The Diner

            The place sat beside a forgotten north-south state highway at the outskirts of a town of about fifteen hundred souls. Pine woods ran to the east and yellow dry-grass hills to the west. Neon in the window really did say “EATS.” The tires on Alec's truck crunched gravel as he pulled into the small parking lot. Where else in the U.S. can you walk into a place after camping for three days -- unshaven, no shower, just a splash of creek water, sweat stains on a t-shirt from driving all day, a spattering of dried chocolate mocha on khaki shorts, hat-hair – and not risk being under dressed?
            He chose a stool with vinyl less cracked than its neighbors and brushed a few crumbs off the seat before sitting down. He did have standards. He slid a menu out of the chrome holder. The waitress, a heavy woman of indeterminate age, had a tangle of loose curls that obscured one eye and a smile that needed one more tooth to complete the set. She muttered a listless “Hi, hon” and plopped down a glass of water and silverware and a packet of slightly crushed soda crackers.

            “Hi, yourself. You Cindy?” – this being “Cindy’s Kitchen.”

            “Heck no, hon. Done for today.” She turned to the pass-through behind her and reached for two side salads. She balanced them on one arm and grabbed a bottle of A.1.™ with the other hand. Off she went.

            Through the opening, Alec could see the cook. Sad-eyed, he stood slope-shouldered though he was tall and as wiry and thin as the waitress was not. His hair squirted out sideways from beneath his baseball cap. The cap, bill and all, looked as if food had been passed through it rather than daubed on it over time. The red and purple pattern on his circus-polyester vest warred with his yellow and blue Hawaiian shirt, top button open, blonde tuft of chest hair exposed.
            The diner décor was Early Single-Wide. Next to the obligatory “We reserve the right to refuse service” notice hung a long-handled “freeloaders spoon.” A clock on the wall had numbers drunkenly scattered across its face beneath the inscription, “Who cares?”  Scotch-taped prominently on the cash register was a list of check kiters in 24-point, bold. The suggestion box had no slot. A photo of a blonde standing next to a ’50-something Ford station wagon was captioned, “Get your woody serviced here.”
            Oakwood booths with blue vinyl seats matched the counter and stools where Alec sat. He scanned the menu, then pivoted and assessed the clientele.
            Two good ol' boys wearing once-white t-shirts hunched over their plates and fork-fisted chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy into their faces. The two fellas grunted as they ate, Alec couldn't tell whether in satisfaction or from the exertion.
            At the next booth, a husband and wife sat motionless over cups of coffee and the remains of a meal. They looked out the window, engaged in the non-conversation of long-marrieds. Alec knew the silence of that void and wondered how long it had lasted, since they were both going on gray.
            In walked a geezer with a ZZ Top beard. He wore a Vietnam Veterans cap and leaned on a cane. Behind him shuffled his father, one assumed, liver-spotted and wrinkled. The older man tottered along past apprehensive patrons, each feeble step perhaps his last, until collective sighs rewarded his finally negotiating a seat.
            A cowboy in worn overalls and a faded Pendleton shirt hunkered over his plate down the counter from Alec. He was alone and talking on his cell phone. He ran a hand through wavy black hair as the conversation went on and shook his head. Whatever the source of his consternation – it felt familiar and Alec assumed it was female – he barked once into the phone and flipped it closed. He settled his Stetson back on his head.
            A couple of youngsters at a corner table brightened the tableau. The boy, eighteen or so, had taken the trouble to wear a clean, short-sleeved sport shirt. His arms were tanned. His companion, a young girl, had on a green tank top and shorts and sported a figure that nicely complemented her ponytail. Past them, from outside in the summer evening, an orange sun reflected off a parked car and spotlighted the pair as if they were the focus of a movie shot.
            Thinking he couldn't go wrong with a cheeseburger, Alec ordered one from "Not Cindy." While he waited, he assayed a collection of objets d’art hung on the walls - shellacked wood pictures, for sale - appliquéd photos of Elvis (young and old), a bald eagle, an American flag, a pair of hands in prayer above a snippet from the Twenty-Third Psalm, a grizzly bear, a profile of JFK. Each one a steal at $14.95.
            The burger turned out to be excellent. “California Dreamin’” drifted in from the kitchen, the cook’s shoulders bopping in time. Alec looked up and in the reflection off the glass cabinet holding cream pies he saw the young couple’s hands steal across the table and touch. He watched the Old Marrieds actually smile at one another and exchange what seemed about three words – sufficient certainly, after all the years, to speak paragraphs of unnecessary dialogue.
            "Roy and Earl" pushed back from their table revealing satisfied guts that had taken years to perfect. They belched so simultaneously they had to be brothers and had the decency to grin. Down the way, Gramps and his son chuckled.
            The lovelorn cowhand -- a pretty safe bet -- straightened his hat, tossed a bill on the counter and left, flipping open the phone and punching in a number.
            “Non-Cindy” watched him leave.

            She turned to Alec. "Want dessert?"

            "No thanks. Who did the art work?” he asked.
            “My daddy. Momma made him get a hobby. That or shoot him.”
            “Let me have one of the Elvises.” Alec gestured at the "young one," smiled, and handed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”
            He paid for dinner and went out into a perfect twilight evening, feeling better than he had in days.