BREAKFAST AT THE DINER — #4
On the sidewalk in front of the diner, there’s now a folding signboard, with bright red plastic “YES WE’RE OPEN” signs taped to both sides.
A lot of restaurants aren’t open, so announcing it is a good idea. There’s a busy road out front, so the sign might draw a few of the cars into the parking lot, and bring some courageous people into the diner.
♦ ♦ ♦
A lady came in wearing a mask, in a rush to pick up her to-go order. Kirstin, the waitress — wearing a mask, too, of course — tried to be friendly but this customer would not make a single word of chit-chat. She paid, took her bag of food in her gloved hands, and vaporized out the door.
“You see a lot of that, I bet,” said a youngish guy at the counter. “People scared of the corona, wanting to get in and out of here quick as they can.”
“Yeah,” said Kirstin. “All day long, we’re never as busy as we were before the bug, but I understand it. People gotta be careful.”
There was a general murmur of Yup, and nobody said it but everyone was thinking, Maybe I’m an idiot for being here.
There were only four of us idiots, in a diner that seats maybe 100. Kirstin addressed the tiny crowd: “Anybody up for some good news?”
“Can I get a refill please?” said a thirty-something lady, holding her coffee cup.
“Yeah, I’ll bite,” said me. “I could use some good news.” My breakfast wasn’t ready yet, so my mouth had nothing better to do. Might as well speak a few words.
Kirstin poured the lady some coffee, and came around to top off everyone’s cup, while she said, “A doctor came in yesterday for lunch. He’s a regular customer, works at the hospital, but I haven’t seen him since before COVID came along. He says he’s been staying away because it felt unsafe.”
“And he says he wouldn’t say it’s safe, but it’s feeling safer. He says they’re seeing about the same number of coronavirus patients as a month ago, but that their symptoms aren’t as bad. Not as many need respirators, and more of them are being discharged — alive — than what he saw in April and May. He thinks the virus might have mutated into a weaker strain.”
“Well, dang,” I said. “You promised good news, and that sounds like good news.” Then my pancakes arrived, and I stopped talking.
♦ ♦ ♦
Everyone comes together at the diner — black, white, left, right, poor, not so poor, smart, not so smart. Saw a City Council member eating here once, and you also see down-and-outters occasionally.
The clientele skews old like me, so when it’s politics, it’s usually loud, sometimes obnoxious. This morning there was chatter about the Black Lives Matter protests after the murder of George Floyd, and I was mentally bracing for the worst. You instantly know when someone watches Fox News and they’re just reciting that crapola.
To my relief, though, the breakfast consensus was that black lives actually do matter.
There was an old white guy who always orders “Just hash browns, honey,” and I’ve heard him speak fluent Hannity in the past. Today he said, “I seen a lot of whiteys at that protest, and that’s a good thing. What
they did to that guy, black or white, it’s just wrong. Ain’t no arguing about it.”
I didn’t expect to hear that, not from that guy. Even more unexpectedly, from the context of some things he said later, that old man might have actually been one of the “whiteys” out there protesting.
♦ ♦ ♦
Man walked in and said, “Can I get a hamburger, without cheese?”
Kirstin said, “Sure, sweetie.”
“I mean, now, at 6:30 in the morning? Can I get a hamburger now, without cheese?”
“It’ll take a few minutes, but we serve breakfast or lunch, any time.”
“OK, thanks. I want a hamburger, without cheese. No cheese.”
I’m a cranky old bastard, but if it has cheese it’s a cheeseburger, right? If it doesn’t have cheese it’s a hamburger. Words have meanings.
Also, you don’t need to repeat yourself and then repeat the repeating. I couldn’t even mutter Damn kids today, because the guy looked about 50. Old enough to know better.
♦ ♦ ♦
Later on, a black couple came in, him and her, and sat at the counter but a long ways from me. They ordered, and while waiting for their food they talked about the protests, but annoyingly, they talked very quietly, almost whispering. I could only catch a few words, never a full sentence.
Usually I appreciate people who talk quietly in public, but today I was interested … but I didn’t want to say, Excuse me, could you please speak a little louder?
