At The Diner

Needed to get out of my apartment but all the restaurants in my neighborhood were closed. So I headed in the other direction, away from the City. That's a big step for me since I have no sense of where I am and get lost easily -- I depend on a steady routine and familiar landmarks. Underneath the elevated railroad tracks I found the Court Square Diner. I've seen it but never been in. As advertised by the dingy exterior, it's a greasy spoon, complete with individual jukeboxes at every table, each one sporting a small, handwritten notice scribbled on a piece of paper and scotchtaped to the front: Out Of Order. I sit in the far corner booth, which turns out to be a smart move. A guy sitting at the counter is pinning down the mananger with his conversation, holding forth on "undesirable elements" and why he goes to this particular diner even though it's not near his work and it's not near his home. He's wearing an overcoat, glasses and his hair is slicked straight back. Even when customers come in and need to be seated or when the manager tries to scoot away by pretending to fill salt shakers or push around some utensils, the guy keeps up the stream of comments, raising and lowering his voice as needed so the manager is compelled to stay near him just to keep the volume down. "I can't be late for work," the guy is saying. "It wouldn't look good. You gotta earn the money you're paid." He's speaking so rat-a-tat-tat, I feel like I'm watching an actor working on an improv and I want to go over and gently suggest that he's over-acting. But of course he isn't over-acting. He's got himself down to a "t."