BREAKFAST AT THE DINER — #5
A youngish white guy came into the diner. He was clean-cut and wearing a suit and tie, and sat a few stools away from an ancient bald man who sometimes has oxygen tubes in his nose, but not today.
I’d never seen the young guy before, but the old guy eats here often, so I know him by name — Maurice — though we’ve never spoken.
Maurice and the clean-cut guy launched into a long and deeply tedious conversation about the Black Lives Matter protests in town, which have recently turned into almost-riots. Neither of them knows much about what’s going on, but that didn’t keep them from talking about it, saying things the young guy probably heard on TV and the old guy might have read in a newspaper.
“They tore down the statues, even the statue of that guy who fought against slavery in the 1800s.” …
“I’m awfully tired of seeing all the businesses boarded up.” …
“I don’t even understand what the protesters want.” …
I was nearing my limit for how much stupidity I could stand, but I’ve lost every fistfight I’ve ever been in, so I bit my tongue and bit my omelet. Not to mention, there were two black customers in the diner who couldn’t help hearing all this, and if they could take it in silence so could I.
Then the guy wearing a tie said, “I think it’s all because we’ve drifted too far from God.” There was muffled laughter from every direction in the restaurant, except me; I don’t muffle.
Maurice gave the guy a ten-second stare, then opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t. Instead he took a deep breath, let out a ridiculously long sigh, and started talking to the waitress about baseball.
♦ ♦ ♦
Two middle-aged men, one white, one black, were eating alone, sitting ten stools apart, but talking with each other so they were talking loud, about the weather and their weekend plans. At some point there was a lull in the conversation, both of them turned their heads a bit and for a moment all three of us were making eye contact.
I give ’em each half a smile, which mathematically adds up to one complete smile, and then averted my eyes back to my breakfast and magazine. Eye contact is too much contact for me.
The black guy, after his fourth or fifth cup of coffee, had a sudden urge to take a pee. I know this because he said, “I have a sudden urge to take a pee,” before he got up and disappeared down the hall into the
men’s room.
When he stepped out a minute later, Kirstin the waitress asks him, “Did you wash your hands?” and everyone laughed, including him. But he didn’t answer the question.
♦ ♦ ♦
Another old man came in, scowling and surly, placed his order in a grumpy tone of voice, and said nothing else until he’d had a couple of sips of coffee.
“Damned good coffee,” he said, and added “as always.”
He’s another familiar face, and he makes the same sour, drawn-out entrance every time he comes in. With the addition of caffeine to his bloodstream, he evolves from grumpy-but-quiet to grumpy-but-chatty, and after half an hour his grumpiness fades and he’s just chatty and annoying.
This morning as he paid his bill, he offered a parting thought: “There’s nothing about any of this coronavirus crap that doesn’t stink, but we’ll come through. And some of us won’t come through, but that’s OK too. The world will get along without us.”
And then he was gone. I’ve spent hours in the same diner with that old man over the years, and that’s the most optimistic thing I’ve ever heard him say.
♦ ♦ ♦
Most folks sit at the counter, but some prefer a table. The danger of eating at a table, though, is that you’ll see the waitress less often. You might have to wave your hands or holler if you need ketchup or cream.
Kirstin brought breakfast to a middle-aged black lady at one of the tables, and said”Enjoy your meal.” Then she bustled back behind the counter, and did all her ordinary tasks — washed a few dishes, poured more coffee for everyone, took another order, etc.
When there was finally a lull in her waitress-work, the lady at the table said, “Excuse me, could I please have some salt and pepper when you have a minute?”
She couldn’t have been more courteous.
Kirstin came quickly with fresh and clean shakers, very apologetic. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, “and it looks like you’ve already had several bites of your eggs. You can always shout if you need something. I’m always listening, even if I’m busy or in the back.”
The customer said, “Ah, no worries, Kirstin. I could see you were busy. You’re not just standing around playing solitary.”
So here we have a couple of nice ladies being kind and considerate to each other, a microcosm of the world as it should be, yet all I could think was, Playing solitary? No, the game is solitaire.
Long ago in another city, another life, I was an editor, and whether I’m reading or listening, I still second-guess bad grammar and incorrect syntax and usage. I’d hate me if I wasn’t me.
♦ ♦ ♦
As I was counting my cash to pay up and leave, a middle-aged white couple came in, married is my guess, and sat at the counter. He looked 50-something, fresh-shaved and wearing a very stylish sweater, though it was 70° before 7:00 in the morning. He looked boring as hell, in other words. She was pleasingly plump, early-50s I’d guess, and her hair was mildly disheveled and dyed slightly purple — the modern housewife look, but it looked good on her.
I only glanced at that lady for a few seconds, but it was long enough to appreciate her. I’m old but I ain’t dead, if you take my meaning.
Said “Thanks” to Kirstin, walked out to my car, and I’d driven halfway home before I realized why that woman had caught my eye. She looked a little like my late wife, the woman I’ll miss every moment of every day for however long remains.
6/26/2020
Republished 2/1/2025
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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