He was a big man in a Steelers jacket with a name tag that said DALE. He set the card down on my table next to the sour cream.
“Ma’am,” he said, “are you Angela Mott?”
I nodded. My spatula was still in my hand.
“The machine says the account is closed, and the bank wants me to call the primary cardholder. Your name’s the primary.” He turned the card over. “And this is your stand, right? Peg’s? My mother used to eat at that diner every Sunday.”
Behind him, the whole boat tent had gone quiet. Faron’s buddies were staring. Faron’s face was the same red as that boat.
“That account’s mine,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I closed it Tuesday. He’s not authorized on anything of mine anymore.”
Dale nodded like that was the most ordinary thing in the world. Then he walked back to Faron and held out the card between two fingers.
“Sir, this card belongs to the lady at the pierogi stand. You got another way to pay the fifteen hundred?”
Faron opened his wallet again. There was a five and two ones inside. One of his buddies, a guy I recognized from the bowling alley, actually laughed out loud. “Mr. Moneybags,” he said, and this time it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Tell Peg whatever you want”
Faron marched over to my table. He leaned in close so nobody would hear, the way he always did when he wanted me small.
“You embarrassed me in front of everybody. You know what I’m gonna tell Peg.”
Peg was standing right behind me with a tray of onions. She set it down.
“Go ahead, Faron,” she said. “Tell me. I’ll pull twenty-two years of register tapes, and then I’ll tell the whole county why you needed to make something up about the woman who paid your gas for eleven years.”
He didn’t say anything. For the first time since I’d known him, Faron Mott had nothing to say.
He left the fairgrounds without his buddies. They stayed and bought pierogi. Six each.
Friday, ten a.m.
The next Friday, Earline went to her hair appointment like always. The salon on Market Street had kept my card on file for years. It got declined.
Her stylist, Rhonda, called me at the diner to ask if there’d been a mistake. I told her there hadn’t. Rhonda was quiet for a second, then said, “Good for you, Angie. She never tipped anyway.”
Earline walked out of that salon with wet hair in a plastic cap. Half of Kittanning heard about it before lunch.
Two weeks later, she came into the diner. She sat at the counter, ordered coffee, and waited until the place was nearly empty.
“Faron’s sleeping on his cousin’s couch,” she said. “He can’t make his truck payment. I thought, since you two were married so long, you might help him out. Just this once.”
I wiped the counter in front of her. Then I cut a slice of coconut cream pie and set it down with one fork.
“That’s on the house, Earline,” I said. “The rest isn’t.”
She looked at the pie for a long time. Then she paid for her coffee with exact change and left.
What six hundred dollars a month looks like now
Without Faron and Earline on my cards, I had about six hundred extra dollars every month for the first time in eleven years.
The first month, I caught up on the house payment. The second month, I fixed the porch steps that had been rotting since 2019. The third month, I opened a savings account and named it “Napkin,” because that’s where my $80,000 went the first time, and I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again.
Dale from the boat tent comes in for breakfast now on Saturdays. Two eggs over easy, rye toast, and a side of pierogi. Last week he asked if I’d ever been fishing on the Allegheny. I told him I’d paid for a lot of fishing trips but never actually gone on one.
He laughed and said, “Well, I’ve got a boat that nobody bought. You bring the pie.”
I said yes. It turns out I do know how to say no. I just needed to learn when to say yes, too.
Have you ever carried someone who laughed at you for it? What made you finally put them down? Tell us in the comments.