There were seven diners in the diner this morning, when I walked in to make eight. That’s a big crowd, by COVID-era standards. Four were familiar to me, faces from hundreds of breakfasts here; the other three I didn’t recognize.

There was no Kirstin, so again it was a restaurant without a waitress. Harvey the cook nodded at me, and before he could ask I said, “Yeah, coffee, with cream please.” I saddled up, leaving three stools between me and any other customers.

To my left was Maurice, an old, bald, speckle-skinned white man who had an oxygen tube in his nose. To my right was a black guy in his 40s, whose name I don’t know but to me he’s Sudden Urge To Pee, for a wisecrack he made a few weeks ago.

Harvey poured my coffee and cream, took my order. I creamed it and removed my mask to sip it, and opened my magazine but couldn’t read it. Damn, my glasses were in the car. “Back in a moment,” I announced, and walked out, rump-bumping the door to keep my hands as infection-free as possible.

On my second entrance, now wearing sadly-needed glasses, I held the door for an ancient and grumpy white guy who’s Damned Good Coffee to me, since that’s always his opening line.

‘Ancient’, I typed, which means he’s about my age, and ‘grumpy’, which means he and me ought to be friends.

I returned to my seat, and Maurice said, “Are the students coming back to the university?” I wasn’t sure who he was asking and hoped it wasn’t me.

An answer came from a white lady, 30-something I’d guess, sitting several stools to Maurice’s left. “The plan is, small classes will be held in person, with masks and as much social distancing as possible. Larger classes will be held on-line.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” asked Pee, to my right. Great — it’s a panel discussion, and I was in the crossfire but it was too late to find another seat. The talking went on for several minutes, but nobody said anything terribly stupid so it wasn’t CNN.

Six customers and Harvey all offered their opinions on whether the university should have flesh-and-blood students, but mostly the conversation was between Maurice, Pee, and that lady, who said she teaches biology at the university.

“It’s probably not wise and I’m not sure I agree,” she said, “but if we stay closed there are those who would reduce the university’s funding and mandate to almost nothing.” There are always ‘those’, I think.

Pee pointed out, “If the university is all-remote, 50,000 students don’t need to live here in the city. That’ll kill the local economy deader than it already is.”

Maurice said, “It’s all pointless. College kids will be partying every weekend, and hooking up after the parties, and nothing can stop them. They’ll be spreading the virus like roaches at the dump.”

Bunch of ordinary schmoes at the diner, analyzing the issue more clearly than any talking heads on TV, and the most insightful comment came in the middle of all this, from Damned Good Coffee.

He poured some sugar, stirred it, lifted his cup, took his first sip. He put the cup down, licked his lips. Wait for it, wait for it…

“Damned good coffee,” he finally said, “as always.” He always says that, and you know what? The diner’s coffee is damned good.

♦ ♦ ♦

A 50-something white man, husky but not quite fat, came in carrying an empty plastic bottle in one hand, and holding a single flower in the other. The flower was very big, reddish-purple, with a round ‘head’ (not sure that’s the right word) about the size of a cabbage.

The man didn’t sit down, but instead walked to the end of the counter and turned left, entering what I’d call the employees’ area, or the “front of the house” in restaurant-lingo. He’s not an employee, though. Never seen him before.

He walked to the sink, filled his bottle with water, and put the flower inside. No-one said anything as he walked past the coffee pots and put the bottle and flower on a shelf behind the cash register. He adjusted it, just-so, and admired it. I was thinking, That’s a large and pretty flower and also Who the heck is this guy?

Harvey was nowhere to be seen, but Slim, who was cooking today, emerged from the kitchen to get something, and he said, “Hey, Jerry.”

Well, all right, then. It’s Jerry. The diner doesn’t usually have flowers, and customers generally stay on the eatin’, not cookin’ side of the counter, but this was Jerry so that explains everything? Slim stood still for a few seconds studying the flower but said nothing more, then walked back to the kitchen.

Then Harvey came back from wherever he’d been, and he also said, “Hey, Jerry.”

