by Andrew Careaga
He grabs a plate at the end of the buffet, right next to the sweet and sour chicken and the egg rolls, and chugs right past them, moving his heft like a tugboat through a channel, leaving invisible waves in his wake as he passes the egg foo yong and sesame chicken, even past those sugar-coated balls of dough we call Chinese doughnuts, and straight to the Fig Newtons. He stacks nine or ten of the cookies pyramid style on his plate, then turns, the tugboat reversing course, and steers toward his table, where a stainless-steel kettle of hot tea and porcelain cup await. He lowers his sumo wrestler body into the chair and begins the ritual, eating the top cookie of the ziggurat first, and working his way down to the base. He chews each bite slowly, reverently, experiencing the taste and texture like a celebrity chef on a cooking show.
This is why the waitresses all call him Senõr Newton. Not to his chestnut brown face, of course. To his face they smile and say “Hello, sir,” and guide his corpulence to a table near the buffet while the other diners slurp egg drop soup or swizzle lo mein around chopsticks or stab their broccoli beef with forks. They are men and women in business attire and multi-generational families, single mothers with grade schoolers in tow, the Salvadoran construction crews on lunch break, and the senior citizens—always senior citizens, many with walkers and oxygen tanks and possibly visiting the Lucky Wall Buffet for the last time. They eat as they ignore the TV monitors that blare Fox News above the piped-in Chinese elevator music. They discuss the damage from last week’s hailstorms or how their friend’s ex-husband is six months behind on child support or how to keep rabbits out of their raised gardens while Senõr Newton reverentially ingests his favorite food, the only food he ever eats at this restaurant.
One day Senõr Newton navigates his tugboat body to the place on the buffet where the Fig Newtons are supposed to be, right beside the puff pastries. But there are no Fig Newtons. He blinks, staring down as though trying to summon the Fig Newtons into existence. After a long pause, he turns to summon a passing waitress. “Fig Newtons, please,” he says, waving a hand toward the empty spot on the food bar.
The waitress stops, turns to him and blanches. She looks down to inspect the black Skechers that match her black slacks. “So sorry, sir,” she says to her shoes. “No Fig Newtons today.”
“No Fig Newtons?”
She lifts her gaze to the man. Her face is a pale moon of worry. “So sorry,” she says.
His rotund brown face turns as red as an heirloom tomato, and his eyes grow shockingly wide.
“No—no Fig Newtons.” His words come out not as a question but as a realization of an unfathomable situation.
The hostess, witnessing the exchange, rushes to her waitress’s aid. “Sir, we will have Fig Newtons tomorrow,” she says.
Senõr Newton’s gaze falters. “But—” he says. “Fig Newtons!”
His breathing grows labored and shallow. His eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back. His hands tremble as though with palsy and, grasping at the buffet counter with his free hand, he collapses as the plate in his other hand bounces on the linoleum floor. The man’s body soon follows.
The waitress and hostess gasp in unison, their hands rising to cover their mouths like they’re marionettes. Customers scoot their chairs away from their tables, turn to see what the commotion is about. A cook from the kitchen, replenishing the cashew chicken on the buffet, sets his dish aside and rushes to the scene.
The waitress kneels beside Senõr Newton. “Oh no, sir!” she says. “Oh no, sir!”
The cook, a small man with flesh as chestnut dark as Senõr Newton’s when he isn’t apoplectic, stands by and wrings his hands on his stained apron.
Senõr Newton coughs, then gasps for air as a seizure overtakes him. He extends one quaking hand, clamps it onto the kneeling waitress’s thigh. “Oh no, sir! Please!” she cries out. “Oh no, sir!”
The waitress turns to the hostess. “Nine one one! Nine one one!”
The hostess stands frozen in place, unable to look away from the stricken man at her feet with the death grip on her co-worker’s thigh.
“She’s saying to call 9-1-1,” says a man in a black Alice in Chains t-shirt. He holds his phone and points to the screen as he scoots his chair.
The hostess nods in sudden revelation and runs to her cashier’s station.
The man in the Alice in Chains t-shirt drops his chopsticks, approaches the scene, and kneels. Senõr Newton’s hand remains cleaved to the waitress’s thigh like a drowning man clinging to a lifebuoy.
“Hey, buddy,” the man says, tapping Senõr Newton’s shoulder. “You okay, buddy?”
Senõr Newton gasps again. “Fig Newtons,” he manages to whisper. He opens his eyes wide for a moment before they roll back and his eyelids shut like blinds pulled down over a window.
The man turns to the waitress. “He wants a Fig Newton. Can you give him a Fig Newton?”
She shakes her head. “No Fig Newtons,” she tells him.
