October 28th, 2022- Flash Fiction
“Betty, come on, your coffee sucks today,” John said lifting the mug that has touched every person in this town’s lips to leave yet another trail of battery acid down his throat. Little did he know I was the one who brewed the pot.
“You’re a cynic and we’re a diner,” said Betty with a swift response, like a waitress should, before returning to her busy work. She doesn’t care enough to blame it on me.
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Tonight, it’s raining so not many people are in. It’s a shame because the rain permeates lightly through the jukebox, the only one still around, playing Elvis, again. At least Crazy Sue nods her head along to the tune, or maybe she’s having another conversation with herself. Either way, it’s a good day for the night shift.
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“Bah,” another day and another man, who looks like a Bart or an Art, grumbles at the counter over the state of this world, but for the wrong reasons, of course. There must be something about cracked laminate countertops that make people feel the need to share their goddamn politics while others try to enjoy their cups of bad coffee on the other end. Bah to you, Bart, now let me enjoy my break in peace.
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A typical night turns into a retirement party so fast, speaking of, never come at eleven on a Sunday.
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People come to diners for breakfast; stupid people come to diners for breakfast, along with the regulars. After twenty years in the same routine, they have their own secret club, so the few smart folk in town come for dinner where they encounter me mopping up the day shift’s mess.
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“Hey there Joey, what can I get ya,” Betty says like she’s talking to a child though he’s only ten years her minor.
“Pancakes. And why don’t you add the chocolate chip smiley and banana eyes.”
“You betcha.”
Joey came solo and ordered pancakes at 40 instead of a bland burger or an overdone steak like the other men do. It’s an homage to his childhood, but he doesn’t play with the claw machine in the vestibule as I do sometimes after closing.
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The red and blue fluorescents are hard on the eyes after a long day, but how else would the cobwebs hanging about the windows come to light through the dim ambiance? I told Betty I’d get them next week, but for now, we pretend they’re Halloween decorations.
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“God damn it. Do they even wash the tables? I hope it’s syrup.” I overhear from table two. I just washed table two with a new rag and everything.
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Harry always has papers in front of him and stays late until I practically have to sweep him up. He orders decaf.
“Who the hell orders decaf anymore?” Betty always says.
“I like the taste. It’s like a hug, a sense of familiarity,” he counters.
“Hmm,” she expected him to simply give an anxious laugh. He must be an artist or a writer or a bit deranged, but those are the same thing anyway. In that case, he should get a job here.
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The best seat in the house is in the middle stool at the counter. You can see the whole place, reflected across mirrored walls. There’s a group of men without their wives down at the end wearing suits, probably coming from a funeral, or a poker game, maybe a brothel. The girls in the corner, probably twins, wear basketball jerseys. Their parents wear jeans, like most other people who come in, probably on a budget with no energy to cook.
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Nobody ever gets dessert when they go out to eat, but here the front-end pie platters are always empty by the end of the night and to my demise because employees get leftovers for free.
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“What are we havin’ today?” Betty asks table nine. The whole family orders until it’s their youngest son, James’, turn.
“Dad, I don’t know.”
“I can come back,” Betty says.
“No, it’s fine,” the father says back, “James we’re at a diner, whatever you get is going to be good.” That’s a lie, it probably won’t be good at all and he’s probably going to need to resort to a lot of table salt, but he’ll still enjoy it.
“Okay. Chicken fingers, please,” James told Betty. He ate his whole meal with satisfaction, but I know it was terrible.
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“There is truly nothing better than a good old cup of diner coffee,” John says, surprising Betty, “So simple, so effective.” Once again, I brewed this pot.