I’m ensconced on my preferred stool at the diner, which is a special
treat indeed. Usually I settle for my third or fourth favorite stool,
because someone’s already claimed my most beloved perch, or someone’s
sitting too close to it. This morning, though, for the first time in
months, I’ve snagged the best seat in the house.

My section of the counter is deserted except for me, but there are
six other customers, and Kirstin is busy with several of them. She’s
resolving someone’s complaint, then taking an order, then delivering a
meal, so instead of the customary immediate greeting and quick shot of
java, I’m on my own, reading my magazine for a few minutes before she
gets to me.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sweetie,” she says when she arrives. “The
special today is andouille sausage, and for you we’ll make it as an
omelet. It’s already cooking.”

“It’s already cooking?”

“Yeah, I was busy,” she says. “but I knew what you’d order so it’s already on the grill.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. I do like the
andouille sausage, though. And dagnabbit, she’s right. If she tells me
that’s the special, that’s what I’ll order. But how — and now I switch from mental to vocal mode:

“How did you know that?”

“Ah, c’mon,” she says. “I know you. You usually order the house
omelet and hotcakes, but you’ll always consider the special. If the
special is a Tex-Mex omelet or kielbasa and eggs, you’re a maybe —
sometimes yes, sometimes no. If it’s biscuits and gravy, you’re usually
no. Cheeseburger omelet or spinach and cheese, you’re a
definite no. But when the special is the andouille sausage, you’re
always a yes. Soon as Harvey told me this morning what the special is, I
knew you’d order it when you got here. Same as I knew you’d be here,
this being Friday and all.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said. “You’re exactly right, of course.”

What I didn’t say is that sometimes I’m in awe of what this woman
does so routinely. Also, I’m glad she doesn’t work for the FBI.

I’ve been coming to this restaurant since before Moses parted the Red
Sea, and Kirstin has been working here longer than I’ve been coming
here, so she has my usual order memorized. That’s impressive. But she
also has all of my variants memorized like an Excel spreadsheet in her
head, and she can place my order without me — and get it right? On a
good day I am somewhat competent at my dumb job, but Kirstin is eleven
miles past competent at hers.

♦ ♦ ♦

Knitting Needle comes in with another woman about the same age, which
is middle. I notice them because, well, they’re women and by habit and
testosterone I tend to notice women. Then they sit at a table and
disappear from my brain until ten minutes later, when I hear the friend
say, “Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of it all?”

“Who says there’s a point?” Knitting Needle replies. “You do your best, and hope it’s good enough.”

“Sometimes I just want to go kerbang,” her friend says, miming a
pistol shot to the head, and I hope she’s joking. Knitting Needle
replies with a burst of laughter.

Nobody wants a suicide-prevention talk in the diner (though that
would be preferable, I suppose, to a suicide in the diner), and as they
continue talking, a few more sentences make it clear that neither of
them is on a ledge. It’s only two friends being honest about their
frustrations.

“I’m just so bored,” says the one who’s not Knitting Needle. “I’m
married to an OK man, I work an OK job, I make an OK dinner, I’m reading
an OK book, and it’s all OK. Every damn day is OK, and ‘OK’ is boring
the crap out of me.”

Set it to a catchy tune and she’s written a much-improved national
anthem. Knitting Needle nods and says, “I feel you, honey. I do.”

Now, let me change the subject and wax grumpy about that modern-day
cliché. I hate “I feel you.” You don’t “feel me” unless I’ve given
permission, and I’ve given no-one permission to feel me since my wife
died. Try saying, “I understand.” Or even “I feel your pain.” Say
anything, but not “I feel you.” Grammar matters, damn it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Outside it’s lightly raining, and a wet, windswept woman drips into
the diner. She sits at a table near the door, looking ill-at-ease.
Kirstin, of course, greets her like she greets everyone. “Good morning,
Sweetie. Would you like coffee?”

“I don’t have any money,” the woman says quietly. “I just wanted to be out of the rain.”

“Coffee then?” says Kirstin.

“Really?” she says. Kirstin smiles, brings a cup, and pours, and I do love this place.

♦ ♦ ♦

The phone rings, and I barely notice, because the diner’s phone rings
a lot, with people ordering take-out because they’re skittish about
eating inside during a pandemic that’s killed 200,000 and is still
gathering momentum. People smarter than me, to be honest.

