In a Late Night Diner

I was sitting in Mama’s place, a late night diner on the north side of town. The sounds of the kitchen filled my ears as I flipped through the latest issue of my favorite comic book, Bone. In the booth behind me, a couple discussed their financial problems heatedly. I did my best not to eavesdrop. On my right, at the bar, sat a man who wore his misery like an extra set of clothes. Everything about him drooped and sagged. Someone once told me that, as living creatures, we do not age, we slowly decompose. This man could have been the poster boy for that theory.

A waitress approached my table.

"More coffee, hun?" she asked. Her name was Gretta. She was the ugliest woman I’d ever seen. Her makeup made clowns look conservative. And, call me shallow, but I’d never found facial hair on a woman to be all that attractive.

"Please," I said, genially.

"You going to order any food tonight?" she asked, while she poured.

I cringed. The food here was frightening . . . meaning, regardless of what you ordered, it would arrive swimming in grease, and every bite was a heart attack waiting to happen. But the coffee was the best in town, and, as a coffee lover, it always brought me back.

"Nope. Just coffee is fine," I said.

"Well, let me know if you need anything."

"Will do."

She left. I took a sip of my coffee. Perfect. Once I’d drained half my cup, I pulled a cigarette from my shirt pocket, lit it, and took a pull. I exhaled and sighed contentedly. I glanced to the right, for no particular reason, and was just in time to see the decomposing man take a bite of his country fried steak, which was possibly the greasiest item on the menu. I felt like my face was breaking out just watching. I returned to my comic.

The jangling of the bells attached to the door handle announced that the restaurant had another customer. I didn’t look up. As the customers-there were two, judging from their footsteps-made their way across the floor, they stopped beside my table.

"Hey, Pete, look at this goon," a man said. He did not sound intelligent. "He’s sittin’ by hisself and readin’ a comic book, for chrissakes."

I turned my head toward them. Both of the men were big and thick and probably drove trucks. "Can I help you?" I said.

"Ain’t you a little old to be readin’ comic books?" Pete chortled. "I mean, hell, you gotta be at least fifty."

"Fifty-six," I informed them.

"You here that, Leroy?" Pete said. "Father Time here is still interested in comic books."

Leroy snickered. I had a feeling that the "Father Time" insult was breakthrough for them.

"Look," I said. "Why don’t you two just sit down and mind your own business?"

"What’re you gonna do old man?" Leroy said, grinning. "Use some sort of super power on us?"

Oh, how I love irony. But, rather than utter some witty retort, which would undoubtedly be lost on these two, I settled for a cheerily extended middle finger. Pete didn’t like that. He snatched the comic from my hand, tore it in half, then said:

"Don’t think that I’d have a problem with beatin’ on a grandpa."

"Oh, I wouldn’t put anything past you."

Pete glowered and pulled his pants up. Very threatening. "Better watch yourself, old man."

"Gasp!" I said.

His friend, Leroy, spat on my table, then they took a seat in the booth in front of me. As they waited for their food, they busied themselves by talking about all the things they could do to hurt me. I continued to drink my coffee and smoke my cigarette. I couldn’t help but smile. I was going to enjoy this.