May 8, 2021 

On a drive from Omaha to St. Paul in October of 2019, I was worn down by five hours spent dodging monster trucks with Trump Country decals. I needed a break and a meal. I found both at The Trumble’s Family Restaurant in Albert Lea, Minnesota, my hometown. And yes, that’s how the sign reads—The Trumble’s. Tempting material for a former editor like me. 

“Welcome to our cafe,” a young and vaguely familiar waitress greeted me, shrewdly avoiding the establishment’s name altogether. “Table or booth?” 

“Booth,” I replied. “But first things first. Is The Trumble here today?” 

Brief confusion turned to amused recognition. 

“No,” she said, eyes sparkling. “And I remember you now, Mr. Wise Guy. You’ve asked me that before.” 

I laughed so hard I nearly cried. 

“Forgive me,” I said after calming down. “I’ve been driving for hours, and it feels good to have some fun. I’m actually quite fond of names punctuated like yours. I only wish I had a dollar for every mailbox in the country marked up the same way. I’d be rich as Rockefeller.” 

“Who’s Rockerfella?” 

Rockerfella? I looked at her curiously. She winked and led me to a booth near the kitchen. I followed, shaking my head and chuckling at her truly great gotcha joke. I ordered the daily special - a hot beef sandwich - and a piece of sour cream raisin pie, southern Minnesota’s favorite dessert. The waitress nodded approvingly and turned toward the kitchen. I looked around the room. There were two single diners at counter stools and two older couples seated in a nearby booth. I opened my newspaper and started reading the business section. 

Ordinarily, I keep to myself when eating alone in public, paying no attention to those around me. Reading financial news must have primed my ear just right because I caught occasional monetary terms like “pension” and “assets” floating over on the otherwise distant voices of the two older couples. I listened closer. 

The only speech I could make out was from the deep, rumbling voice of one of the men. Luckily for my prying ear, he did nearly all the talking. 

And what talk it was - frequent mention of the Veterans Administration, pension income, veteran eligibility, and asset hiding, with several curious references to a certain lawyer to see before filing for a VA pension. 

Curious, indeed. With the provided clues and a few smartphone keystrokes, I was soon reading about the shameful practice of “pension poaching” - collecting a VA pension meant for destitute veterans and their families by concealing assets when applying. 

The waitress arrived with my lunch and spread it out on the table. 

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked. 

“Yes,” I replied with a fleeting glance at the other booth. “Some peace and quiet.” 

She laughed, then leaned in and nodded toward the others. 

“Tom is one of our more talkative regulars,” she whispered. “If it gets too loud, I can find you a quieter spot.” 

“Thanks, but this is good.” 

“All right. Enjoy your lunch.” 

I dug in. The beef sandwich was tender and tasty, with creamy mashed potatoes piled on top, all smothered by a rich, robust gravy. And the sour cream raisin pie? Sublime.  

As I ate, the voices from the other booth rose, and I began to regret not moving. 

The discussion of the two couples had shifted to immigration and the southern border wall. Tom, of course, had the sharpest and loudest opinion. Something about the country being overrun by illegal immigrants, all of them welfare moochers who belonged in jail. Heads in the booth bobbed in agreement. The only objection was a mild one - “Lower your voice, Tom,” one of the women said. 

Tom and his companions certainly had interesting, if conflicting, views on feeding at the public trough. I looked around the room. The other two diners had left. I was alone with my lunch and the pension poachers. 

Just then, amid more colorful opinions issuing from the other booth, the waitress stepped out of the kitchen. I motioned her over, miming the word “check”. I was more than ready to leave. 

The waitress rolled her eyes at the noise when she left the bill. I shrugged in return. 

After paying the cashier I returned to my booth and left a good tip. 

Only then did I notice talkative Tom’s MAGA cap. Struck by the gap between pension poaching and making America great again, I had to say something. I stepped over to their booth. 

“Excuse me.” 

They looked up at me blankly. 

“I just finished a good lunch myself right over there,” I said. “While I wish now I didn’t overhear your discussion about welfare moochers and hiding assets from the VA, I did. I just want to say this is a good and generous town, the only town I knew until I was twelve, and I think we could all benefit by showing more generosity ourselves.” 

Tom harrumphed. “So…you snoop on us, and we get a speech?” he said testily. 

“It’s a speech moment,” I answered. “VA pensions exist for good reason. I don’t want to see them abused, nor should you. And now, for disturbing your discussion, allow me to pay the tip.” 

I tossed a ten dollar bill on the table. 

“Hey!” Tom snapped. “We can pay our own damn tips!” 

“Exactly,” I said, and walked out the door. 

In the parking lot I reached for my keys but awkwardly missed my pants pocket. I looked down at my hand. It was shaking. 

Confrontations rarely have winners, my father used to say. I leaned against the car and watched the mid-afternoon traffic on East Main Street while cooling down from my dispiriting encounter with the pension poachers. The exuberance of my arrival at The Trumble’s was gone, replaced by a sobering reality. A few minutes later, with steadier hands but unsettled thoughts, I resumed my long drive home to St. Paul. 

Mark Bergen is a retired lawyer and editor living and writing in St. Paul, Minnesota. His nonfiction and short fiction work has appeared in Dogwood Tales Magazine, Split Rock Review, The Saturday Evening Post's New Fiction Friday online series, Good Old Days Magazine, and Drunk Monkeys Magazine.