I arrived at the diner later than usual, because I’d fallen asleep while getting dressed. It was still dark out, and I’d sat down to pull some socks onto my feet, when suddenly there was sunlight and an hour had passed. I’m shaking my head, just remembering it. Getting old is something I hope there’s time to get accustomed to.

It was about the latest I’d ever gotten to the diner, so the cast of characters was different than usual. Again, there was no Fixture on the front stool, but maybe he’d already eaten and left. Bouffant-Walker was at the back of the counter, which makes sense; he usually comes in about half an hour after me, so he’d be finishing shortly.

At the counter were two old white guys I didn’t recognize. Another old white guy was alone at a table in the front. Three more old white guys were at three different tables in the back. It was Old White Guy Day at the diner, and I was the seventh.

Bob was cooking, which is unusual. He’s the old white guy who owns this place. Picture Lou Grant, but grumpier and wearing a sweatshirt instead of a tie. Pre-2020, Bob was in the kitchen about half the times I ate at the diner, but I’ve rarely seen him since the virus came and kicked ‘normal’ out of town.

Bob saw me enter and slightly tipped his head, a mini-nod. I may have blushed. He’s the strong silent type, and for Bob, that tiny nod was the equivalent of a hearty handshake and a clap on the back.

I strategized a stool at the counter, as far as feasible from all the other old white guys. My habit is to take notes on the more interesting conversations overheard, but I’d never complain if there were no conversations at all, except perhaps for a few words with Kirstin, the waitress. She’s always smiley and chatty, but in a way that’s inexplicably not annoying.

She told me about the day’s daily special, as usual, but as usual I ordered my usual instead.

♦ ♦ ♦

A young black woman walked in, and even with half her face hidden behind a mask, there was no not-noticing that she was very pretty. Like, she belonged on a TV show, not in this dumpy little diner. Second thing I noticed is that she had a baby with her, in a bassinet with a wicker handle. The baby, of course, was not wearing a mask. There’s no way to keep a mask on a baby’s face, something I’d never pondered until that moment.

Kirstin took the woman’s order, and goo-goo gaw-gawed the baby. That’s a female thing, but the kid was dang adorable, almost as adorable as its mother. Being a baby, the damned thing could’ve started crying at any moment, but it was our lucky morning and the tot remained cute and quiet.

A flurry of thoughts flooded across the dry prairies of my brain: I’s a risk eating an omelet in the diner while a pandemic rages, because it’s my choice. Who knows about other people’s lives, other people’s choices? I can’t and won’t judge, but it feels worrisome to bring a baby into this place, while masks are required, seating is limited by law, and everyone still flinches when anyone coughs.

I still wasn’t judging a few minutes later, when it turned out that the lady’s order was to go. Bag in one hand, bassinet in the other, she butt-bumped her way out the door, and half a dozen men sighed.

♦ ♦ ♦

Two more old men came in, one black, one white, and took a table together. They’re buddies, and I’ll call them Salt & Pepper, though I’d never say it out loud.

They got coffees and menus and talked about their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, which surprised me. They’re old, but I wouldn’t have guessed they were that old. They brought family or vacation pictures, not on a device but in an old-fashioned scrapbook, which they showed to Kirstin, who was either interested or expertly faked it. This time she didn’t goo-goo gaw-gaw, but she came close with oohs and aahs.

After looking at several pictures, she assumed the classic take-order position, pen in hand, and said, “Are you guys eating this morning?”

“Yeah, it’s still a restaurant, right?”

“Nope, we’re a tattoo parlor now,” she said. “You order breakfast, we ink it on your arm.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Two women came in together, and sat at the counter. The were middle-aged, which made them the youngest people in the building. From what I could eavesdrop, they were longtime friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while. Whatever happened to this person? and Did you hear about that person?, and so on.

Their otherwise dull dialogue briefly snagged my attention when one asked, “So, are you for Biden?”

“Oh, God, no,” said the other. “There’s nothing in that man to be ‘for’, but he’s not Trump so I’m voting for Biden.” They both laughed, and I smiled at the distinction, and agreed.

♦ ♦ ♦

Later on, an old white man was yakking with yet another old white man at the counter, a decidedly stupider conversation.

“I don’t care about Trump’s politics,” said what I fear is a typical
American voter, “but he pisses off all the people I hate, so I love
him.”

“Biden makes more sense when he’s talking about the pandemic,” said
the other old guy. “Or about anything. I’m voting for him.”

“Not me,” said the first guy. “Biden is a damned socialist.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake” I said, surprising myself. I’d spoken out loud, a little too loud, and I was staring right at the dumb guy.

“Was I talking to you?” he said, fists clenched all tough-like.

I snickered, not because I’m brave or itching for a fight, but because he was a frail-looking elderly dullard, not the rowdy ruffian he remembers or imagines himself. Here’s an approximation of the man shook his fist at me:

“When you say something stupid, and say it loud enough to be heard…”, and I shrugged instead of finishing my sentence. The shrug seemed to calm him, and maybe it calmed me.

“So you’re a socialist?” he said to me, and I gave up.

“I’m someone who knows what words mean.”

If any undecided voters are reading this, let me reassure you that Biden would not nationalize General Motors and Bank of America.

♦ ♦ ♦

After Kirstin brought breakfast to Salt & Pepper, they showed her more pictures from Salt’s family album. I felt sorry for Kirstin, just trying to be a waitress and these old geezers were making her endure family photos. Pretty soon, though, it because clear that Kirstin actually knows that old geezer, and his whole family.

“Well, of course,” he said, “we’ve been coming to this diner since before Shep was born.” Who or what Shep is or was wasn’t explained, but I reckon it means they’ve been eating here for a long time, and Pepper explained that as well.

“Since the ’80s, I think.”

Salt said to Kirstin, “That’s even before you were working here.”

“Was there a time before I worked here? I thought I was born and raised in this restaurant.”

♦ ♦ ♦

My breakfast, of course, was fantastic. It’s always fantastic, but it’s even better when it’s made by Bob the Breakfast-Builder himself. Did he maybe make my portions a little larger, because I’m a little larger, and usually I’m not obnoxious? I glanced at him in the kitchen while scribbling ‘Bob the Breakfast-Builder’ into the margin of my magazine. He looked up, so I returned his miniature nod from forty minutes earlier.

Then I napkinned my face and left money and tip under my empty coffee cup on the counter. I slipped my mask over my face, and said “Thanks” to Kirstin, and “Adios” to the Ancient Republican who’d shook his fist at me. But I said it smiling.

I was almost out the door when Kirstin yelled, “Hey, Doug, do you want your magazine?”

“Uh, yeah.” I desperately want my magazine. How could I forget it? I’ll never write for The New Yorker, but I’ve written all over The New Yorker for years, including this morning. All my notes are inside it, written in pink penmanship on any page with ads or excess white space — pink, just because I happened to bring a kooky pen this morning. If anyone flipped through my copy, pink words would shout everything everyone had said and done at the diner, as I’d eaten my eggs.

Some of my notes include, “Nod from Bob,” “Gorgeous black woman with baby,” “Salt & Pepper grandkids,” and “Asswipe old fart says Biden is a socialist.” The notes in the magazine are how I write these entries, basically stealing words and sentences and conversations from all the strangers and staff at the diner. It’s plagiarism and an invasion of privacy, but it’s fun so what the hell. 

9/25/2020
Republished 7/17/2025

Breakfast at the Diner
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