BREAKFAST AT THE DIVER — #52

Kirstin said good morning as I opened the door, and I said it too, zeroing in on the the stool I wanted. There was only one empty seat at the counter matched with an empty seat beside it, and the last pair was mine.

The diner was busy for a few minutes past six — fifteen people or so, and most were the same regulars I see here every Friday. Maurice said hi, but I was groggier than usual, and replied only by smiling and bouncing my head.

Kirstin poured me a cup of coffee and told me the daily special, but I wanted something more edible than a spinach omelet, so I ordered my usual.

I should’ve asked Kirstin where she’d been the past couple of weeks, but I was distracted by ongoing chatter from all directions, about something big that’s happened at the diner.

“I can’t believe Bob went for it,” said a vaguely familiar husky-looking 50-something white guy at the counter.

“Just a few years ago he said he’d never allow it,” Kirstin says, “so I can’t believe it myself.”

After a sip of damned fine coffee, I asked, “What can’t you believe?”

She said, “There’s an ATM in the back now,” and I wonder how long my mouth hung open. “Installed yesterday,” she added.

This diner is retro, and it’s not fake retro like one of those shiny chrome yuppie diners. Bob’s is authentic. 80 years in the same building, with all the original stools, original tables. Cash only. No website. The register still goes “ca-ching.” Almost nothing has changed here, ever.

Adding a cash machine is revolutionary. Biggest news since the diner was a grocery store.

“There’s no ATM sign outside,” Maurice said, and Kirstin explained that Bob thought a sign would be an invitation to burglars. ”He thinks they’d throw a rock through the front window, climb in and steal the machine, whenever the diner was closed and empty.”

“Well, the diner is only open seven hours a day,” said Phil, stating the obvious. He’s good at that.

Curiosity compelled me like the power of Christ in The Exorcist, so I left my coffee, and walked toward the back of the diner. On the right side, just before the men’s room door, there’s a small indentation in the wall, where there was a pay phone until about ten years ago. Now there’s an ATM, hanging on the wall.

The late 1970s have arrived at the diner.

As I returned from marveling at that newfangled contraption, and sat at my stool again, I cynically said, “Is Bob getting a cut of the fees?”

“Nope,” Kirstin said. “He’s not getting anything. No fees, no leasing for the space.”

Maurice said, “He’ll sell some extra breakfasts,” and that’s indisputable. It’s so routine I’ve maybe never mentioned it, but Kirstin or Harvey are always explaining to another would-be customer that the diner only takes cash.

Some of those customers dig deep and find cash. Some simply leave. Others listen as someone gives driving directions to the nearest ATM. I’ll bet even the listeners often leave and don’t come back, and instead eat breakfast somewhere else.

Yeah, Bob doesn’t need ATM fees. He’ll sell a few more breakfasts every morning.

♦ ♦ ♦

Big Hat swirled in, scatting and saying hello to the other customers. “Skeep de beep, biddily bop de beep, good morning Maurice, good morning Phil.” Anyone else I’d want to slug in the nose, but when she passed me she said, “Skeetle de beep, skeetle de bop, good morning, you,” and patted the top of my head, yeah, I smiled.

“Good morning, you,” I said, and “Skeetle.”

She’s a crazy dame. We’ve never said two dozen words to each other, but she’s comfortable patting my head, and I’m comfortable being patted.

On her way to one of the back tables, she stopped, gawking the ATM. She dropped to one knee in front of it, and said softly, “All Hail the Dollar, ruler of us all.”

Then she arose, tossed a biddily bop to an East Asian gent at a table near the cash machine, and sat at the diner’s farthest back-wall table, where she usually sits. Kirstin was immediately there with a pot of coffee, said good morning, and Big Hat said, “Hello, hello.” She ordered “Only toast and coffee, thanks,” and waved at me when she saw I was still watching.

Was Big Hat’s red hat extra red this morning? Maybe she’d re-dyed it or something? For a moment I thought so, but no, it’s only extra colorful, like Big Hat herself, when compared to a drab day and world out the window.

♦ ♦ ♦

A 50-something white woman cam, and sat alone at one of the front tables. She ordered coffee, looked at a menu — and I’d seen her before. She’s unforgettable, because she bears a slight resemblance to my late wife, especially when she smiles.

She smiled as Kirstin pours the coffee.

A gentleman shouldn’t stare at an attractive woman, but it’s twice as difficult abiding by that rule when she looks quite so much like the only lady I’ve ever especially loved.

♦ ♦ ♦

Kirstin to Maurice: “More coffee?”

Maurice: “No thanks, I’m about finished here.”

