BREAKFAST AT THE DINER — #9

A sign on the diner’s door said: “Masks required” in big letters, and “Limit 10 customers” in smaller letters underneath. That’s been the county-wide rule for months, and now it’s posted on the door. When I walked in there were five customers; two masked, three eating.

As I walked to my stool, Phil and The Fixture were talking. I’ve seen them at breakfast, many times, but never seen them interact with each other before, and they’re an odd combo — a volcano, and a quiet meadow in springtime.

I’ve never spoken to Phil, but I know his name because everybody knows his name. He’s stereotypically Italian in mannerisms — lots of swooping arms and loud, colorful language — but I don’t think he’s Italian.

The Fixture is the opposite; he sits on the same stool every day, and says what he wants to say but always uses his “inside voice.”

“I used to be a law and order Republican,” Phil not quite shouted. He was clear more than loud — the clarity and perfect enunciation made his words audible everywhere in the place. “But I’ve seen too many videos of too many cops beating people up.”

“The videos are crazy,” said The Fixture, “and just awful, but what’s striking — literally — is that there are suddenly so many videos of so many police doing terrible things. It’s not a few bad apples, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not even sure there’s a few good apples,” Phil said. “No matter how many cops are caught on camera beating people up, you almost never hear about a cop being fired. You can’t fire a cop. It’s almost impossible. Their union backs them up no matter what they do, and their bosses back them up.”

All this was before I even got to my spot at the counter. And I loved hearing it, of course. Cops make me queasy.

As I slid onto my stool, The Fixture quietly said, “I’m a union guy. International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. I love my union, but you know, if I went crazy like some of those police, maybe intentionally wired short circuits and it was all on camera, I don’t think my union would back me. I hope they wouldn’t back me, like the police union backs police no matter what crimes they commit.”

“You’re damned right,” said Phil, and editorially I’ll add, The Fixture was damned right.

Didn’t say anything though, because nothing more needed to be said. Then Phil and The Fixture were talking about the coronavirus, but you know, it’s been months and it’s only getting worse and I’m coronavirussed out, so I stopped listening.

♦ ♦ ♦

A middle-aged lady came in, white, and also dressed mostly in white, which made her look 1950s snooty. And the wardrobe suited her character. She ordered something and eggs, and Kirstin the waitress asked, “How do you want your eggs?”

The woman said, “Shirred?”, but said it like she knew it was unlikely. I’ve never even heard of shirred eggs; had to write it down and look it up on Wikipedia when I got home.

Back in the real world, Kirstin politely explained that the diner doesn’t serve shirred eggs, and I was thinking, Bzzzz — try again.

The lady in white settled on over-easy with some further intricate instructions, and then Kirstin asked what kind of toast she’d like. This might be fun, I thought.

“A croissant?”

“Sorry —” Kirstin said, and the customer interrupted.

“Anadama?”

“We have white and wheat, and English muffins.”

“Twelve-grain?”

“I haven’t counted the grains,” said Kirstin, “but we get no complaints about our wheat toast.”

“Wheat, then,” the lady said. She looked sad, and I was discreetly glad. What restaurant did she think she was in? What country? It’s a diner, not a French boulangerie.

♦ ♦ ♦

“What’s with the sign?” The Fixture asked. “Masks required, maximum ten.”

“Slim put the sign up yesterday, after we had quite the scandal at lunch.”

“Scandal?”

“We were doing lunch service,” Kirstin explained, “and it was busy by COVID standards, which means not busy at all. It’s never busy these days, but ten’s the limit, and I keep a count of customers in my head.”

I’m thinking but don’t say, That sounds tricky. Customers are always finishing up and leaving, others coming in, so now in addition to saying hi and bye and taking their orders and bringing the food and pouring the coffee and ringing them up and keeping the tables clean, Kirstin also makes sure everyone’s masked, and runs an ongoing census in her head.

She continued: “We had nine customers when I excused myself and stepped into the ladies’ room, and when I came out, Slim was bringing coffee to a couple that he’d seated while I was indisposed.”

