Before walking into the diner, I always glance through the front
window to see whether Kirstin is working. This morning I see Harvey
behind the counter, so I lower my expectations half a notch, and step
inside.

I sit on the side where I don’t usually sit, because too many people
are on the other side of the U-shaped counter. On this side, there’s
only Lady ManBun. She glances up and says, “Good morning,” then looks
down again, at the screen she’s scrolling through.

I say “Good morning,” but I haven’t decided whether I mean it.
Depends on whether ManBun will be joining her. He’s always a little too
chipper and outgoing for me.

“Do you want coffee?” Harvey asks, and I stupidly say “Yeah, with
cream.” Damn it, I’m off the coffee — gave it up weeks ago, to avoid the
jitters and headaches, but when he asked the answer came quicker than
me remembering I’ve quit. He’s already poring, so it’s too late to
shout, “Belay that order!” Guess I’m having coffee this morning. I’ve
made worse mistakes. Rules are easier to break than habits, and the
diner’s coffee is excellent.

As Harvey brings me cream and salt and pepper and silver and such, a
wisecrack bubbles up in my mind. I say to him, “Kirstin, you look like
hell this morning.” He scowls at me, but there’s immediate laughter from
Lady ManBun, and from other customers, and an especially loud guffaw
from the kitchen.

I turn and look and I’m surprised. Harvey is usually the cook, and
when he’s up front playing waitress the cook is Slim, but this isn’t
Slim — it’s Bob, the diner’s owner. It’s been a long time since I’ve
seen Bob at all, and when he does come in it’s usually just to eat a
free breakfast. Haven’t seen him cooking in at least months.

“Mr Bob!” I say. “Glad you’re still alive.”

“Me too,” he says in his gruff, grizzled voice, “but there are those
who disagree.” Bob and I are about equally taciturn, and for either of
us that was a complete conversation. We say not another word to each
other all morning.

Harvey says, “The special is Homemade Italian Sausage,” and of course, homemade anything
at the diner is always good, so that’s what I want. Sadly, though, when
Harvey takes your order you can’t get the special as an omelet, so
it’ll be homemade sausage with eggs and hash browns.

He asks how I want my eggs; I tell him.

He asks wheat or white toast; I answer.

He asks a third question, but it seems complicated and I’m old, hard
of hearing, plus someone coughs in the distance so I can’t quite make
sense of it, so I say, “Yeah, that sounds good,” not certain what I’ve
agreed to.

♦ ♦ ♦

I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m not drinking coffee these
days, so I’m sleepy. I enjoy my contraband caffeine, but before it takes
effect, I briefly close my eyes to rest my mind, and notice something
I’m not sure I’ve noticed before: the diner has a scent of its own.

It smells damned good — the odor of eggs fried in butter, and bacon
and pancake batter, seasoned with years and years of coffee and grease
and sweat and onions. I keep my eyes closed for a few extra seconds and
concentrate on that lovely aroma. I never wear cologne, but I would pay
to dab this diner behind my ears.

♦ ♦ ♦

A young white man comes in to pick up a carry-out order. He must’ve
phoned it in, because Harvey already has it bagged up for him. “That’s
$19.79,” Harvey says.

The customer hands Harvey a twenty-dollar bill and says, “Thanks, keep the change.”

Harvey says nothing until he’s left, but as the door closes he says, “Keep the change, my ass, you donkey-fucker.”

Harvey is often saltier than the diner’s fries, and I can understand
his frustration. The owner isn’t usually around, though, so I’m
wondering whether Bob will say something about the profanity, and indeed
he does. From the kitchen I hear Bob mutter, “Double donkey-fucker.”

♦ ♦ ♦

My breakfast is here and it’s a masterpiece. The eggs are only eggs
not an omelet, but the hash browns have gone ballistic. They’re topped
with gooey forkfuls of mixed and melted cheese, and some chopped and
sauteed onions and green peppers, and of course lots of the promised
(and excellent) homemade sausage. Oh em gee.

