Kirstin smiled and said, “Hi, Doug,” as she was sanitizing a stack of menus. Once upon a time she asked me, “What’s your name?” and I told her, and it’s been years but she still remembers who I am.

She’s the only person at the diner who knows my name, and sometimes I wish I’d made up a fake name way back when — I’d like to be ‘Domingo’. But I was glad Kirstin was working. She wasn’t, my last two visits.

The diner opens at 6:00, and my intent was to be first through the door this morning, to arrive before The Fixture. Nope, got there at 6:02 and was on his ordinary stool, sipping coffee. He’s always at the diner before me, and usually still there when I leave. Nothing against the guy but it would be nice if just once, he wasn’t there. I mean, a few years back the pie-fridge was missing one morning, sent out for repairs, but The Fixture is always there, and always sitting at the same spot.

One of these weeks, If I’m ever at the diner before he is, I might sit on his proprietary stool, just to see his reaction. I’ll try for 6:00 again next week.

♦ ♦ ♦

Not counting me because I don’t count, there were four customers, all seated at the counter. Clockwise, it was Health Report, an old while man who talks about his aches and pains; Just the Hash Browns, another old white man who always orders exactly that; Bouffant-Walker, yet another old white guy, but with puffy grey hair and a walker; and a younger black man I haven’t seen before. At the diner, ‘younger’ means late-30s or early-40s.

Last week’s azalea was still behind the cash register, but drooping.

At the counter, Kirstin had already brought cream and poured my coffee. In addition to knowing my name, she knows my coffee.

“The special today is eggs with spaghetti and meatballs,” she said, and I thought about it and might’ve ordered it, but “Gotcha!” she said. “We don’t have a special today.”

I smiled under my mask, and ordered “the usual,” and of course, she knows my “usual,” too. “Specials only on the weekend now,” she added, “until business picks up or the COVID goes away.”

♦ ♦ ♦

An Asian man walked in with a newspaper tucked under his arm, sat a few stools from me at the counter, ordered coffee and breakfast, and read. He was in his 50s or 60s, of course; anyone younger wouldn’t “read a newspaper” — how quaint.

When he turned the page, there came the familiar but forgotten sound of foot-wide newsprint crinkling.

Newspapers, man — on paper. Way back when, I always came to this diner (and other diners, in other places) with a newspaper, and read it while waiting for breakfast, and when the food came I read the paper while chewing breakfast. When I was young I came alone with a newspaper, and after we were married I came with a newspaper and my wife, who brought a different newspaper so we could trade.

Then newspapers were murdered by the internet, and the papers that haven’t died are now slimmer and shallower, with not enough news to make it through breakfast before there’s nothing to read. These days I bring a magazine instead. Wish I could bring my wife, but damn it, she’s gone.

♦ ♦ ♦

I glanced up from my omelet and saw Bouffant-Walker through the diner’s front window. He was outside on the sidewalk, approaching the door. Old guy, walker, fantastic hair, but wait a minute, wasn’t he already in the diner?

I looked to my left down the counter and then out the window again, and no, these were two different old duffs with white hair and walkers. The guy at the counter had a shock of white hair, but it wasn’t as majestic as Bouffant’s. And he had a white mustache, but the real Bouffant is clean-shaven. They looked enough alike to fool me, though, because I don’t look closely at old dudes with walkers.

Genuine Bouffant stopped a few yards from the diner’s front door, reached into his pocket, pulled out a comb and beautified his enviably fluffy hair. He has wrinkles and warts, he’s at least somewhat disabled, and he probably shouldn’t start reading a long book, but the man still wants to look good when he steps out in public. Same pride and vanity as any of us.

He nudged the door open, walkered in, and rolled past the artificial Bouffant. It was eerie when the real thing nodded at the knock-off and the knock-off nodded back. There’s an episode of Doctor Who where if they touch each other it could rip open the fabric of time and space, but I guess we’re all spared because nobody touches during the pandemic.

Bouffant mumbled “Good morning” to me as he walked/rolled past my stool, and I responded like you’re supposed to, manners and all. He took the table closest to my stool, although there were plenty of empty tables a little farther away. Thankfully, he didn’t try talking with me past the good morning.

But he did talk. Always does. He talks to himself, or to the diner. He said one sentence every few minutes, and it was hard to catch the meaning because there’s a semi-stutter to his words, somewhat Porky Pig but with a deeper tone and an unidentifiable accent. He’s understandable when you’re expecting him to talk, like “Good morning” or if he’s in a conversation I’m overhearing, but when I’m reading and he says something random to the restaurant, it’s harder to make sense of him.