At the second ring, Slim shouts from the kitchen, “Are you out there,
Kirstin? I’m in the middle of something.” Hmmm. There’s just Kirstin
and Slim this morning, and I don’t see Kirstin anywhere. Like most
humans, she sometimes needs to be in a different room all by herself,
and I’m guessing that’s where she is.

At the third ring, Slim says, barely audible over the sound of
whatever’s sizzling on the grill, “Ah, well, the machine answers after
the third ring.” But it rings a fourth time, and he says, “Aw crap, the
machine isn’t on. Well, they can call back later.”

Usually I’m a coward and I’d hesitate until the moment had passed,
maybe wishing afterwards that I’d done something, but for some reason
this morning I have an idea and instantly decide to do it. Why not? I’d
be doing Kirstin a solid. A couple of months ago, a customer walked
behind the counter to use the sink, and nobody freaked out. So I lift
myself off the stool, beeline behind the counter, and midway through the
sixth ring, I pick up the phone. Slim is still working at the grill but
he laughs when he sees me, before I even say a word.

“Bob’s Diner,” I say to the phone. A man’s voice says something but I
can’t understand, because I’m hard of hearing and it’s loud near the
kitchen and there’s static on the line. “Excuse me?” I say, and he says
louder, ‘Something cheese omelet’. I have a pen clipped to my shirt cuz
I’m geeky, but I don’t have anything to write on, so I write ‘CHZ O’ on
one hand, holding the phone with the other. The cord under my neck
starts strangling me, while I mumble, “What kind of toast?” I’ve heard
Kirstin ask these questions for years, so I can do this. He answers, and
I write ‘WH’. My next question is “Coffee or anything?” The voice says
‘Yup’ so I scribble ‘COF’ and say “That’ll be about ten minutes,” like
I’ve heard Kirstin and Harvey and Slim say.

I’m doing good, but here’s a curve ball. He asks what it will cost,
and I don’t know. I eat here once weekly, but haven’t looked at the menu
in years. Ball park guess? “Uh, ten bucks or so.” I hang up, forgetting
to say thanks, and then Kirstin is chuckling behind me, with a little
green order pad in her hand.

“So,” she says, “what’s the order?”

I look at my hand (‘CHZ O WH COF’) and say, “Cheese omelet, white
toast, and coffee.” She writes it down in proper restaurantese, but I’m
thinking, Wait a minute, did he say white toast, or wheat? Why did I only write ‘WH’?
Well, I’m 60% certain he said white, but I’m also suddenly wondering
whether ‘something cheese omelet’ might have been ‘ham and cheese
omelet’ or ‘sausage and cheese omelet’ instead of just ‘cheese omelet’.

“Hash browns or American fries?” Kirstin asks me.

“I, uh, didn’t ask.” Because I don’t even know the difference.

“Most people order hash browns,” Slim says, still cooking someone’s breakfast. “Let’s go with that.”

“Cream and sugar?” Kirstin asks.

“No idea.” I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.

“Did you get a name?”

“Uh, no.”

“OK,” Kirstin says, handing the green sheet to Slim. “You did real
good for a first effort, but you still have to pay for your breakfast.”

I sit down at my plate, chug my coffee, and watch as Kirstin wipes
down the phone where I’d handled it, because COVID will kill you if
you’re not careful.

A few customers are looking at me, or maybe I’m imagining it, and
yeah, I’m embarrassed and second-guessing what I did. I thought it might
be a laugh, but instead I thoroughly screwed it up.

Damn it — but also, Oh, well. You do your best, and hope it’s good enough. Now quit looking at me, please. I’m reading my magazine here.

 

I’m a grumpy old man who lives alone and has few friends —
basically a hermit. Once a week I have breakfast at my favorite diner.
Most weeks it’s my only in-person interaction with other humans, which
is not my strong suit.

Yeah, I’m aware of the coronavirus, so I go to the diner at dawn,
before it gets busy. I wash my hands before and after, cough into my
elbow, spray Lysol on my food, pay at my plate, tell the waitress to
keep the change, and hold my breath while leaving until I’m outside.
It’s a little more dangerous than staying at home, but life would suck
without breakfast at the diner, so get off my lawn.

And remember, decent people leave a generous tip. Breakfast at the Diner
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