Phil: “I’ll take his refill, right here.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Kirstin to Sudden Urge: “Good morning, sweetie.”

Sudden Urge: “I love it when you call me ‘sweetie’.”

Kirstin: “I tried ‘snookums’ for a while, but it just didn’t work.”

♦ ♦ ♦

After eating hundreds of hotcakes and eggs here, how is it possible for someone I’ve never seen before to walk into the diner, and a dozen people say, “Hi, Paul!”?

He was just another middle aged white guy, not at all familiar to me, but Kirstin said, “Hi, Paul!”, and Phil said it, Husky White Guy said it, Sudden Urge said it, and Big Hat said, “Skiddily biddily bop de beep, good morning, Paul!”

The lady who looks a little like my wife smiled at him, and Paul, the man everyone knows but me, sat next to her. And, oh, then I recognized ‘Paul’. My mistake, I’d seen him before but forgotten him. Never caught his name until today, but he’s the rat bastard who’s married to the woman who looks like my wife.

♦ ♦ ♦

ManBun and Lady ManBun stepped into the diner, and Big Hat waved enthusiastically, from way at the back. The wave was an invitation, and the ManBuns accepted, and started walking toward a table near Big Hat. As they passed me at the counter, Lady ManBun smiled at me, and ManBun said, “G’morning, Domingo.”

There are, I’ve heard, cultures where your name is believed to hold mystical power, so you keep at least part of it secret, only for those you trust with that power. I have no complaints about ManBun except his silly hair, but when he asked my name once, I didn’t trust him with its awesome power, so I told him I’m Domingo. I am not in the witness protection program or anything, but every time he calls me Domingo, I smile.

♦ ♦ ♦

Bouffant-Walker walked in, saying hello to all the regulars, including “Hi, Paul!” Everybody loves Paul.

When Bouffant got to me, I said “Hi,” and he said, “Good morning, and I love your hippie look.” He carefully bent himself out of his walker and into a chair, while I looked at my hippie self. Guess he meant my tie-dye windbreaker — same windbreaker I’ve worn for years, every morning in the summertime, until it gets too hot by mid-morning.

After placing his order, Bouffant picked up his walker, turned it sideways, and started running his hands over it. “She’s squeaking too much,” he said. Then he was pushing and pulling at the walker, until he asked the diner, “Does anyone have a Phillips-head screwdriver?”

There’s a Phillips-head on my keychain, but I remained silent, and let everyone else mumble ‘nope’ or nothing and ignore the guy. The answer was a unanimous no, though, so I sighed and reached into my pocket, wordlessly walked to Bouffant’s table, unclipped the tiny screwdriver off my keychain, and handed it to him.

“Thank you!” he said, and he twisted and tightened a screw while I watched. Then he gently shook the walker, and asked me, “Do ya hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything,” I said.

“Exactly! Thank you again!” He handed me my tiny screwdriver, and I clipped it again to my keychain, returned to my seat, resumed eating my breakfast.

Bouffant was soon oohing and aahing at the ATM, and then talking to the diner. After a few minutes of words nobody was listening to, he semi-shouted at me, “Thanks again for being screwy!”

I smiled and nodded and pretended my mouth was full. The diner’s phone rang, and Bouffant said, “Saved by the bell!” That’s a joke he tells every two or three weeks.

♦ ♦ ♦

All morning long, the diner’s conversation kept coming back to the ATM. It’s big news, at the small diner. Bouffant said, “It’s like Gomer Pyle seeing a touch-tone phone for the first time — ‘Golly, Sgt Carter!’”
Kirstin said to someone, “The man installing it tried to show Bob how it works, but he wasn’t interested. Bob has never used an ATM in his life.”

Everyone at the diner had an opinion on the ATM, same as everyone at the diner has an opinion on everything. But someone surprising participated in the conversation, too. No, not me, silly. It was Hangover Harry, who did not seem to be hung over this morning.

I didn’t see him come in, and wouldn’t have recognized him — never before have I seen Harry not hungover. His eyes were normal human eyes, not so neon bloodshot red that they’d flag you down from a distance, and he wasn’t holding his head in pain. No sir, he was smiling, laughing, talking to Big Hat and the East Asian guy.

I wondered, Should I tell Harry he’s looking good this morning? Congratulate him on riding the wagon instead of falling off? Well, it’s too late now, he’d paid and left while I was still wondering.

With cash under my coffee cup, I wavee and nodded to a few of the diner’s denizens, said thanks to Kirstin, and then I left, too. I belched under my breath on the way out the door. Breakfast was over, damn it. Almost always, it’s the best 45 minutes of my week.

9/7/2021

Breakfast at the Diner

itsdougholland.com
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