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In this wilted stillness, between Mrs Sanchez’s house and the Grille, I saw three shadowsAll were independent of a source, for they were not ordinary shadows

When I was er, I called these entities shades But that is

just another word for ghosts, and they are not ghosts like Penny Kallisto

I don’t believe they ever passed through this world in human for here, that a realm of eternal darkness is their intended horeater than that of shadows Their h n

Often they slink like cats, though cats as big as men At times they run se

I do not see thenifies oncoreater than usual intensity and a darker than usual dimension

They are not shades to me now I call the six-year-old English boy use to describe these creatures when, ina Pico Mundo twilight A bodach is a small, vile, and supposedly mythical beast of the British Isles, who cohty children

I don’t believe these spirits that I see are actually bodachs I don’t think the English boy believed so, either The word popped into his mind only because he had no better name for them Neither do I

He was the only person I have ever knoho shared ht Minutes after he spoke the word bodach in my presence, he was crushed to death between a runaway truck and a concrete-block wall

By the time I reached the Grille, the three bodachs had joined in a pack They ran far ahead of h they had been nothing rueling sun

Fat chance

So the best short-order cook that I can be This , I would need more than the usual discipline to focus my mind on ers, and bacon rid­dle were equal to my reputation

FIVE

"EGGS - WRECK ‘EM AND STRETCH ‘EM," SAID HELEN Arches "One Porky sitting, hash browns, cardiac shingles"

She dipped the ticket to the order rail, snatched up a fresh pot of coffee, and went to offer refills to her customers

Helen has been an excellent waitress for forty-two years, since she was eighteen After so ood work, her ankles have stiffened and her feet have flattened, so when she walks, her shoes slap the floor with each step

This soft flap-flap-flap is one of the fundamental rhyth with the sizzle and sputter of things cooking, the clink of flatware, and the clatter of dishes The conversation of customers and employees provides theAll the booths were occu­pied, as were two-thirds of the stools at the counter

I like being busy The short-order station is the center stage of the restaurant, in full view, and I draw fans as surely as does any actor on the Broadway boards

Being a short-order cook on a slow shifta symphony conductor without either musicians or an audience You stand poised for action in an apron instead of a tuxedo, holding a spat­ula rather than a baton, longing to interpret the art not of coh Given a choice between Beethoven and a pair of eggs fried in butter, a hungry s - or in fact the chicken - and will find his spirits lifted at least as ht be by a requiem, rhapsody, or sonata

Anyone can crack a shell and spill the essence into pan, pot, or pip­kin, but few can turn out os as fluffy, and sunnysides as sunny asWell, yes it is, but this is the pride of ac­complishment, rather than vanity or boastfulness

I was not born with the artistry of a gifted hash-slinger I learned by study and practice, under the tutelage of Terri Stah, ns the Pico Mundo Grille

When others saw in ave ers of exeh to float off the plate

She isn’t merely ate mother, and my friend

In addition, she is my primary authority on Elvis Presley If you cite any day in the life of the King of Rock-’n’-Roll, Terri ithout hes­itation tell you where he was on that date and what he was doing

I, on the other hand, am more familiar with his activities since his death

Without referencing Helen’s ticket on the rail, I stretched an order of eggs, whichof two Then I wrecked ‘e sits on its ham It lies on its ab­do" would have called for a rasher with the eggs

"Cardiac shingles" is an order of toast with extra butter

Hash browns arethe day is diner lingo, just as not every short-order cook sees dead people

I saw only the living in the Pico Mundo Grille during that Tues­day shift You can always spot the dead in a diner because the dead don’t eat

Toward the end of the breakfast rush, Chief Wyatt Porter came in He sat alone in a booth

As usual, he washed down a tablet of Pepcid AC with a glass of low-fat s and the home fries that he’d ray as carbolic-acid solution

The chief smiled thinly at h eventually Ifor tire sales, I’ll never conte work, and thankless

Besides, I’uns

Half the booths and all but two of the counter stools had been va­cated by the time a bodach came into the diner

Their kind don’t appear to be able to walk through walls as do the dead like Penny Kallisto Instead they slip through any crevice or crack, or keyhole

This one seeped through the thread-thin gap between the glass door and the metal jamb Like an undulant ribbon of smoke, as insub­stantial as fumes but not translucent, ink-black, the bodach entered

Standing rather than slinking on all fours, fluid in shape and with-

out discernible features, yet suggestive of so half man and half canine, this unwanted customer slouched silently from the front to the back of the diner, unseen by all but me

It seelided along the aisle between the counter stools and the booths, hesitating in a few instances, as though certain people were of greater interest to it than were others Although it possessed no discernible facial fea­tures, a portion of its silhouette appeared headlike, with a suggestion of a dog’s muzzle

Eventually this creature returned from the back of the diner and stood on the public side of the counter, eyeless but surely watchingto be unaware of riddle than was necessary now that the breakfast rush had largely passed Frolanced at the bodach but at the custonature flap-flap-flap, at our other waitress - sweet Bertie Orbic, round in na s and the well-baked street beyond, where jacaranda trees cast shadows too lacy to cool and where heat snakes were charmed off the blacktop not by flute music but by the silent sizzle of the sun