BREAKFAST AT THE DINER — #6

The first thing I noticed was that Kirstin wasn’t there. She’s the diner’s only waitress, so when she’s absent one of the cooks comes out and takes orders, pours coffee, etc. Sure enough, there was Harvey, one of
the cooks, taking someone’s order.

I was eyeing the situation but hadn’t sat down yet. It flashed across my mind to give up, drive home come back for breakfast some other day when Kirstin’s taking orders and pouring coffee. But nah. I was at the diner, and wanted breakfast.

It was 6:06 AM, and there were more than a dozen customers, biggest crowd I’ve seen since the diner re-opened after three months locked up for the pandemic. Seems a lot of people are coming in as soon as the diner opens at 6:00, same as I’ve been doing. It’s strategic; there’s less risk of getting the virus if you beat the crowd, but we’ve become the crowd.

Most customers were seated at the counter, where I wanted to be. Under the ever-changing health rules, there are supposed to be two empty stools between every customer at the counter, couples excepted. Only one legal stool remained, so it was mine, and as I slid in the black man two stools to my right said, “You win, you get the last seat at the counter.”

“Yup,” I answered. That was me, trying to be friendly.

♦ ♦ ♦

As a waitress, Harvey is a damned good cook. He’s a grey-haired non-nonsense man with tattoos on his arms and a pen behind each ear, and of course, a mask on his face. To complete the look he should have a pack of cigarettes rolled into one sleeve of his t-shirt, but maybe he doesn’t smoke.

He approached, nodded at me, tapped his pen on the counter and said, “You want coffee?”

“Yup.” I said, thinking, Of course I want coffee. Without coffee what’s the point? Kirstin never needs to ask.

“Today’s special is kielbasa and eggs.”

“Sounds good,” I replied. “Can I have that as an omelet?”

“How do you want your eggs?” he asked.

I tilted my head, confused. “In an omelet?”

“Easy, hard, scrambled?”

“Uh … surprise me,” I answered, giving up. I usually order the same omelet every time, my “usual,” but when there’s a daily special, I’ll sometimes order that instead. The special, though, whatever it is, always comes with eggs and hash browns and toast. It’s usually not an omelet, but Kirstin knows I’m an omelet guy, so when she tells me the daily special she always adds, “and we can make that for you as an omelet.” Kirstin’s been breaking that rule for so many years I’d forgotten there is a rule.

Harvey, though, plays by the rules.

♦ ♦ ♦

This morning’s multitude meant more conversation than usual. I don’t partake, and most of what I heard was conversation not worth having or hearing. Today’s top topics were socialism (customer consensus: no) and space exploration (consensus: yes) and the ongoing BLM protests (consensus: maybe). Someone asked about Fourth of July fireworks, and Harvey said, “Nope, the fireworks got shit-canned. Crowds. Unsafe.”

The old man who always complains about his medical issues same in, took a seat at a table ‘cuz there was no room at the counter, and — guess what? — he complained about his medical issues.

♦ ♦ ♦

A twentyish white guy came in, wearing a Grateful Dead hoodie, with a manbun and a beard that was out of control, and he sat at a table. Never seen him before but I was thinking he’s gotta be a hippie or stoner. Not that there’s anything wrong with hippies or stoners, though I was skeptical of his manbun.

He seemed bewildered by the concept of a menu. “Do you have smoothies?” he asked.

“You know what?” said Harvey, not nasty but not negotiable: “We do not have smoothies.” He pointed to the beverage section of the one-page menu and said, “You think it over, I’ll be back.”

♦ ♦ ♦

It reminded me of the famous Honey Incident. I wasn’t there, but all the regulars know this story, and I’m a regular so I’ve heard it:

Lady comes in and orders tea with honey. The answer is, “Honey? We don’t have honey. This ain’t a fancy place.” I don’t know who said it; sounds like Harvey or Bob, the owner. All I know is, the lady got all huffy, walked out, and she’s been a punchline at the diner ever since.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next customer was a wiry black man in ratty clothes, almost bald and what hair he had was grey. He was … ‘shuffling’ would be accurate, but that word has unpleasant overtones if you’re describing a black person, so let’s say he was dragging his shoes and walking somewhat precariously.