“Nine plus two…” said Bouffant-Walker, down the counter from me.

“… is eleven,” said Kirstin, pouring Bouffant a refill on his coffee. “That’s the math, so we had eleven customers inside.”

“Did you turn yourself in to the authorities?” Phil asked.

“No, and I’m not going to kick somebody out after we’ve seated them. I mean, I know the rules and I follow the rules. I believe in the rules, because my health is at stake here too, just as much as yours.”

“Hear, hear,” said The Fixture, but quietly.

“But this is a restaurant,” said Kirstin. “Service is what we do, so we served them, and for about five minutes we illegally had eleven customers in the building.”

“Holy crap,” said Phil, deadpan. “I’m calling the cops,” and he took a leisurely bite of hash browns, “soon as I’m done with my breakfast.”

“Didn’t know I was talking to a narc, Phil.” Kirstin chuckled and poured him more coffee.

“If you’re here to arrest someone,” Slim shouted from the back, “it was my fault, not hers. I forgot to count.”

“I’m not a cop,” Phil said, laughing.

“My fault, not yours,” said Kirstin. “When I said I was stepping out I should’ve told you ‘nine’.”

“I can count,” said Slim’s disembodied voice from the kitchen. “I just forgot to. Thought I was working at a restaurant, like in the old days.”

“You can count,” came Harvey’s voice, also from the back, “but you never mastered readin’ and wrintin’.”

“I’m workin’ on it,” said Slim.

“So Slim made us a sign,” Kirstin said to the tiny crowd, “and we’re hoping the customers will count if we lose track.”

There was a moment of sweet silence, and then Bouffant-Walker said, “I count six.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Two customers, unfamiliar to me and seated several stools apart at the counter, were talking with their mouths full, and somehow the subject was laundromats. One of them said his preferred laundry is still closed for COVID-19, and the other one said his is open but it’s disgusting and he doesn’t like going there.

Harvey was in the kitchen, and hadn’t been at all involved in this conversation, but he shouted out, “I like going to the laundry if there’s a pretty woman washing her panties.”

Oh yeah, Bob’s Diner is a classy place. I glanced over at Twelve Grain, and she looked two shades whiter than when she came in.

♦ ♦ ♦

Phil finished his breakfast, paid and walked toward the door, and Kirstin said, “Thank you, officer.”

“I’m still not a cop,” he said with a smile, and then he was gone.

The Fixture was still on his stool, sipping coffee, now and forever.

♦ ♦ ♦

A couple of white men in their 50s sat down at a table, and talked about real estate. You might think that would be boring, but it’s much more boring than you’d think.

Then a third white man in his 50s came in, joined them at their table, and they were all very enthusiastically cross-talking over each other. About real estate.

Through superhuman will power, I somehow did not stab my eyeballs with my fork.

♦ ♦ ♦

A young couple came in, he and she, white, maybe late-20s, early 30s. They walked to a table in the back, sat and presto, Kirstin was there. They order breakfast and coffee, and said exactly nothing to each other. When their food came, they ate wordlessly, always watching their screens and tap-tap-tapping.

When they were done, they paid at the register, and walked out. They were holding hands, so I guess they weren’t angry; they just weren’t speaking to each other. Other than ordering and saying “thank you” as they paid, it was nothing but silence, and scrolling on their devices.

I wanted to sneer at them, but I’d done the same thing. Hadn’t said a word beyond ordering my breakfast, and “thanks” every time Kirstin poured more coffee, and “thanks” again when I left. I sat on a stool for forty-five minutes, swallowed coffee and eggs, and said nothing. I was reading a magazine instead of a screen. Guess that’s the only difference.

Well, that, and I came to the diner alone. If I’d brought a date or a spouse or whatever, I would’ve coughed up a few words during breakfast. 

7/24/2020
Republished 3/1/2025

Breakfast at the Diner

itsdougholland.com
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