A skinny, youngish white guy came in, and sat three stools from the black guy, which in pandemic times is one stool closer than I’d feel comfortable. He ordered something, the couple continued quietly talking, and then the skinny white guy interrupted them to say, “I was there for that, yeah — I saw that cop screaming at that black girl.”
Skinny guy and black couple talked for the rest of their breakfasts and butt-bumped when the skinny guy left. Bump-bumping is the new, safer handshake or high-five.
♦ ♦ ♦
People talk in the diner. Lord, do they talk. I enjoy some small fraction of my eavesdropping and note-taking, but generally I just wish folks would shut up.
Almost everyone opens with the weather, but one of the old-timers always leads with his health report. Soon as he walks in the door you know he’s gonna say something about his aches and pains, and sure enough:
“The gout’s hitting me pretty hard in the knees this morning.” Jeez, geezer, I’ve got gout too, but I don’t complain about it while people are eating breakfast.
♦ ♦ ♦
Bob, the owner of the diner, looks and talks exactly like a sit-com caricature of a guy who owns a diner. He’s gravelly-voiced, opinionated, and ornery, but he’s going to make sure your breakfast is to your liking. He’s a nice guy, but the kind of nice guy who’d scowl if anyone called him a nice guy.
Near as I can figure from my occasion sightings of Bob at his diner, he usually comes in at seven or so. Being the owner, if he doesn’t want to work early hours he doesn’t have to. Me, I’m there as soon as they unlock the door, 6AM, so I don’t often see Bob, but this morning I got distracted and ran late, didn’t get to the diner until 6:30.
At 7AM I was still chewing hotcakes when Bob must’ve entered through the back door, and emerged from the kitchen. I said “Hey Bob” and lifted my hand to wave, and he lifted his hand as he passed my stool, and I’m sure we were both thinking, Wait, are we about to high-five, or shake hands? No friggin’ way. There’s a pandemic.
We both dropped our hands without another word, and he passed by and took a seat ten stools away, and asked Kirstin for steak and eggs.
♦ ♦ ♦
After breakfast, I was finishing my last refill of coffee, and a 30-something black guy came in, sat on the stool closest to the door, ordered something. The waitress called him Sweetie and ran through all the ‘new normal’ questions — “Do you need salt and pepper, cream and sugar? Jelly? Ketchup?” That stuff used to be on the tables and counter, but now it’s hidden away, available only by request, and sanitized for your protection after every customer.
This customer answered, “Yes, no, yup, nope.”
“Sorry about the Spanish Inquisition,” she said, reaching under the counter for his requested condiments. “We wipe everything down between every use,” Kirstin said. “It’s the new way of living.”
“Better than the new way of dying,” he said.
♦ ♦ ♦
To be honest, I noticed that guy mostly because he wasn’t just black, he was black, black as motor oil at midnight.
After draining my cup, leaving my payment and tip at the counter, and telling Kirstin thanks and see ya next time, I walked past that very-black guy at the corner of the counter, we made brief eye contact, and I said, “Happy Juneteenth.”
He half-smiled and nodded, and I was out the door second-guessing myself. Should an old white guy say ‘Happy Juneteenth’ to a younger black guy? Fuck all if I know. I wouldn’t say it to a white guy, but he didn’t seem offended.
♦ ♦ ♦
Outside the building, I noticed that the YES WE’RE OPEN sign was coming loose in the wind, upside-down and hanging on only by the tape at the top, which was now the bottom of the flipped-over sign. I folded it back to its proper position, pushed the tape down, and stepped into the diner again.
Kirstin said to me, “Back for lunch?”
“Maybe later,” said I, “bur right now, your OPEN sign is coming loose in the wind. It needs fresh tape or maybe glue instead.”
She said thanks, and I thought it over for half a second and semi-shouted at her, “Happy Juneteenth!”
And there, now I’ve said it to a white person, cuz why wouldn’t you say it to white people? It’s an important day for everyone, right?
6/19/2020
Republished 1/25/2025
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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