For weeks, the road to the diner has been ripped up for construction, and I’m weary of driving on dirt, so this morning I drove a different route, approaching from the east instead of my ordinary north. This took me past a big retirement center, several stories tall. Ten years ago you would’ve called it a nursing home, but ‘retirement center’ is the new nomenclature.

Apparently, Bouffant Walker is one of the retirees. He was standing under the shelter, at the bus stop in front of the building. You can’t miss his shock of white hair, standing almost straight up. I’ve occasionally heard him talk about “the home” where he lives, and now I’d accidentally found it.

I was running late, and it was about 6:05 AM. Bouffant reliably arrives at the diner by 6:30, and from this I deduced that he was waiting for the bus that’ll bring him. Pulling my car over and offering him a ride flashed across my mind, but — nah.

Nothing against the guy, but he’s somewhat out of whack, and giving him a lift would almost make him a friend, and cripes, I don’t want that.

Do I?

Well, by the time I’d asked myself that second-guessing question, I’d driven past. Also, my car is a catastrophe inside, and his bus would’ve been there before I could’ve cleared the passenger seat, so — onward!

♦ ♦ ♦

With wicked new COVID variants on the move, a sign has been posted on the diner’s front door. Again. Handwritten with a thick felt pen on cardboard, it says:

“Masks required. If your not wearing a mask, do not enter. If you disagree, eat somewhere else.”

Perfect, except it should be you’re, not your.

Inside there were seven customers, but like last week, I didn’t see Kirstin. From the kitchen, Harvey shouted a greeting at me, “Morning, chief,” and then he added, “With you in a minute.”

There was ample room and not many customers, so I sat at the corner of the counter I like best, perched on my very favorite stool. It’s been a month since I’ve won that prize, not just a stool near the best stool, so I was a happy hungry old fat man, eager to answer all of Harvey’s questions — yes to coffee, house omelet please, wheat toast, hotcakes.

He wasn’t asking, though. He was still in the kitchen.

Looking around, I saw that there was no Slim. Usually it’s Kirstin the waitress, and Slim and Harvey are in the kitchen. When Kirstin’s not working, the restaurant runs with just two workers, Harvey taking your order and Slim cooking it. That’s been the drill since the Clinton administration, but was it only Harvey this morning? Working alone, taking everyone’s orders and cooking everyone’s breakfast?

Nah, that’s impossible. Slim must be on the toilet, right?

Harvey said he’d be with me in a minute, but it was a few before he came from the kitchen with four plates in his arms, and delivered them to four customers. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said to me.

“No worries.”

“Coffee, chief?”

I answered, “Yes, and a house omelet please, with wheat toast and hotcakes.”

Harvey scribbled on his green order-pad, poured my coffee, but he didn’t take my ticket to the kitchen. Instead he approached a newcomer, poured him a coffee, and took his order, too. He poured coffee refills, and made a fresh pot.

Then he announced, “Back in a minute,” stepped into the kitchen, and started frying eggs for me and the other guy.

Either Harvey was running the diner alone, or Slim was having a dang difficult drop in the men’s room. I’d been there more than five minutes, and Harvey was the only employee I’d seen. Breakfasts were sizzling in the kitchen, though.

A customer came in, and Harvey said to him loudly from the grill, “Good morning, chief — with you in a minute.” Hope you’re not in a hurry, I thought but didn’t say.

It was fun watching Harvey play two, maybe three roles, like he’s Peter Sellers in Dr Strangelove. I was enjoying the show, the coffee was great, and I hadn’t even opened my magazine yet.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Maurice and Phil were blathering at each other, as always. For years it was M and P and The Fixture in that corner; now it’s M and P and whoever sits nearby. They were talking to each other about nothing interesting, as they usually do, which is why my favorite stool is at the counter’s opposite corner.

Knitting Needle and Underwear Model were eating eggs together and talking, laughing at a table in the back. There were three men I’d never seen before, one black, one white, one who’d check “other” ethnicity, all eating alone with tables between them.

Hangover Harry walked in, looking miserable of course, and from the kitchen Harvey said, “How ya doin’, Harry. With you in a minute.”

Well, we all knew how Harry was doing. Shitty. Just look at his pink and puffy eyes. I’ve always assumed he’s a drunk and I might be dead wrong, but whatever’s up with Harry, he is not a happy dude.

He sat at the counter, with one stool between us. That’s closer than I’d like, but under the current pandemic rules it’s allowed, I think.

“Good morning,” I said to him, and he nodded and looked at the coffee pot. Sorry, man, there’s no-one to pour. He kept staring at the pot.

♦ ♦ ♦

Harvey came out of the kitchen, arms full, and slid my breakfast onto the counter in front of me. Almost cheerfully he said, “Bon appetit, buddy.” To Harry he said, “Just a minute,” and then he was gone, delivering another customer’s breakfast from his other arm. Then he was back, to save Harry’s life by pouring him a cup of coffee.

He poured more coffee for me, too, and I asked, “Why are you working alone, man?”

“Slim called in sick. What the hell else am I gonna do?”

And then he took someone’s order.