“Hey, Harv,” was the answer. “Is Kirstin working this morning?”

“She doesn’t start until 8,” said Harvey. He looked at the flower for a second, then barely shrugged and started pouring coffee refills.

Jerry walked to the end of the counter, turned right to re-enter the dining area, and took a seat at the counter. Harvey asked him, “You want coffee?”

Jerry’s seat was six or seven stools from me and Mr Pee was between us, and nobody else had asked so I had to. “What’s with the flower, dude?”

“Isn’t it pretty?” He answered, as if that’s an answer.

“Sure, but … why did you bring … a flower … to the diner?” I said it slow, spreading out the words so the question took five seconds or so.

“They’re blooming so big and colorful, my neighbor wouldn’t miss just one. I brought it for Kirstin.”

I nodded yup and said nothing more, because who among us hasn’t stolen a flower from someone’s garden, and gone behind the counter at a diner to leave it as a gift for the waitress, who’s not there?

“Azalea,” he said with a smile. Nobody had asked.

♦ ♦ ♦

I worked in restaurants when I was young, but now I’m old so the memories aren’t as fresh as Jerry’s azalea — or is it Kirstin’s azalea now?

Kirstin is ten or maybe twenty years younger than me, but she’s not fat and ugly like me so men sometimes try to flirt with her. She’s all work, walks away, but once I saw her tell someone to “Bite the wall, buster.”

Point being, men are always hitting on the waitress at any restaurant, and for the waitress it’s almost never pleasant. Let the lady do her job, jackass, is what I think.

Jerry imagined his gesture was sweet, and hell, what do I know? Maybe it was sweet. Maybe a gray-haired old dude can steal a flower and give it to the waitress, as purely a platonic present. Still, I apologize on behalf of my entire gender.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then came my omelet, hash browns, and toast, but there was no jam on the counter. Having every customer paw through the single-serve jam containers would spread the virus, so you need to ask for jam now, and for salt and pepper and everything else. Welcome to 2020, pandemic rules. I’d forgotten to ask for jam, though, and neither Harvey nor Slim were anywhere to be seen.

If I knew where the jam packets were kept, maybe I’d pull a Jerry and go behind the counter and fetch a couple. Nah, that’s the “employees only” area and we ought to respect that boundary, even if there’s not a sign. And I was too lazy to holler Harvey’s name, so this morning it was toast without jam.

♦ ♦ ♦

Nothing on the plate cools quicker, so my habit is to eat the toast first, and immediately after swallowing my last jam-less bite, Harvey was back, making coffee and wiping off menus and loading the dishwasher. He’s nowhere when you need him, everywhere when you don’t.

Between chores, he had an on-and-off conversation with someone whose name I don’t know; just another one of us regulars. They were talking about Black Lives Matter, and specifically about someone named Gloria, but I couldn’t overhear enough to ascertain who or where Gloria is. I’m going to write about her anyway.

Harvey and Gloria are close, I surmised, and she’s “organizing an event” for Black Lives Matter, not here but in whatever city where she lives. Check my calculation, but someone who’s “organizing an event” for BLM is probably black, right? Harvey is a middle-aged white man, and so’s the person he was talking to, and so am I. I’m an old-school bleeding-heart liberal, though, so it brightened my morning to know that someone important in Harvey’s life (his sister? his ex? his daughter?) is black.

♦ ♦ ♦

After Maurice left, Harvey wiped that area of the counter, and a youngish, chubby white guy entered the building and sat on the same stool. It was probably still warm from Maurice’s butt.

The new customer was wearing glasses and ordered pancakes and brought a book, which he read all through his breakfast. A nearby customer noticed the book’s title and said, “A Brief History of Time — what’s that about?” The guy ignored him and continued reading. I respect the reading, and especially his desire not to converse.

I read A Brief History of Time years ago, or tried to. The diner has some smart customers, but nobody’s going to learn general relativity and quantum mechanics over breakfast. Well, except the guy reading the book, maybe, if he understands the book better than I did.

8/8/2020
Republished 3/15/2025

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

itsdougholland.com
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