At various times this morning, he made announcements about marijuana, about Black Lives Matter, about his eggs, and about, I think, romance languages. Once he said, “I always liked this song,” talking to the radio in the kitchen that was playing “Crocodile Rock.” Bouffant might be old enough to remember when rock was young.

He does the same thing whenever I see him at the diner, and it must be frustrating for the old geezer. He wants to say something, but has no-one to say it to, so he says it to strangers who don’t particularly want to listen. I do the same thing, of course, but I do it online with a keyboard.

♦ ♦ ♦

One or two at a time, customers walked into the diner wearing a mask, sat down and ordered while wearing a mask, and then unveiled when there was coffee to drink or food to be eaten. Some customers are so cautious, they put the mask on again when they’re talking to someone, even over breakfast.

Almost unanimously, everyone masks-up again as they’re paying and leaving, even though they’ll be outside in just a minute or two, and outside air is supposed to be safe.

Goes without saying, the staff is masked at all times. The masks and the spirit of the masks make the diner feel maybe not safe but safer, amidst the coronavirus craziness. Plus, it’s the law.

On the internet, we’ve all seen videos of imbeciles who refuse to wear a mask, screaming and spewing spittle about their god-given or constipational right to breathe. The videos are amusing and/or terrifying, and the imbeciles are a key reason America’s dying more than other countries. Haven’t yet seen an imbecilic moment like that in person, because my stories take place in Madison, Wisconsin, and we’re mostly liberals, not morons.

It happened yesterday at the diner, though, and Kirstin told me and my neighbors at the counter about it, while she was pouring refills.

“A middle-aged couple came in,” she said, “past the ‘Masks required’ sign on the door, and they weren’t wearing masks. Maybe they didn’t see the sign, so I said, ‘Masks required, please’.” Sounded like she said it nicely, of course, because she’s Kirstin.

“The man said, ‘We’re ordering to go,’ as if that makes it OK? Harvey was here, though. He came up front and said, ‘I don’t care if you’re ordering to go to the moon‘.”

Harvey is one of the cooks, and Kirstin chuckled retelling it. “‘Masks on, please’.” She said it in her own voice, but I heard it in Harvey’s voice, which is much less pleasant. With Harvey, it would’ve been the harshest possible rendition of ‘please’.

“The man said, ‘We don’t have any masks, and we don’t wear —’ and that’s all he said, because Harvey said, ‘Out!’ and pointed to the door. Nobody messes with Harvey when he’s angry… Well,” (Kirstin added, parenthetically) “except that one time, but that’s another story for another day. Anyway, they turn around and leave, and I hope they enjoyed breakfast somewhere else.”

There was laughter at the story’s end, and murmurs from the diner’s small crowd, but the word I heard most clearly came from the table behind me and to my right. It was Bouffant-Walker saying, “Dumbshits,” which got more chuckles, and then everyone went back to their breakfasts or coffee.

Bouffant is a character. He’s weirdly friendly, but always eats alone. He addresses the room from his table whenever a thought occurs to him, but what he says (when I can understand it) is usually interesting or funny — not funny ‘crazy’ but funny like he has a sense of humor under all his grey hair.

One of these weeks maybe I’ll say something more than “Good morning” to Bouffant-Walker. Or maybe not. I don’t usually have much to say.

Another thing about Bouffant: He’s usually still eating when I leave, but on those occasions when he’s left before I do, he always visits the men’s room after eating and before paying. The first few times, I wondered whether he was about to dine and dash, but the walker would reduce the speed of his dash. Now my guess is, bladder issues. Or he’s re-combing his beautiful hair.

♦ ♦ ♦

A late-20s or early-30s black guy came in alone, and ordered two breakfasts to go. One was for him, he said, and the other was for his girlfriend. He spoke his order normal, but slowed down when giving his girlfriend’s order, careful to make sure that Kirstin got it exactly right. I was thinking, Yeah, I dated that woman, too.

“She wants the eggs not-gooey,” he said.

“Over-hard,” said Kirstin.

The man seemed a little confused, and said, “None of the runny yolk that seeps out when you start forking it.”

“That’s over-hard,” she said again, and scribbled shorthand on the little green piece of paper.

“Over-hard…” said the customer. This was a new concept, sinking in.

“Yup,” and with so few customers, Kirstin paused to explain in detail: “Over-easy, the yolk is runny when you fork it. Over-hard gets cooked a little longer, so it’s not-gooey.”

“I’m thirty years old,” the man said, “and never heard of ‘over-hard’ before. Very educational.”

She smiles and says, “I’m PBS, but without the pledge breaks.” 

8/14/2020
Republished 3/23/2025

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.

Breakfast at the Diner
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