By Ron McKinney © 2005 From the noise it made coming down the grade I figured the engine in the VW Beetle was blown. I could picture a connecting rods protrucing from the crank case. . .or worse, if that's possible. That it would take a wad of cash to fix it was such a certainty in my mind that I never raised the lid of the engine compartment to look. The snow storm buried the car while Chris and I were in the restaurant working. At the end of the day we sat at one of the tables in the dining room with George Pataki and drank Coors. All three of us were exhausted. Some of the truck drivers who had eaten breakfast had stayed until we were ready to close; they only left reluctantly to climb in to the sleeper cabs of their trucks. They were the smart ones. Others had eaten, put on their tire chains, come back for a warm up cup, filled their thermoses and headed up the grade. When the word went out over the citizen’s band that there was a new waitress at the Flatland Five, truckers going both east and west pulled in to have a look. They hadn’t been disappointed. Even in her long handled underwear, Levi’s, mountain boots and heavy sweater Chris drew their eyes. Her movements held them. The level gaze of her blue eyes conveyed meaning; there was none of the expected banter. There were orders taken, filled quickly and the food was hot when placed on their tables. Most of the tables seated four and soon after starting most of them were filled. Many of the customers were local construction workers who had come to the Skelly station to fill the tanks of their pickups, eat lunch and head back to Breckenridge. Only a few of the locals patronized the restaurant; that first day they were deputies, highway patrolmen, and a few emergency paramedics driving the ambulance: people who had to be out in this kind of weather. As Chris sorted bills and stacked them, it was obvious that she’d made over a hundred bucks in tips. When George counted the till, he said it had been the best day he could remember. All three of us had dined on rib eye steaks, and a salad that could have been a meal all by itself. I had a warm, fuzzy feeling that comes from being well fed. The beer and altitude had gone to my head. George’s proposition came right out of the blue. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it for some time, but it seemed to come to him in a flash. “I like the way you two work. I have strong feeling I can trust you. I have been working without a break for a year. . . maybe longer. Much time with no help. Sometimes with help that steals from my till. Some who steal food or serve their friends who go without paying. So I stay and work every day and watch close what goes on. Now, I’m tired. I want to take some time off. I want to fly to Tarpon Springs and see my family. Maybe I’ll be gone a week or two, if you will run this place for me while I’m gone. Will you do this for me?” Chris looked at me and nodded. She folded the bills and pocketed them and began to count her change, making stacks of quarters. “I think we would like to do that, George. There’s just a question of finding a place to sleep. We have some friends who live nearby, but we’ve worn out our welcome there. Do you have any suggestions?” George pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Come. I show you something.” I followed George through the kitchen and out the rear exit. There was a thirty foot Airstream trailer parked behind the building. George opened the trailer door, stamped his shoes on the step to knock the snow off and led me inside. For a bachelor’s trailer, it was cleaner and tidier than I expected. There were two bedrooms, a small bathroom with a shower, and a comfortable living room. George said: “Come, we change the sheets on the double bed. You and Christine can sleep in the big bed. I sleep on the small one in the other bedroom tonight, if you like.” “It will be fine with me, but we’ll have to see what Christine thinks.” As we made up the bed, George said: “I pay you each one hundred dollars a week, plus your food and place to sleep. With tips Christine makes, that’s good money, no?” “That’s good money, George. We may have to have the engine in our car rebuilt before we can get out of Dillon. Maybe you heard it when we pulled in here this morning. So, we need the work. I hope Christine agrees.” Chris had stacked her change on the counter near the cash register and was waiting for George to count it and exchange it for bills. George chuckled. “You work that register all day, and now you wait for George? I don’t understand.” “You already counted the till, George. I would prefer that you do it.” Chris said. George opened the till, counted out the bills and put the change into the compartments of the tray. He turned to me. “Please, to show Christine the trailer.” He was opening another bottle of beer as we went out through the kitchen. “I hope this isn’t going to be another Kremling, Mack. Tell me it’s not.” “This is a palace compared to Harold’s dump in Kremling, Chris. You’ll see.” Chris was favorably impressed. She flopped on the double bed, bounced it a bit, and then said: “This is fine with me. Did you discuss wages with George?” “How does a hundred a week, each sound? That’s on top of our meals and the bed.” “Great,” Chris said, “I made a hundred and twelve in tips today. It may not be that good every day, but who knows. It could be more.” She bounced off the bed and hugged me. You keep George entertained with your stories while I take a shower. I’ve got clean underwear in my purse.” I went indoors and poured myself a cup of coffee and carried it to the table where George sat with his beer. “She likes it, George. She’s taking a shower and asked me to keep you occupied for a while. Okay?” George raised his beer bottle as if in a toast. I raised my coffee cup. Efkarishsto. You know what it means?” “Thanks. I spent some time in Greece: Patras, Erymonthos, Piraeus and Athens. Did I mention that I am a member of the Hellenikos Orivatikos Syndesmos?” George’s thick brows bunched up. “You speak Greek, why didn’t you say so.” “No, George, I don’t speak Greek. I just learned a few words.” I said, and then I told him about climbing with the Greek Alpine Club and being made an honorary member. When I finished, George’s buck teeth were showing, his eyes sparkled. He grew nostalgic. He named the village in the Peloponnesus where he had been born. He talked about the civil war. I got the impression that George had been on the wrong side, the losing side from the sound of his voice. George had cousins in Tarpon Springs, Florida who had sponsored him and he had already become a “one hundred per cent American,” since his arrival. “I have a sweetheart in Tarpon Springs,” George confided, “If you and Chris stay two, maybe three weeks, I get married and come back with a wife. She’s good waitress, like Christine. Together, we make good business here. . . . They are making tunnel through mountain so we not have to drive over that damned pass going to Denver. That Berthoud pass kill many people, cars and trucks both fall off road. Maybe we have more luck and we open big restaurant. Not here, maybe in Florida. I don’t like cold weather. But it’s okay for now. Now is the time to make money. Live cheap and put money in the bank. If that girl marries me, we work together and make lots of money. Maybe I’ll buy restaurant near Disney World. I have a house in Kissimmee now. I rent it, let tenant pay mortgage.” “George, I have no doubt that you will be a wealthy man some day. All a person needs is a dream and hard work. Maybe a good wife and a little luck too. It never hurts to have a little luck. I feel very lucky that our car broke down and we met you, George.” I raised my coffee cup and said “Efkaristho, George.” George clanked his empty beer bottle against my empty cup. End of the beginning of The Second Chance.  More to come after major editing.  OM