Bagels and Communism

AT THE TASTY one morning around three, a girl in a pink alligator shirt is telling a guy in a football jersey how frustrating it is to have to choose between communism and capitalism.

"Communism's a mess," she tells her friend, who nods sympathetically. "I mean, think about Russia. Think about the fact that everyone you hear about from Russia is trying to get out. Really, it's just a mess."

She lights a cigarette, and her friend asks the counterman if his bagel is ready yet. Just about, the counterman says, and he throws a couple of bagels on the grill. Things are busy for him, even at this hour. A thin man with a bad crossbite is drinking black coffee and waiting for a blueberry muffin, another guy with a German accent is hunched over a plate of fried eggs and toast, and a third customer is sipping at a lime rickey and watching his raw hamburger patty start to smolder. That's close to capacity for The Tasty--only three or four stools around the tiny counter are empty. But that Kennedy St. counter, sandwiched between Varsity Liquor and the Wursthaus, is the only restaurant in the Square that does business all night. If it's three in the morning and you want to sit down and talk about social studies over coffee and bagels, you have exactly one option.

"The thing is, capitalism's just as bad," the girl is saying now. The guy in the football shirt looks perplexed. "Come on," she says, "think about it. Can you imagine what a hassle it would be to have a million dollars. I mean, what could you do with a million dollars?"

The guy mulls it over. The man with the crossbite slurps down the last drops of his coffee and signals for another cup, and he glances at the girl. She is drawing on her cigarette as she waits for an answer.

"Well," the guy finally says, "I could learn how to surf."

The girl shakes her head. "Jerry," she says quietly, "you don't need a million dollars to learn how to surf."

Jerry has finished his bagel, and he stands up to put on his jacket. His friend puts out her cigarette and gets into her down vest, and the two of them head for the door. The counterman is talking on the pay-phone--"Yeah, 24 hours," he is saying--but he puts his hand over the mouthpiece and shouts, "Hey, the bill!"

The girl shakes her head. "Listen, Jerry, can you take care of mine? I'm cleaned out," she asks. Jerry can: he goes back and settles with the counterman. The girl puts four quarters in the cigarette machine, puts the pack into her purse, and the two of them leave The Tasty.

THE MAN with the crossbite watches them go out and gulps down the puddle in his coffee-cup. He signals for another cup. "So what's the history of this place?" he asks the counterman.

"I have absolutely no idea," the counterman says.

"Yeah? What year was it built?"

"Nineteen twenty-eight," says the counterman.

The man with the crossbite puts down his cup. "Nineteen twenty-eight? Fifty, sixty...sixty-two, sixty-four years. That taxi driver's been here sixty-four years." The counterman looks outside: there is no taxi in sight.

The German man has finished his last piece of toast, and he looks over at the other two customers. They are starting straight ahead. He eyes the counterman, who is back on the pay phone--"It's four in the morning, we can't deliver to Brookline," he is saying. "Yeah, we got salads." The German man puts on his raincoat and scurries out the door. "Hey!" the counterman yells, letting the phone drop and dangle above the ground. He dashes out onto the street, still yelling, and disappears.

Two minutes go by, and the counterman returns, alone and out of breath. He goes back behind the counter and starts scraping the grease off the grill. The man with the crossbite reaches for a napkin. "Somebody ran out on you?" he says. "That's OK, somebody ran out on me tonight too."

The counterman goes to a sink by the pay phone to wash his hands, and the man with the crossbite drinks down the rest of his cup. It is now 4:15--time to leave the Tasty--so the other customer finishes off his lime rickey, pays his bill, and walks out the door.