On the last morning, before the waffle irons went cold and the pictures came down, before the lock refused to lock, before the claw crashed through the roof, the old man paced. Tap, tap, tap. Bud Powellâ€™s aluminum cane led the way as he circled the floor of Bloomingtonâ€™s Waffle House. His Waffle House. That Wednesday in September, the owner didnâ€™t know what to do with himself.