The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 122: The Cherry Pie Is To Die For

Episode Date: January 8, 2019

But Ted was craving a slice of something else.

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This is the way I heard it. Ted stands perfectly still in the Louisiana woods and looks for signs of prey. He loves to hunt, but today he'd rather be home. The heat is stifling. The rifle feels heavy in his hands, and there's no sign of game. So Ted allows his mind to wander. And soon, he's thinking about the waitress back in Dallas, the one he met five years ago, the one who got away. They'd met at the lunch counter at Marcos.

Ted had been a postal worker back then and stopped in one afternoon for a quick bite. The waitress hadn't noticed him. She'd been busy writing something. Must be mighty important, said Ted, to make such a pretty face scrunch up like that. The waitress had jumped at the sound of his voice. Sorry, mister. I was someplace else. What can I get you? She was a tiny little thing, not even five feet tall. Her blonde hair was uncombed, and her eyes were wide and very blue. I'd like a BLT, said Ted, and a cup of coffee.

You got it, she said, but save room for dessert. The cherry pie is to die for it. Thanks, said Ted. I'll do that. The waitress rode up his order, passed it back to the cook, and went back to her papers. What are you working on, Ted asked. Oh, nothing, she said. It's just a poem.

What's it about? asked Ted. The waitress considered the postal worker. He had a warm smile. and a trustworthy face. It's about a nice boy who falls in love with the wrong girl. Maybe you'd like to read it to me, said Ted. So the waitress did. You don't want to marry me, honey, though to hear you ask me is sweet.

If you did, you'd regret it tomorrow, for I'm only a girl of the street. Time was when I'd gladly have listened before I was tainted with shame, but it wouldn't be fair to you, honey. men laugh when they mention my name. Back there on the farm in Nebraska, I might have said yes to you then when I thought the world was a playground,

teeming with Santa Claus men. But I left the old home for the city to play in its mad, dirty whirl, never knowing how little of pity it holds for a slip of a girl. The waitress stopped reading. That's all I got, she said. What do you think?

Well, said Ted, I'm hoping for a happy ending. The waitress offered a sad smile. Aren't we all, mister? Aren't we all? Five years later, Ted hears a sound that yanks him back to the hunt. Something is approaching in the distance, something large. Ted clicks off the safety of his rifle and waits to see what might appear in the clearing.

He understands the stakes. He understands the danger. But his thoughts are still with the waitress. He recalls their second meeting. She was still behind the counter at Marcos when he walked in, still writing. Her pretty face still scrunched up in concentration. You were right, said Ted.

The cherry pie was to die for. Once again, the waitress jumped at the sound of his voice. You got to quit sneaking up on me, mister. Ted laughed. I'm sorry about that. I thought you saw me come in. The waitress poured him some coffee. How is the poem coming?

He asked. "'chipping away at it,' she said. The waitress picked up where she left off. She read quietly, so the other customers couldn't hear, her lips, very close to Ted's ear. I soon got a job in the chorus, with nothing but looks and a form. I had a new man every evening. My kisses were thrilling and warm.

Then I fell for the line of a junker, a slim devotee of the hop, and those dreams in the juice of a poppy, had got me before I could stop. But I didn't care while he loved me. Just to lie in his arms was delight. But his ardor grew cold, and he left me in a Chinatown hop joint one night. The waitress paused and brushed away a tear.

Ted wanted to take her hand. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to tell her that people can change, even a girl from the street. But the waitress wasn't finished. Don't spring that old gag of reforming. A girl hardly ever goes back. Too many are eager in waiting to guide her feet off of the track. A man can break every commandment, and the world will still lend him a hand.

Yet a girl that has loved, but unwisely, is an outcast all over the land. Ted could take no more. He'd never seen such sadness in such a pretty face. Listen to me, he said. one day a man is going to walk through those doors and sweep you off your feet a good man a man who doesn't care about your past and from that moment on your life will never be the same do you really think so asked the waitress ted looked earnestly into her wide blue eyes and said maybe he already has for the next three months the postal worker stopped by marcos every day for a quick bite with some poetry on the side. And for a while there, it looked like the waitress might write him into her story.

But one day, the waitress was gone. Her replacement was Edna, a 65-year-old grandmother with a beehive and a snaggle tooth who gave poor Ted the bad news. Don't know where she went, said Edna, said she wouldn't be back, said she found the love of her life. Now, what can I get you? Ted was stunned. He swallowed hard and looked blankly down at the menu, but the menu had nothing he wanted.

Edna poured some coffee. Try the cherry pie, she said. It's to die for. Five years later, hidden in the Louisiana woods, Ted can still remember the heartbreak, even as his prey draws ever closer, even as his fellow hunters raise their rifles alongside his. Even as the stolen Ford crests the hill on Highway 154

and slows down at the intersection in the clearing, even as he and the rest of the posse stand up and open fire with machine guns from the woods on the side of the road. When the shooting finally stops, 136 rounds of hot lead perforate the stolen Ford, many of which also perforate the man behind the wheel. The smoke clears. Ted slowly approaches what's left of the driver.

It's him all right. Justice has finally caught up with the bank robber who killed 12 cops in cold blood. Then Ted considers the passenger. She's a tiny thing, a slip of a girl, not even five feet tall. Her blonde hair is uncombed, and her dead eyes are wide and very blue. He hangs his head and closes his eyes and recalls. the final stanza from the poem she read him five years before. You see how it is, don't you, honey?

I'd marry you now if I could. I'd go with you back to the country, but I know it won't do any good. For I'm only a poor branded woman, and I can't get away from the past. Goodbye, and God bless you for asking, but I'll stick it out now, till the last. You probably don't remember Ted Hinton, the fours. former postal worker turned deputy who was hired to hunt down a notorious bank robber. And you probably don't remember a poem called The Street Girl. But you might remember the waitress who wrote it, the one who got away,

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