Memories of Pie Past

There is a certain kind of restaurant that is, in my mind, unique to WI. Inevitably it is named after the owners, by first names such as Lena and Ole’s or by surname, The Nyborg Family Restaurant. The décor always represents a compromise, the cheapest building materials possible to satisfy the man, with poorly executed feminine touches to give the woman a sense of stylish ownership.  

Hello powder blue geese.

The faded, somewhat dirty wallpaper has dried flowers on it. The plywood moulding is battered by abuse from the metal chairs that are stacked when the gray indoor/outdoor carpet is being vacuumed at the end of the day. At the non-computerized cash register there is a cardboard cut out with holes for quarters you can donate to the Lion’s Club.

I recently ate at such a place in Winneconne, WI, near the Wolf River which is part of the Fox River system near Oshkosh and Green Bay. Houses there are unpretentious, with manicured lawns and firm foundations. The people are well fed having never met a carb they didn’t savor. I had an open faced pork sandwich with real mashed potatoes. The waitress gave me a, “okay-Mr.-Fancy-Pants,” look when I asked for the gravy on the side. My chicken soup was made from scratch, but the dressing for my small salad came in a plastic bottle with a grocery store sticker on it.

The homemade desserts on the counter went unordered by me for I no longer indulge. There was however a chubby boy reading a comic book enjoying a piece of rhubarb pie. I can only assume his name was Greg.

Greg Triggs - Boy Receptionist

My father ran his business out of our home. The staff meetings were held in our kitchen. I’d come down in my pajamas to several siding applicators, a roofer and a carpenter.  They were drinking coffee and eating donuts while they smoked and got their assignments for the day. I'd breakfast in the living room in front of the television. I ate with Mr. Rogers, Ray Rayner or Captain Kangaroo.  

There was no room for me at the staff meeting. I was just the part-time receptionist.

My mother ran errands everyday. She liked to get out of the house. The C & P Grocery Store, Rennebohm's, Ben Franklin Five & Dime, they were all on her usual route. She’d take my brother Butch with her because he loved riding in the car and going to stores.  
I stayed behind to answer the phone.   Customers, current or potential, expected the phone to be answered by an actual person during business hours. Very often that was me.

As an 8 year old gay boy I was blessed with a lilting feminine voice. Very often callers would assume I was a woman, which bothered me until I realized that in the 1970s receptionists such as myself were supposed to be women. So a woman I became.

No longer did I announce, “Triggs Home Improvement Company, Greg speaking. May I help you?” Now I played up the feminine quality and dropped the name. Let Joe Customer think what he wanted. In my mind I wasn’t the kid gorging on Twinkees between phone calls. I was a shapely young woman with frosted blonde hair styled in the smartest salon in Madison, WI. I wore a cobalt blue skirt and matching jacket with a demure blouse underneath. My manicured nails looked very professional as they grabbed a Triggs Home Improvement Company ballpoint pen to write down messages on the three carbon pad.

My inner-receptionist saw this job as a stepping stone. Soon I'd marry one of the eligible bachelors I was sure to meet thanks to my high profile position. The boss was a insane, but he wasn’t going to be part of my life forever. Triggs Home Improvement Company was the first step on a path to bigger and better things.

But something funny happens when adults don’t realize they’re talking to children. They become less diplomatic. They become less kind. The truth spills out along with their frustrations.

“I paid for a job and the crew never showed up. I’ve been waiting a week!”

“You tell that asshole you work for I am going to sue him unless he gets out here to fix this roof.”

“Mr. Triggs he isn’t fooling me. He called to say he couldn’t stop by today but I saw his car out in front of a bar on Cottage Grove Road.”

And so on and so on; all of which can weigh on a receptionist’s mind.  

It’s not like I could leave it behind at the end of the day. I went home to it. Quitting wasn’t an option, so I withdrew. I became less polite. I dropped the, “May I help you?” from my greeting. My imaginary nail polish chipped. You could see the brown roots poking through my frosted hair. Sometimes when customers assumed I was a woman I corrected them.

And I quit promising things would get better.

Butch Triggs - Soviet Spy

My brother Butch is mentally challenged but that wasn't something we always knew. That had to learned. To me he was a little brother and no different than any other but then the day came when he was to be registered for school. My mom was gone for a long time. When she finally returned she stayed in the car looking off into the distance. I started to go check on her, but my Grandmother told me to leave her be. 

Mom stayed inside the Buick for a long, long time.

Over the next few days there were many whispers about what had been said at the school meeting. My Dad came over to talk about it.  He didn't even have our phone number at the time.

Slowly the picture came together. New words - hyperactive. seizures. brain-damage.  Clues. I was a smart little boy. I figured it out rather quickly once the implications were out in the open.  It was almost like the dot-to-dots I loved doing in school.

Butch and I shared a room.  He went to bed earlier than I did. At night, waiting to fall asleep, I would stare at him.  I wanted to figure out how his mind worked. I couldn't. So I decided it wasn't true. God wouldn't do that to my little brother. There was something else going on.  

Obviously Butch was smarter than all of us. He had us fooled. Butch was a Soviet spy spending reports about the Triggs family back to the motherland. Hidden somewhere in the house was a secret spy room like the Batcave on TV.  

I don't know when I accepted the truth. The fantasy just faded away as I got used to the idea and finally accepted Butch for who and what he was - the best little brother in the world and perfectly himself.