As promised, here is the beginning of a short story titiled The Diner: “Ya know I pity those waitresses, like her, over there. The ones that are 60 years old and been waitressin’ at diners like this since they were eighteen. Back then, they didn’t have a lick of brains in their head. They didn’t have the common insight to think ‘bout going to college and makin’ something of themselves, ya know?” Max is sitting across from me, pointing, very obviously, at the old waitress behind me serving up breakfast to a family that came dressed in their Sunday best and talking loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear him. At the table, little Johnny and Susie are laughing and carrying on like they’re in the schoolyard. Jim and Jane are pretending not to notice. A lit cigarette dangles out the side of Max’s mouth as he talks while smoke snakes up towards the ceiling, despite sitting in a non-smoking section. Pulling one last drag on the cigarette, Max takes it out of his mouth and snuffs out the stub in the remains of his western omelet. “Max,” I say to him, “you realize that this is a non-smoking area of the establishment, don’t you? And keep your voice down.” Max laughs, his stubbly chin bouncing up and down, before he raises one flannel clad arm up to his face and hacks into the crook of his elbow. His grey eyes start watering as his body struggles to cough the tar and smoke from his lungs, enabling him to breath and, coincidentally, live. After six, watery, hacks into his sleeve, Max wipes his mouth with the grimy, red sleeve and wheezes out a few more chuckles. “C’mon, man. It’s like they always say. A no-smoking section in a restaurant is like peein’ in the pool, ya know? There ain’t no way you’re goin’ to contain it to one area.” Max chuckles to himself for a few more seconds, pleased with his disgustingly accurate analogy, as he looks around the, mostly-full, diner. He stares for a few seconds at each table of people, studying their faces, watching them dig into their platters of biscuits and gravy or dipping their strips of crispy bacon into the yolk of their over-easy eggs, before moving on to the next. Max eventually makes it all the way around the restaurant and back to me before he begins talking again. Leaning forward and crossing his arms in front of him on the tabletop, Max whispers to me, “So, what’s the plan?” Pushing my half-finished egg white omelet to the edge of the table I lean towards Max. Our faces meet in the middle of the table right above the make-shift ashtray that Max fashioned from his unfinished breakfast. Max’s breath reeks of a combination of cigarettes and onions. With our noses less than six inches apart, I star directly into Max’s bloodshot, grey eyes from behind my dark, Armani knock-off sunglasses. Turning my head, slightly, to the left I look to make sure that the waitress isn’t standing at the table before I begin talking. “I’ve been coming to this diner a few days a week for the past six months. Every day that I’ve been here the place has been packed full of the upper-middle class on their lunch break or having dinner with the family or grabbing a bite to eat after their church service. I can’t remember ever walking in here and seeing the place less than three-quarters full. Just take a look around. It’s eleven o’clock and the place is almost at capacity.” Max breaks eye contact for a moment and, leaning back into his seat, swivels his head around the restaurant, again. Even in the few minutes since the last time Max scanned the building three more tables of people have shown up and been seated. After scanning the tables, again, Max leans back into our conference and urges me to continue. “The other thing that I’ve noticed while I’ve been researching is that this place only drops their deposits once a week. Every Monday morning an armored car shows up and one of the armed guards walks into the back with the owner. When he comes out he’s always carrying two big duffel bags and walks right out the front door with the owner directly behind him to oversee the transfer. So, I thought it would be the best to do it on Sunday when all of the church families are here. That way we can get the haul from the back and we can snatch up the wallets of Molly and James Holyroller, too.” Max’s eyes light up in anticipation of a big pay day while a huge grin spreads out over his face; his yellowed teeth revealing themselves from behind his big, chapped lips. While visions of cars and jewelry dance through Max’s head, Gladys, the waitress, strolls up to the table asking, “Can I get you boys anything else, today? Any more coffee for you?” I wave my hand at her and she says that she’ll go grab the check for us. Picking up the leftovers from the table, Gladys looks at the stubbed out cigarette in the middle of Max’s plate and glares down at him, frowning, as she turns around and walks towards the back. When she is out of sight Max and I lean back into the center of the table. -W
Posted on: Mon, 21 Apr 2014 19:46:52 +0000
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