By L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
Copyright © March 19, 2002 L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
All Rights Reserved
location, were changed to fictitious name. Any similarities or resemblances of any character(s) in this story to anyone in real
life are purely coincidental.
My grandfather is not an educated man. He was born in Texas to a migrant farm working family and was only able to attain a
third grade education. Despite his lack of formal schooling, he was educated in the ways of life. He knew the concept of
hard work and was never without a job to support his family.
Although he could not read or write, he had a gift for numbers. As a child I remembered how my grandfather loved to race
my brother in adding long columns of numbers. While my brother was armed with the latest Texas Instrument calculator, my
grandfather would simply gaze off into space, his eyes moving so slight that unless you were watching, you would miss the
movements as his brain added up the long digits of numbers in his head. In the end, my grandfather was always the victor in
these races between man and machine.
For my grandfather, there was nothing more enjoyable than spending time with his family. His continual belief that by working
hard, one would always succeed, never wavered and although the elusive American dream was never his, he always believed
that someday he would own land and a business that he could call his own.
Ruby’s Café was known as the greasiest joint on the outskirts of Griely, California. Its small trailer size structure took up a
little part of a paved section that was next to the only gas station between Red Bluff and Griely. On windy days, the sign
hanging over the café would creak and cry in protest of the rust that was imbedded on the chain links that held it up. The
welcome sign in the window was always tilted on its side regardless of the day or night. People who lived near Ruby’s Café
always knew to avoid the only place in town that served the most appalling gastric meals to have ever been dipped in a vat of
lard. For the unsuspecting travelers, Ruby’s Café was seen as a quaint place to stop – but never to return again.
The owner of Ruby’s café was the husband of Ruby. He was a quiet, bald man who spent the better part of his days
secluded in the kitchen of the café. On days when Ruby let him out from behind the stove, Papa Ruby, as he was known,
would spend his time sitting on the tin garbage cans beside the café. With sweat pouring down his forehead, he’d lean tiredly
against the wall as he drank from a bottle that was concealed inside of a bag.
Ruby was a large, portly woman. Her hair was the color of straw that had been left out for too long on the hot summer day.
She wore a standard uniform of frumpy dresses that was covered with an apron which always had ketchup, Tabasco, oil, or
other food stains. Her large beefy hands were always animated as she spoke to the customers who had unwittingly stopped
by her place.
My encounters with Ruby occurred every day as I would walk to my grandmother’s home after school. Just as I had done
since the first day of entering Rosedale elementary school, at the end of the day I would take my homework in hand and walk
the short distance to the little house near the rail road tracks where my grandparents lived. While in the care of my
grandmother, I would do my homework and wait until my parents were finished with their work before they’d come and pick
me up. Although the time spent with my grandmother was enjoyable, the walks to her house always left me feeling empty.
As I walked home from school I would hear Ruby’s acrid voice from the door of the café. The wrinkle lines on her lips that
always dangled a half burned cigarette would purse slightly as her eyes would grow to mere slants. Although she never left
the confines of her café, she’d always stand teetering at the doors threshold.
“Hey! You little wetback, beaner rat!” she would shout as I kept my gaze ahead of me, “You stupid spic,
don’t you step one foot on my property, you hear me, you little rat!” her screeching voice would always draw the attention of
those nearby.
Everyday I ignored her daily exchange and more than once I wanted to go to her, to stand in front of her and tell her that I
was not a wet back. I wanted to explain to her that my Lakota family had been on this land creating religions and art when
her own were still walking around naked and living in caves. I longed to be able to tell her that my proud Mestizo kin had
journeyed and settled on this land long before hers had even learned to navigate the seas and I wanted to tell her that my
grandmother was not only educated, but had received her knowledge from the University of Mexico. But being only eight, all
I could do was keep my silence and walk with head held high until I was well out of sight of Ruby’s Café. Then, and only
then did I allow my dejection to bow my head in shame at Ruby’s words.
Exactly how my grandfather had learned that Ruby’s Café was on the market, no one remembers. The only thing that my
grandfather remembers was the day when he was talking with Mr. Ruby. As was my grandfather’s customs, he spoke of the
possible purchase of the café and together, my grandfather and Mr. Ruby had come to an arrangement. As if he were in a
hurry to be rid of the place, Mr. Ruby agreed to let my grandfather take over the mortgage payment until the place was
owned free and clear in two years. Using his great people skills, my grandfather had raised the money for the down
payment.
For my grandfather, a man’s words and a hand shake was all that was needed to seal a deal. If a man could not stand by his
words, what type of a man was he, my grandfather would always say. But knowing that Mr. Ruby had different notions, my
grandfather eagerly took the legal paperwork to study before signing it for Mr. Ruby. The inability to read had never
hindered him before, so my grandfather never thought that it would be a factor now. He felt that the combination of my
grandmother’s university education and my own father’s eleventh grade education would be enough to read through and
understand the contract. When both of his advisors were unable to detect anything unusual in the contract, my grandfather
took the deed and with a flair of a signature, and after shaking Mr. Ruby’s hand, my grandfather was on his way to obtaining
his American dream.
Part of the agreement stipulated that Mr. and Mrs. Ruby would remain behind for one week in order to show my
grandparents how to run the café. After the week was over, the place would officially become whatever it was that my
grandparents wanted it to be. In the transitional week, my grandmother learned the secret traits and habits of the former
owners of Ruby’s café.
I can remember my grandmother’s words as if it was only yesterday. They were dirty people, my grandmother had said, and
they were cheap. My grandmother related the first day of training by Ruby. With a crinkled nose, and a knowing smile, my
grandmother shook her head as she remembered that first training day.
“Don’t throw that away!” Ruby yelled at one of my cousins who had started his first day as a bus boy. Confused, he stood
still as he held the plate filled with the remnants of a customer’s half eaten food. “That there, don’t throw it away,” Ruby had
instructed as she took a partially eaten piece of toast from the plate.
“This here,” she spoke loud despite being told that my grandmother understood English, “this can be used again,” Ruby
instructed as if she were talking to a child. In slow, calculated moves that were suppose to help my grandmother understand
her better, Ruby took the toast to the greasy counter and cut off the sides that had been bitten.
“See, you take it, trim it up, and send it out with the next plate that way you don’t waste food,” Ruby’s words brought an
expression of disgust from my grandmother, and a shake of a head from my cousin. “If you don’t waste food, then you’ll
save money, you remember that! There’s nothing wrong with the toast, why not let someone else eat it if they want. And the
same goes for scrambled eggs, if they don’t eat it, and they haven’t messed it up with ketchup, then warm it and put it on the
next plate that wants scrambled eggs!” the large woman stated as she scratched her head, then examined under the tips of her
fingernail as if expecting to see head lice.
“Now, I know your kind ain’t very smart people, but if you can remember what I said, then you should fair well here,” Ruby
said before she began to pick at something inside of her nose.
Where my grandfather was loud and vocal, my grandmother was quiet. In her quiet way, she only nodded at Ruby as she
returned to the stove to become accustomed to every nuance of the industrial size stove. Throughout their whole week, my
grandparents watched carefully, and spoke of the days events when they were home. When the week finally ended, Mr.
Ruby shook my grandfather’s hand again, and then handed him the key to his future dream.
