Matchmaker, Matchmaker
By Paul Perry
Buster Raines entered the Tip Top Cafe and looked across to where Hetta Simpkins was standing behind the counter, steaming coffee urn in her hand, a broad smile on her face. He stood there for a moment, rubbing at his bristly gray mustache, muttering to himself, “Uh-oh. What’s she up to now?” He walked straight across to settle his lanky frame onto the same stool that he had been occupying every morning for more than two years now, coming in every day, seven days a week, promptly at nine a.m.. He took off his beat-up Stetson, revealing a line of pale skin above the seamed and sun-browned skin of his face, then leaned forward on his elbows and watched Hetta pour hot black coffee into an extra-large cup. He bent over the cup and inhaled deeply, said, as he did every morning, “Best damn coffee in south Texas,” then he looked up at Hetta, a look of unease on his face. “I’ve seen that grin before, Hetta, and it’s always meant some kind of mischief on your part.”
Hetta propped her ample hips against the back counter, crossed her arms over a more-than-ample bosom, and said to Buster, “I got something I want you to do for me, hon.”
Buster looked at her, blew air through pursed lips, shook his head. “Uh-oh. I thought so. What are you up to, Hetta?” He leaned back and watched her walk over to the counter where the cook put out the plates of food he’d prepared in the kitchen. She came back carrying a thick stack of pancakes and a plate of link sausages, set them down in front of Buster. “I just want you to meet somebody, Buster. Esther’s been gone, what, more than two years now? You got to be lonely out there in that big old house by yourself.”
Buster was shaking his head as he poured syrup over the pancakes, began cutting them up in bite-size chunks. “So you’ve stopped hinting and started doing, huh, Hetta? Listen, girl, I’m fine just like I am. I got my dogs, I got my garden, I got books to read, TV shows to watch. I still do a little horse trading to keep me busy.” He put a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. He sipped some coffee, looked up at Hetta, who was frowning down at him, scratching her head with a pencil. Hetta had had beautful blond hair as a girl but as she got older, her hair had become skimpier, until finally she went into Dallas and bought a blond wig that fit her head like a cap of tight curls. It didn’t really look bad on her, not unless you looked real close, but it constantly made her head itch so she was always shoving her pencil underneath it to scratch. She finished scratching and sighed. “It’s just not natural for a man to live like you do, Buster. You’ve got to yearn for some company now and then.” She leaned forward, placed her forearms on the counter next to Buster, watched him put one of the link sausages in his mouth. “Listen, you remember Leda Hoskins? She was behind us in high school, probably a freshman when you were a senior and I was a junior. Real cute girl, had reddish-brown hair, freckles, used to wear those poodle skirts that were popular back then.” She straightened up, a serious expression on her face. “Well, she’s back here in Selden, working for George Hill in his real estate office. She moved to Dallas after she graduated high school, married a fellow there, I don’t know what he did for a living, but they got divorced a few years back and she never remarried but stayed there in Dallas. She decided to move back here because she was fed up with the city life, or so she told me.”
Buster finished up his pancakes and sausage, drank down the rest of his coffee. He didn’t say anything, just wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up.
Hetta let out a sigh of exasperation. “You’re going to run, huh? You usually have a second cup of coffee.”
Buster donned his Stetson then shook his head. “I’m just not interested, Hetta. I’m doing just fine.”
“I tell you what,” Hetta said, looking a bit desperate now. “All you got to do is take her out to dinner, some nice place like the Hunter’s Inn out on highway 90.” Then she grinned, turning her double chin into a triple. “I tell you what I’ll do. If you two don’t hit it off, Buster, I’ll treat you to breakfast for a month. What do you say?”
Buster frowned, set his Stetson low over his forehead. “A month?”
“Yep. One month. That’s how sure I am that you two are just right for each other.”
Buster shrugged, nodded. “You got yourself a deal.”
The Hunter’s Inn was a dimly lit, good sized room with a huge fireplace-although it didn’t contain a fire-surrounded by heavy oaken tables and chairs and, along the two outer walls, large booths padded in imitation brown leather. Since the dining
room was almost deserted, Buster and Leda Hopkins had their choice of seating and they opted for a booth in the corner farthest from the door. There were candles in red globes glowing on every table, sending out a faint floral scent. Buster looked Leda Hopkins over in the rosy glow of the candle and decided that she looked younger than he had expected. She had a nice figure, wore a beige blouse and ankle-length black skirt that flattered that figure, had silver-gray hair worn in a springy bob, had a smooth-skinned, oval face with just a shade too much makeup. She looked so good, in fact, that Buster found himself sucking in his gut and wishing he’d worn something better than his tan sports jacket and best jeans, as well as his sweat-stained Stetson, which he took off as soon as they got through the door.
Leda smiled at him and said, “You order. You men are better at that than us women.”