♦ ♦ ♦

My breakfast, of course, was extremely good and exactly right. The diner never disappoints, and this morning the diner was Harvey. Watching him here and there and everywhere, it reminded me of the US Postal Service. Something about snow and rain and gloom of night, and the swift completion of his appointed rounds.

♦ ♦ ♦

Two pretty women came in, probably university students. Harvey was in the kitchen, and he hollered, “Morning, ladies. With you in a minute.” If I know Harvey, he was disappointed he wouldn’t have time to flirt with them. Together, they might add up to his age, and he’d like that math.

Me, I barely even glanced at them. I’m a scoundrel at heart like any heterosexual man, but I make an effort not to be obnoxious about it.

And yet, without even taking a third look, I could tell you that one was blonde and one was brunette, they’re mid-20s, the blonde was wearing a skirt to the knees, the brunette was in jeans and had long fake eyelashes, and neither was wearing a wedding ring.

♦ ♦ ♦

Bouffant Walker arrived on time, walking and rolling by. Harvey hollered, “With you in a minute,” and I wasn’t sure about this. There were ten of us now, but if customers kept coming into the diner, how would Harvey be able to keep up?

He hadn’t complained yet, though. Hadn’t muttered anything amusing under his breath like he usually does. He was too busy for muttering.

Bouffant said good morning to me, to everyone, in his almost Porky Pig squeaky voice, and my coffee had me in a good mood so I replied, “Good morning, sir.” The ‘sir’ is because my mother always stressed good manners, plus I don’t know Bouffant Walker’s name.

He took his ordinary table, and I wondered if he’d seen me drive past him this morning. If he did he didn’t mention it, and he was already talking to the wall.

♦ ♦ ♦

I’m a nut for old movies, so I should’ve been intrigued that Phil and Maurice were talking about their favorites, but it was mostly Casablanca. They agreed that it’s good, and it is, but everyone knows that. Maurice said it would be better in color, and Phil gave away the movie’s ending, out loud, in front of everyone, even Hangover Harry.

The movie is 80 years old, almost as old as Maurice, but the spoiler rule should still apply, ya bastard. I say nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦

A third young woman came, and joined the other two at their table. “With you in a minute,” Harvey said. That’s the morning mantra. He shouted it to everyone who came in.

He had a system — he took orders and poured coffee, made more coffee and cleared tables lickety-split, and then he said, “Back in a bit,” and darted into the kitchen to chef up all the orders. Several “in a minutes” later he delivered the food, did another round of taking orders and pouring coffee, and then he said, “Back in a bit” again, and returned to the kitchen. It wasn’t ideal, but it got breakfast on people’s plates.

Should I have been surprised, or not at all surprised, that none of this seemed to phase Harvey? He didn’t sound stressed. If anything, he was swearing less than he usually does. He was Harvey-at-the-diner, same as ever. Less chatty today than most of the time, but that’s OK. I don’t want to chat with him.

The slow service and “in a minute” didn’t seem to bother any of the customers either, except one older white man wearing a suit. He came in, looked around, and Harvey said, “Morning, chief — with you in a minute,” same as he was saying to everyone, but the suit frowned.

Even cooking in the kitchen, Harvey knows what’s what and who’s who, so he added, “Gonna take longer than usual.” That line worked — the suit turned around and left, exactly as Harvey and I were hoping. 

♦ ♦ ♦

My coffee wasn’t refilled as often as usual, but Hangover Harry led the way on that front. Without a word he rose up off his stool, slowly walked behind the counter, and poured his own refill. From the kitchen Harvey hollered, “Cream and sugar?”

Taking that as permission, when Harry returned I went behind the counter, and poured myself to a refill, too. And since I was there, I poured refills for everyone at the counter. I wasn’t doing table service, though. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

If this was a different restaurant maybe I would’ve been annoyed, but it was entertaining, and Harvey was impressive. I was thinking, He can’t survive the lunch rush, though. R.I.P., man.

♦ ♦ ♦

Near Bouffant, there was a middle-aged white woman at a table by herself, talking on her cell phone in a Southern accent. She went on and on about everything insignificant — someone got a perm, someone argued with someone else, and so on. Everything in this woman’s life was insignificant like that, but she described all of it in detail. It was less annoying with a Southern accent, though.

After ten minutes of this piffle, she suddenly said, “OK, we’ll talk later,” and clicked off. The voice on the other end must have been saying something like, “Gotta go, Mabel. Seriously, gotta go,” and I was grateful to the voice on the other end. Then Mabel made another call.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Cavalry to the rescue,” said a grouchy, gravelly voice at the diner’s back door. It was Bob, the owner. Harvey was at the grill in the kitchen, and Bob was immediately behind him, reading the tickets. Then Bob tapped Harvey’s shoulder and said, “I got this.”

“No onions in the Denver,” Harvey said as he left the kitchen, and then he was up front, saying “How ya doin’, chief” to someone who’d just come in. Next he made a pot of coffee, back to being the diner’s second-best waitress, and Bob’s your uncle.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

After that, Harvey got chattier and occasionally profane, and spent too much time at the women’s table up front. Bob didn’t say anything, but that’s normal. He never has much to say, unless he’s out front eating with the customers.

As I was leaving, though, I heard him say to Harvey, “Slim better be damned sick.”

8/29/2021

Breakfast at the Diner
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