After pouring my coffee and taking my order, Kirstin cracked a concise joke — eight or ten words. From her tone of voice I could tell that it was a joke, but I could only make out one of the words (“mailbox”).
AT THE DINER
#17
Sigh. I’ve grown hard of hearing in my old age, but a joke told a second time is only annoying to everyone, so I laughed like it was funny and let it go.
♦ ♦ ♦
Two old and white and grumpy men were talking at a table, about the news on TV and whether they believe it.
“When I was young it was Walter Cronkite,” said Grump #1. “He was telling the truth and there was never any doubt about it.”
“There are no Cronkites now,” said the second grump. “He had wrinkles, and they don’t allow wrinkles on TV these days.”
“Yeah, everyone on the news has to be young and handsome, or young and pretty, or both.”
“I don’t think they’re lying,” said Grump #2, “I’m just not sure they know what they’re talking about. Don’t you get the impression that they’re just reading lines someone’s written for them?”
“I believe the news the same as I believe the weather forecast,” says #1. “They’re not lying, and they’re not making things up — at least, not on the real news channels. They’re reporting what they think, only sometimes they’re wrong, just like the forecast.”
“If you’re watching the real news, yeah.”
“For me it’s sometimes NBC, always PBS, never CNN, and absolutely never Fox. That shit shouldn’t even be called ‘news’.”
It was a conversation I could’ve joined in, but of course, I didn’t. I don’t talk much, and don’t watch news on TV at all. I prefer newspapers and websites where the reporters worry more about having the facts right and less about having their hair right.
Still, I agreed with the grumps’ skepticism and sentiment, so ten stools away I lifted my coffee cup and gently mimed bumping champagne glasses, nodding at those old guys. Neither of them noticed.
♦ ♦ ♦
Bouffant-Walker came in, and rolled past my stool. He said, “Good morning,” as he always does, so I was required by law to say the same. Then he said something more — I can’t remember what — and all of a sudden we were almost in a conversation. I took a long, slow sip of coffee and held it at my mouth for too long, but Bouffant was still talking, and to me fer cripes sake, as he took his seat at a nearby table.
Had I inadvertently encouraged him by saying more than merely good morning? I smiled, but turned away as he kept talking, putting him on ‘hard ignore’ and concentrating on my omelet.
♦ ♦ ♦
The Bible Bros were seated at what seems to be their favorite table, up front by the window where I’ve seen them before. Again they were engaged in tedious conversation about the Bible, and today it was specifically the King James Version.
One of them believes the KJV is the best translation of the holy scripture (he says ‘holy scripture’ more often than he says ‘the Bible’) but the other Bible Bro went further. He said that the people hired by King James to translate the divinely-inspired word of God into English were themselves divinely inspired. So you get two sets of divine inspiration in one Good Book.
It’s a free country. You’re entitled to care about anything you wish, and these two? They care about this. They were almost arguing — no sir, it’s not merely a question of which translation might be more accurate or inspirational, because God Himself sat at the table and assisted in the translation of the KJV.
I will swear on a stack of King James Bibles that I have nothing against God, or against people who believe in God, but c’mon. It’s like anal sex or a difficult bowel movement — things you don’t need to hear strangers arguing about at the diner.
♦ ♦ ♦
Maurice and ManBun were seated near each other at the counter, and talking. They’re an unlikely mismatch — Maurice is ancient, and ManBun is a tie-dye dopey Rastafarian, today wearing a crocheted hippie hat, so I had to take his manbun on faith.
They were chatting about baseball, which reaches across the multi-generation gap. Someone hit a home run a few days ago, but was ejected from the game as he stepped on home plate.
“That umpire is too full of himself. Gotta let your ego go and let the players play the game,” said Maurice.
“He kicked dirt on the plate, and we can’t have that,” said ManBun, sarcastically.
“Well, whoop-de-doo,” said Maurice. “The ump has a little broom in his pocket, right? He sweeps home plate a hundred times every game. Make him sweep it 101 times and you’re sent to the showers?”
“Authority is always the problem,” ManBun explained, correctly. “It’s a rare person who’s given authority and doesn’t abuse it.”
“Absolutely,” said Maurice. “Question authority, always.”
Something about the way he said those words gave the impression that he’d said those words many, many times, and he believes those words. The rest of their conversation was lost to me as I looked at that old man, Maurice, across the diner. I’ve observed him from a distance through hundreds of breakfasts, but this morning for the first time I wondered about Maurice and his life.
He’s older than me, and I’m in my sixties. If he’s in his seventies, and it’s 2020, some simple subtraction suggests that Maurice was in his twenties circa 1970. Which means that he might have been a hippie, an original hippie, way back when. Or at least he might’ve had some counterculture in him, maybe carried a placard or resisted the draft or smoked some serious doobie in his time. So I guess it’s not so odd that Maurice and ManBun should strike up a conversation.
♦ ♦ ♦
The phone rang several times during this morning’s breakfast, with phoned-in orders to go. Harvey said earlier, the phone orders are what’s keeping the diner in business.
The first time the telephone rang, Bouffant-Walker said, “I’ll get it,” like folks his age and mine used to say when the landline rang at home. He didn’t get the phone, it was only a joke.
When I was a teenager, I said made exactly that joke many times, if a phone rang at a public location — the library, a gas station, whatever. Thought it was brilliantly funny every time I said it. It’s bizarre to hear an old man make the same lame joke.
When the phone rang a second time later on, Bouffant said, “I’ll get it,” again.
Third time it started ringing, I glanced at him expectantly out the corner of my eye, but Bouffant had his mouth full so good manners kept him quiet. He couldn’t resist, though, and started chewing faster, took a sip of coffee to wash whatever down his throat. It was maybe three seconds since the first ring, and into the second ring as Kirstin walked toward the phone, and I knew Bouffant was going to say something, and pretty sure it would be dumb. He swallowed and shouted, “Saved by the bell!”
That’s almost painful, but as stupid as that line was, I could picture myself saying the same stupid thing. I tend to keep zipperlipped in public, but at home half-witticisms like that are just about all I say when I’m talking to myself. My sense of humor is 95% silly puns and potty humor and mockery.
And I smiled, remembering how patiently my wife put up with all my low-wattage wisecracks like that, for twenty-plus years. Thank you, dear.
9/19/2020
Republished 5/31/2025
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.
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