did he say?”

“Nothing. Not one word. I’m usually hard to fluster, but this guy…” I banked my anxiety and focused on making a fresh pot of coffee. “I’ll be fine.” I shoved past Karen and headed for his table.

“Here you go.” I set down the steaming mug. He waved me away, his gaze returning to the scenery outside. I left him to his quiet contemplation. On my next pass, his booth was empty. He’d left a twenty on the table, so I cleared his bill and pocketed the change, but could not clear the man from my mind. What was his deal, I wondered.

. . .

The following Friday, I glanced up and caught sight of him relaxing in his favorite booth. I peeked at his feet. Yup, still wearing his crazy socks. Without a word, I set a mug of black coffee in front of him. Aromatic tendrils of steam danced upward, and his nose twitched.

He grunted his thanks but patted my hand as I turned to leave. I smiled and left him alone with his thoughts. A while later, he waved me over and asked for a refill. He had never asked for a refill before. I obliged without a word. When he departed, he left forty dollars on the table.

This became his Friday coffee routine. Sometimes one cup, sometimes two or more, and always leaving twenty dollars per cup in payment. I tried twice more to convince him to stop leaving huge tips, but he shut me down with a sharp glance or shake of his head. His attire varied from relatively ordinary to exceedingly eclectic. Without fail, he adorned his feet with the polka dot socks.

. . .

One morning, on a whim, I inquired, “Would you like breakfast to go with the coffee?”

“No.”

“You know, the chef makes a mean omelet.”

“Coffee is fine.” He picked up the cup with long, lean fingers.

I noticed traces of paint beneath his manicured fingernails. The colors matched the dots on his socks. The thought made me smile.

“Something funny?” he asked. His voice took on an edge, and his face hardened beneath the stubble.

“No, I’m curious…are you a painter?” His expression turned confused, but it was a good look on him. It softened his features and brought a glint to his eyes. “Paint. Under your nails.” I pointed at his hands.

He glanced at his fingers as if he’d never seen them before then set down the coffee with a thunk. He stuffed his hands below the table, out of sight.

“No, don’t hide them. I like your hands. Besides, if you are a painter, then they are creative. No shame in being creative.”

He hesitated for a moment before returning his hands to the tabletop. “I paint.”

“That explains the faint turpentine odor. What do you paint?”

“Mountains and oceans, mostly.” He took a sip. “The wild, treacherous elements.”

“Are you famous? What is your name, anyway? If I am to be your steady waitress, I should know what to call you.”

“No, not famous, and my name is Frank Ashford. Sorry, my manners are a bit rusty. Should have introduced myself weeks ago.”

I held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, officially, Frank Ashford.” He returned the handshake. His calloused palms were a testament to his time spent alone on the mountain.

. . .

A few Friday’s later, feeling brave, I pointed to the artwork hanging on the diner wall. “You know we showcase and sell local artists’ works. I’m sure the manager would be happy to add your paintings to the mix.”

“I only come here for coffee.” Frank took a swig. “And to see you smile.”

I felt the blush crawl up my skin and hid my mouth behind my hands.

“No.” He tapped the back of my hands. “If I can’t hide my hands, you can’t hide your smile.”

I laughed. “Fair enough.” I couldn’t help the grin that followed, and he rewarded me with a small smile in return. In an instant, his entire countenance went from craggy to intriguing. “Let me get our manager, Joe. He can ease your concerns about displaying your artwork.”

“No!” He grimaced. “I mean no, thank you. I paint for myself, not to share with others.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t.” He nudged his mug. “Can I get one more for the road?”

“Sure.” I hurried away, needing to catch my breath. When I returned with his refill and Joe’s business card, the booth was empty, save the usual tip.

. . .

It was two weeks before Frank returned. “I missed you last Friday. Where else do you go for coffee? Are you chatting up waitresses at other joints around town?” I shot him a grin.

“No. Only you.” His downy eyebrows furrowed. “You remind me of my daughter, Christina.” He plucked at his napkin. “I come into town once a week to replenish groceries and art supplies. Otherwise, I drink coffee at home. On the porch. By myself.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“Not really. I need the solitude to paint.”

“May I ask you something?” I asked.

“You may ask. I may not answer,” he replied.

“You always wear polka dot socks. Why?”

His eyes found mine. The hint of vulnerability in their depths surprised me. “My daughter gave me two packages of those socks when she was thirteen. She said they reminded her of my painting pallet, little dots of color on a black background.”

“Well, that is very sweet.” I refilled his coffee then slid into the booth across from him. “Does she know you still wear them every day?”

His head dipped low for a moment. “She’s gone now. Some boy at college she was seeing. Idiot decided to street race another car while she was his passenger. He crashed into a street light. They both died at the scene.”

“Oh my goodness!” I reached across the table and gripped his hand. “That is awful.”

He gave my hand a little squeeze. “Happened long ago. Truth is, I hated those socks; thought they were a silly present and tossed them in a drawer. Now I wear them to remember my girl. They remind me that from darkness comes light, from light comes color, and from color comes beauty. Christina would’ve liked that.”

My eyes misted. “She would love it.” I exited the booth and grabbed the coffee decanter. “She would also love it if you displayed some of your paintings here to share that beauty with the world.”

He grunted in reply, but his lips held a hint of a smile.

. . .

One morning, I spotted Frank as he slipped into his usual booth. He caught my eye and nodded. I motioned that I’d be with him in a moment. He gave me a ‘no hurry’ wave then glanced out the window, his jawline set in rigid profile.

A few minutes later, I sidled up to his table. “Here you go.” I served his coffee and left him some napkins.

“Thanks.” He touched my arm as I turned to leave. “I have something for you.” His hands trembled as he pulled a painting from his canvas bag and handed it to me. “For your art wall.”

I ran my fingers over the small bumps in the paint that when viewed from a distance, became a wondrous image. He’d painted the diner during breakfast shift. The hazy walls framed people stuffed into every booth — a swirling, hectic, blurry mess. Centered, and in perfect focus, stood a waitress. Her cappuccino hair twisted into a bun with escaped wisps floating around her face. No, wait…my face peered outward, hazel eyes exuding concentration and affection. “Frank, this is beautiful! But, how did you…?”

“Cellphone camera…great for surreptitious action shots.” His face relaxed into a grin.

“Amazing. You’ve captured this place perfectly. May I show Joe?”

Frank nodded.

“You’ll like him.” I turned and yelled over the din, “Joe! Come meet Frank. You’re going to want to see this painting.”

. . .

Eve Seace is a transplanted New Hampshirite who lives in Texas with her boyfriend, their two dogs, one crazy gray cat, and a fluffy gray bunny. She writes intuitively, often feeling she is a conduit for some ‘other-worldly’ creative entity. She holds a BA in Creative Writing/English — Fiction from SNHU, (Suma Cum Laude). She is a member of the Alpha Sigma Lambda National Honor Society. Neither of the previous two entries has had any influence on her writing. They serve as an example of the lengths she will go to avoid writing. She is an acknowledged procrastinator of the highest form.