I’ve been eating here and Bob’s been the owner, both for many years,
so he’s probably cooked a million breakfasts, but this morning’s is
something he should be proud of. I’ve overheard in the past that Bob
inherited the diner from his father, who was also a Bob, and heard him
imply that running a diner might not have been the life he’d have chosen
for himself — or maybe he just likes to complain, as do we all.
Obviously, though, Bob knows what he’s doing in the kitchen. I ought to
tell him it’s appreciated, but I don’t.

Later, I hear Harvey explaining the daily special to someone else,
and decode the third question that I couldn’t decipher when he’d asked
me. “You can get the sausage as a patty, or we can chop it up and serve
it over the potatoes with some cheese and stuff.” So that’s what I’d said yes to.

♦ ♦ ♦

It must be 6:30, because Bouffant-Walker is rolling into the room. He
gives me and most of us an incoherent greeting, as is his style, and
then he takes a seat at his ordinary table.He almost owns it. Never sits anywhere else, unless someone’s at his table when he gets here. And always alone. He’s sociable with several of the regulars, and I’d wager he has a crush on Big Hat, but he always comes in alone, and leaves alone. Same as me. I wonder if his solitude is intentional, like (I tell myself) mine is. I also wonder
why I’m wondering.He eats alone, but always carries on a conversation with the
diner, just saying whatever thoughts pop into his skull. Today he wants
us to know about his nipples. Soon as he’s settled at his table, he
says, “Oh, it’s cold out there this morning. I have a couple of nipples
frozen solid.”

Five minutes later he can’t still be cold — the heat is on in the diner — but he’s still talking about the cold. “Sure is cold out there this morning. About froze my nipples off.” Again with the nipples. Again with the cold. It’s Wisconsin. It’s winter. It’s not even that cold, really, not for Wisconsin.

When no-one responds he adds, “This would be a good day for the diner to sell chili. That would warm people up!”

“We have chili sometimes,” Harvey answers from behind the counter, “as a daily special.”

“Not today, though,” says Bouffant. “I wish I could have chili today,
just to hold the bowl against my nipples.” I start putting tick-marks
in the margins of my magazine, to keep track of how many times he
mentions his nipples. (Three times, so far.)

His pattern is always a few minutes of quiet, and then another line
apropos of nothing, and then Bouffant-Walker moves on to other topics, says
other things. Fifteen minutes later Bald-Walker comes in, and takes a
seat at a table, near enough to Bouffant that they’re soon talking, and
we get this exchange:

Bouffant says to Baldy, or to anyone who’s listening, “Didn’t you
think it was cold out there this morning? I about froze my nipples off.”
(Four.)

“Mighty cold,” is all Bald says.

“I told Harvey this would be a good day for chili.”

“Yup,” says Bald.

“Might also be a good day to just stay in bed,” says Bouffant.

“Yup,” says Bald-Walker again, and I know exactly what he means.
We’re all regulars here, and all the regulars are like dice perpetually
rolled and re-rolled, so you could end up sitting next to anybody. I’m sure the dice have had Bald and Bouffant
chatting before, and that’s why Bald has so little to say.

“Of course,” Bouffant continues, “if you stay in bed you get fat and
you maybe get babies.” Bald-Walker has no response to that, which seems
like the best response.

♦ ♦ ♦

I am loving my hash browns smothered with sausage and messy cheese
and stuff, loving it so much that I have prepared another wisecrack:
When Harvey asks “Is everything OK?”, I’m going to say, “Yeah, it’s
fantastic — y’all should fire the usual cook and keep Bob in the
kitchen!” Harvey, of course, is the usual cook, but today he doesn’t ask
“Is everything OK,” so my sly insult remains unspoken.

♦ ♦ ♦

There are no further updates on Bouffant’s nipples until he’s ready
to leave. He settles his bill, says goodbye to Kirstin and to Baldy and
to me and several others, and then he says, “Hope it warms up out there.
Don’t want to freeze my nipples off again.” (Five.)

When Lady ManBun leaves, she tucks cash under her plate instead of
paying at the register and waiting for her change. That’s what I do,
too, when I’m done, a few minutes later. That’s what most of the
regulars do.

I mask up and shout “Thanks!” at Harvey, partly because I mean it,
and partly to let him know to collect the cash so it’s not sitting there
tempting everyone who steps inside. And I leave a good tip, because
while I have many faults, I am not a donkey-fucker.

 

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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