It was a dark and stormy night. I drove through the blinding rain along a country road lit only by my headlights. Although I had driven this road many times during the day, at night I felt isolated. I was the only person foolish enough to be out on the road and could only briefly sense the dark farmhouses that I passed. No help would come if I could not reach my destination.
I had left work late that
Friday evening and had a two hour drive, expanded by the rain into three hours
or more, to reach Siebkens, the resort hotel, restaurant, bar and hub of life
for the auto racing community that comes together most weekends in Elkhart Lake,
Wisconsin. The formula car I was to race the next day was already at Road America,
the track just outside town.
When I arrived, the
restaurant and office had closed early, probably for lack of patrons. Only the
bar was open. I parked behind an eighteen wheel truck and hurried into the
warmth of the tavern. The place was deserted, save for the driver of the truck
and the bartender. I took a moment to scan the room, seeking comfort in the
racing posters and pictures that crowded each other on the walls and ceiling.
I took a seat at the bar,
leaving one bar stool between me and the burly driver. I didn’t want to sit
next to him, which would indicate my intention to begin a conversation or an
intimate relationship. Nor did I want to sit far from him, possibly signaling
disdain or fear.
The driver called for
another shot of Jagermeister, a potent digestif
that was a specialty of Siebkens. I thought back to many evenings, after a day
of racing, celebrating wins, losses and renewed friendships in this bar. The
scantily-clad Jagermeister Girls carried trays with slots holding glass tubes
of Jagermeister. Patrons tossed back these shots to prove their manhood to
their friends and to impress the J-Girl smiling at them.
My lust, however, had
always been for the German chocolate cake from Siebkens restaurant. No meal
there should ever end, for me or for anyone else, before the cake was
ceremoniously brought to the table, admired and consumed. The prospect of
obtaining this wonder of desserts in the darkened bar on a rainy evening, with
the restaurant closed, seemed small.
With an optimism that
began to fade even as I signaled for the bartender, I spoke as confidently as I
could, requiring that he bring me a piece of German chocolate cake. The man’s
demeanor evolved through a number of iterations, first came surprise, then anger,
then a kind of grudging resignation. Not exactly the Kubler-Ross progression,
but fairly close. After trying to stare me down, probably hoping that I’d just
change my order to a shot and a beer, he picked up the house phone and asked if
there was any chocolate cake available.
Apparently he was not
given the answer he had hoped for. I saw him trudge to the door, head out into
the rain and, after a passage of time enough for him to leisurely enjoy a
cigarette or compose a serviceable haiku, he returned, cake in hand.
Now I realized that
something was amiss. Something was not quite right. There was no beverage to
pair with the cake. I scanned the bar back for some alcoholic drink that might
not seem ridiculous sitting next to my cake. It became clear that the only appropriate
drink was a large, cold glass of milk. I called for the bartender and, plunging
my already diminished manhood rating right through the floor, I asked for a
glass of milk.
The bartender went through
the same rigmarole, the same evolution of expressions: the same surprise; the
same pause to stare me down; the same call to the kitchen; and the same trudge
into the rain. The duration of his absence this time would allow him time to
smoke a very large stogie or to write a quite good sonnet. Meanwhile, I sat
with the cake in front of me. It seemed to be daring me to slip my fork into it
and bring a piece to my mouth. Just a single small piece, just enough to take
the edge off. I resisted.
Finally, the bartender
returned with my glass of milk. Before I could lift my fork, the truck driver
leaned over to speak. I felt sure that I had fallen into uncharted depths of
disgrace in his eyes and was now going to suffer for it. First he considered
the cake, then he locked eyes with mine and said, “That looks pretty good.”