Buster ordered steak and baked potato for each of them, the house specialty, with corn on the cob on the side. Leda ate her corn on the cob by using her knife to cut off a few kernels of corn at a time then nibbling at them, taking tiny bites. Buster ate his the way he always had, holding each end of the corn and chomping down, getting butter on his mustache, on his chin, and a few dribbles down his hands and onto the white table cloth. Leda smiled at him. “I just love to see a man eat,” she said.
Buster ordered beer for himself-no glass; he said he liked to drink it right out of the bottle-and a Perrier for Leda, at her request. After he’d eaten all of his steak and half of Leda’s-she apologized, saying she wasn’t much of an eater-he leaned back, couldn’t hold back a slight burp, then lit up a cigar. After lighting up, he asked Leda if she minded, and she said, “Not at all. I always thought smoking cigars was a manly thing to do.”
As Buster puffed away, leaning back and pushing his belt down to allow more room for his overfull belly, Leda sipped at her Perrier and asked a few questions.
“So you don’t remember me?” she asked.
“Nope,” Buster said. “Although I’ve got to say you sure turned out pretty, so I guess you weren’t as pretty then or I would probably have noticed you.”
“Well, I sure remember you,” she said, smiling at him through the reddish glow cast by the candle. “You were sure good-looking and,” she added, her eyes downcast, “you still are.” Then her expression changed, became serious, somber. “I was sorry to hear you’d lost your wife. How long has it been now?”
“Over two years,” Buster said, looking away from her.
“And you’ve never...never considered marrying again?”
“Nope. My dog is all the company I need.”
“And Hetta says you’re retired. Are you able to get along all right?”
Buster nodded, puffed hard on the big cigar. “Well, I’m more like semi-retired. But I’m getting along fine. I own my house and some land and I saved up enough to hold me until I start getting Social Security. How about you? You make enough working for George Hill?”
Leda smiled faintly. “Well, that’s just something to keep me busy.” She looked up at Buster, her eyes bright. “Actually, I got enough on Horace-he’s my ex-husband-to make him settle for a good piece of money. I got the house-sold it for over two-hundred thousand-the car, all the furniture, and just about everything we had in the bank. I left him and his little blond bitch just about enough to eat regular on.” Then she smiled wider, showing her teeth. “That is, as long as they stick to Big Macs and fries.” She laughed out loud, turned up her glass and finished her Perrier, then looked over at Buster. “Well, what now?” Then she looked down at her hands. “Maybe you’d like to see the house I bought. I made a real good deal.” Then she looked up into Buster’s eyes. “I’m a real good business woman, but otherwise I’m a pushover.”
There had been a toothpick stuck in the steak, had a little piece of lacy cellophane stuck to the end of it, and Buster picked up this toothpick and stuck it in his mouth, dislodged a piece of steak from between two molars, then left the toothpick there in his mouth, saying around it, “Well, sure. I’d like to see your place. But first maybe I better tell you something.”
When Buster walked into the Tip Top the next morning, he looked over at Hetta, saw the expression on her face, squared his shoulders and prepared for the onslaught. “Pour your own coffee,” she said to begin with, setting the coffee urn beside his cup. Then she propped her hips against the back counter and glared at him.
Buster sipped from his cup. “She told you, huh?”
“Of course she did, and she’s pretty pissed at me, Buster. I built you up as something special and then you...you-”
“Turn out to be something pretty lousy, huh?”
Hetta nodded, started to say something then went over to get Buster’s pancakes and link sausage. “You don’t win the bet, Buster. No free breakfasts for you. You two could have hit it off if you hadn’t messed it up.” She shook her head, grimaced, reached up with her pencil and scratched under the back of her wig. “For one thing, Buster, you don’t even smoke, much less cigars.”
Buster took a bite of his pancakes, chewed, swallowed, then shook his head. “How can people even smoke those things? That’s what I want to know. I was sick half the night.”
“Then, when she liked you enough to put up with all your... your grossness, when she invited you over to see her new house and-”
“And?” Buster was grinning, watching Hetta’s face turn pink.
“Well, you both could have used a little...a little-”
“A little what?” Buster’s grin widened.
“You know what I mean, Buster Raines.” Then she leaned on the counter, glaring down at him. “Then you pull that prostate operation stuff on her. There’s never been anything wrong with your prostate, Buster. Don’t forget; I know everything that goes on in this town. I’d have known if you’d had any kind of operation, much less prostate. You’re as healthy as a horse, Buster.”
Buster nodded. “But at least I didn’t hurt her feelings, did I? She is a fine looking woman, Hetta, and she’s bound to find a man that’s right for her, but like I told you, girl, I’m happy just like I am. I had twenty-eight happy years with a fine woman; that’s more than a lot of men have.” He stood, started to walk away, then stopped and looked back at Hetta. “Now you’re not going to do this again, are you, girl?”
Hetta sighed, shook her head. “Nope, no more matchmaking, Buster.”
Buster nodded, headed for the door.
Hetta watched him go outside and get in his truck, then she muttered to herself, “Not until the next time, that is.” And she smiled that smile of hers.