He pulled out a chair at the table next to ManBun, but from behind the counter Harvey hollered, “Please take the corner table,” which would keep the required six-foot separation.

Seemed obvious that the new man was homeless, and yup, when Harvey came to his table the man said, “My money is mostly in change, but I have enough.”

“Have you counted it?” Harvey asked. “I don’t want to be haggling when we’re finished.”

“I have the money,” he said again, and took a big plastic bag out of his pocket, plopped it loudly on the table. It was mostly coins, with a few dollar bills. “Nine dollars and forty cents,” he announced.

“Well, then,” said Harvey, “can I start you with a cup of coffee?”

♦ ♦ ♦

The cook — not Harvey, but a husky guy I think of as “Slim” — slid my breakfast in front of me without a word. It was eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, and two generous lengths of kielbasa. I’d never had breakfast at Bob’s that wasn’t an omelet, and I wasn’t optimistic about it.

I sighed, stabbed the meat, lifted it to my mouth, took a whiff and then took a bite, and — Sweet jeebers, that’s good! I might have said it out loud.

The kielbasa was better than perfect, and the eggs were also exquisite, and my perception of time and space and reality was severely altered. Harvey got the same tip Kirstin always gets.

♦ ♦ ♦

Back to take the homeless man’s order, Harvey started with, “How about you hang on to your change, and I’ll buy you eggs and toast and coffee? That’s a one-time deal.”

What is this, a Hallmark movie? I clicked my pen and wrote what Harvey had said, word for word.

The man said, “Thanks,” and asked for scrambled eggs and white toast. Harvey nodded and walked away. And with no hesitation, ManBun and BaggieChange began a lengthy conversation, with the former frequently saying “Excuse me?” because the latter was slurring his words. He might’ve been drunk, might’ve been injured, or it might’ve been a speech impediment.

BaggieChange talked about how much he misses baseball, and he knows more than I do about the local team. ManBun talked about the virus, and mentioned that he’s in a band that’s performing this afternoon in an open-air fundraiser for the BLM Bail Fund. He invited his new friend to attend, told him where and when, and his answer was, “Sounds cool, I’ll try to be there.”

♦ ♦ ♦

A couple of teenagers came in, one black, one Asian, and some seats had opened at the counter, so that’s where they sat. You see some 20s people at the diner, but not many teens without parents. They were talking about the protests, and the police, and some news that didn’t make the news.

Last night, according to the teenagers, some wingnut drove his car not quite into the picketers but close enough to bump people and topple a few. Some of the protesters were helping the injured people, while others were banging on the car’s fenders and windows, and then the cops showed up.

Being cops, they pepper-sprayed everyone in the protest, including people injured and on the ground, and shoved people away from the car so the wingnut who’s tried to kill them could safely drive away.

One of the teenagers summed it up better than I could: “Yeah, let’s pretend nobody knows why the protests sometimes turn violent.”

♦ ♦ ♦

After BaggieChange and ManBun had both left, separately, Harvey the waitress finally came ’round to refill my coffee, and I said, “You know, you handled that classy.”

He said, “Handled what?”

“The homeless guy.”

“Oh, him,” he said. “We see him once in a while when he’s flush, and he always pays in change. Never any trouble. But right now, pandemic and all, I don’t want his change in the register, handing it out to the next customer. It just seemed smarter to comp his bill, but Bob might be mad at me when he comes in.”

“Contagious coins hadn’t occurred to me,” I said. “Good thinking. I’m guessing Bob won’t be mad.”

“Ah,” Harvey snarled as he walked away, “Bob’s a decent guy, but you don’t want to mess with his money.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The restaurant was almost empty by the time I left, which has happened the past few weeks, and I made a mental note to show up half an hour later next time. With luck, that’ll be just as the beat-the-crowd crowd is leaving.

Without kind words from Kirstin, the vibe was different this morning. I even saw the bottom of my coffee cup, which never happens when she’s there. I didn’t ask where she was, though. That’s none of my business, but I do hope Kirstin’s not doing the COVID.

7/3/2020
Republished 2/8/2025

Breakfast at the Diner

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