Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner.
That was Joe — blunt, mean-looking, built like a fridge, and somehow one of the more decent people I had ever met.
At the end of long shifts, he’d shove a burger and fries at me and say, “Eat before you pass out and make extra paperwork for me.”
Sometimes after closing, I stayed and helped wipe down counters while he complained about suppliers, food costs, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs “medium-medium-well.”
Mrs. Rhode came in every Tuesday and Thursday morning at eight sharp.
Sometimes after closing, I stayed and helped wipe down counters.
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
“James,” she said. “You look tired enough to collapse into my waffle.”
“Long week.”
She snorted. “Try being 85.”
That was our introduction.
After that, she always asked for me.
“You look tired enough to collapse into my waffle.”
“You ever smile, son?” she asked once.
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
Another morning, she said, “Your hair looks worse every time I see you.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Hm. Better. You sound almost alive today.”