Senõr Newton’s breathing increases. He is hyperventilating, his massive stomach undulating like waves of a tsunami.
The Alice in Chains man turns to the restaurant, calling out to everyone, “Does anyone have a Fig Newton?”
“No Fig Newtons today, sir,” says the manager, who has just stepped out of the kitchen.
“Fig—uhhm,” Senõr Newton gasps.
“Renny!” the man shouts, looking over at his table partner. “Run to the grocery store and get some Fig Newtons!”
Renny nods and skedaddles.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” the Alice in Chains man tells Senõr Newton. “We’re gonna get you taken care of.” Senõr Newton keeps his eyes shut and mouth agape, swallowing air. The waitress tries to pry his hand from her leg, without success.
“You’re gonna be okay, buddy,” the man says.
Others in the restaurant have gathered, circling the fallen customer like buzzards over roadkill. They speak in whispers—“What happened?” and “Is he okay?” An older man, frail and thin, slowly kneels by Senõr Newton and places a hand on his heaving stomach. “Father, in the name of Jesus,” the man says, and his words trail off into unintelligible gibberish.
“Give him room,” says the Alice in Chains man. He glares at the praying man. “Give him space. He needs air.”
“In the name of Jesus,” the man says, and withdraws his hand from Senõr Newton. A younger man beside him helps him rise to unsteady feet.
Beads of sweat form on Senõr Newton’s forehead. The waitress, kneeling at the fallen man’s side, seized by his firm grip on her thigh like a trapped coyote, begins to stroke his coarse brown hair. “Is okay, sir,” she says in a soothing voice. “Is okay.”
The Alice in Chains man rises and fidgets. “Where the hell is Renny?” he mutters.
“He’s only been gone a few minutes,” says a voice.
“Is okay, sir,” the waitress says. She leans closer into Senõr Newton’s presence as she calmly strokes his hair. Now she whispers to him, and his breathing subsides. He opens his eyes slowly. She whispers, and he nods, smiling.
“Bring hot and sour soup!” the waitress commands, and another waitress rushes toward the buffet to ladle some into a bowl.
The waitress continues to whisper to Senõr Newton as she slips one hand beneath his heavy head. She looks up to the Alice in Chains man. “Help, please,” she says.
The Alice in Chains man crouches opposite the waitress and slides his hand under Senõr Newton’s head, relieving her of this duty. The other waitress puts a spoon in the bowl and presents it to the first waitress, who receives it with a polite, almost formal, bow and turns to Senõr Newton.
“Open, please, sir,” she whispers, as though she is trying to coax a stray cat to come down a tree. She raises a spoon to Senõr Newton’s mouth. His eyelids flutter and, with trembling lips, he receives the liquid.
Senõr Newton’s breathing calms. He opens his eyes and, with the help of the Alice in Chains man, props himself up on one elbow while easing his grip on the waitress’ thigh.
“More, sir?” she says, and Senõr Newton smiles and nods. The redness slowly drains from his face as she feeds him another spoonful of the soup, and another, and another. Soon, Senõr Newton releases his grip on her thigh and places both hands on the tile floor.
Placing the soup bowl on the buffet counter, the waitress rises. The Alice in Chains man and another man help Senõr Newton to his feet and guide him back to his table. Senõr Newton’s breathing is labored, but he is smiling.
The waitress approaches him. “More soup, sir?”
“Yes, please,” says Senõr Newton.
She nods and raises a hand to conceal a coquettish smile. “I will bring you more soup,” she says, “and more tea. Fresh tea.”
Senõr Newton nods once toward her and smiles through pursed lips.
With graceful efficiency, the waitress removes the tea kettle, refills it, and returns with it and a fresh bowl of hot and sour.
“Hey, this soup is good,” he says. “I’ve never had it before.”
“We have egg drop soup, too,” she tells him. “Also very good.”
He nods and smiles at her and, with a shaky hand, submerges a spoon into the warm bowl.
The waitress steps away from Senõr Newton and approaches the hostess, who winks at her. The waitress blushes.
The front door swings open.
“I’m back!”
It’s Renny, hoisting a package of Fig Newtons like he’s just caught the prize-winning fish in a bass tournament.
“Right on time, Renny,” says the Alice in Chains man. “Right on time.”
______
Andrew Careaga is a recovering public relations, branding, and marketing executive. Since retiring in 2024, he has devoted his time to more creative pursuits, including writing. His work has been published in The Argyle, Club Plum, MoonLit Getaway, The Orange Rose, Roi Faineant, Spillwords, Syncopation Literary Magazine and elsewhere. He lives in Rolla, Missouri.
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