Hard boiled or scrambled? the waitress repeats.
I don’t know, he says. I just don’t know…
The waitress smacks her gum. I can almost see her rolling her eyes. I imagine her putting her pencil behind her ear, closing her pad in her fist, putting it on her hip.
Well, she says. You said not over easy, you don’t want poached or fried… If you can show us another way to cook an egg, come on back.
I – the man starts. I just – scrambled, I guess.
That gets my vote, the waitress says. Scrambled. Definitely scrambled.
I try to picture the smooth way she steps and turns, tears the ticket from her pad, and glides around the counter where she hangs it in the window to the kitchen. I picture it because I mostly can’t see her. She’s been getting the order of the man in the booth behind me, a man clearly dealing with some anxieties. I would have sat with a view of him, but the late dinner rush was finishing up when I came in and this spot at the counter was the only place to sit.
This is in a diner in Midtown, and it’s nearing midnight. The man behind me is bouncing his leg up and down, rattling the table and his coffee spoon. The waitress comes back with his silverware and he jumps, causing his water glass to spill.
Oh Jesus, the man says. What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s okay, the waitress says. Relax… I’ll get a towel.
She comes back with the towel, and I hear the ice going back into the cup, the sound of the table move slightly as she wipes it down.
Thank you, he says. Thank you. I’m sorry…
It’s just dinner, the waitress says. We’ll get through it…
The man laughs.
What? she asks him.
Nothing, he says. It’s just dinner… I like that.
It’s just dinner, I think. What a line… I take my pen out and jot it down on my napkin.
Thanks, I guess, the waitress says.
It’s just -, the man said. It’s… I’ve been having a strange night.
It’s okay, she tells him, genuinely. I think it sounds genuine… I try to think how I might say that, describe that shifting quality in her voice without using an adverb and employing as few words as possible.
It’s okay, she says, and she really means it now. We all have them…
A strange week actually, he tells her, speaking up.
A pause. I assume she’s looking around, seeing all the tables empty now, needing to be bussed.
Well, she says. Rush is over… Why don’t you try me?
I heard her slide into the booth behind. I ventured a glance over my shoulder but he immediately met my eye. I turned back around.
I’m trying to figure this guy out: at first, I thought he was some tough guy out of a detective novel or gangster movie. He’s big, he has the look with that overcoat he’s wearing. A deal gone bad and now’s he’s on the lam from the mafia… Can you be on the lam from the mob? Or just the law? I scribble myself a note. Anyway, on the run from the mafia is what I thought…. But the more I listen, the more I’m starting to think he’s mixed up, confused, paranoid. Like he escaped from some mental asylum instead.
At first I thought I was going crazy, he tells the waitress. I mean, I’m a boring guy. I work from home, only go out to eat or to go to the grocery store. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me.
Stuff like what? she says. We’re talking in code here… I need context.
What’s it to me who this guy is? Well, I’m an aspiring writer. And I say aspiring with pride, as we’re all aspiring writers when we are not writing. Or maybe I should say we’re all aspiring writers when we’re not inspired. Aspiring when not inspired… I like that. I jot it down, read it over. But what does that mean? Underline mean twice… Anyway, aspiring writer: I find it useful to sit in public places and watch people. Overhear conversations. That’s how you become a better writer: to be among people. And I must admit I can be a bit of a recluse. I just got so tired of parties and the bar scene. It’s good for material but bad for the liver. The point being, I’m not trying to be a snoop, but it is my job to listen.
Meanwhile, behind me, he’s lowered his voice, and I can no longer hear him.
Following you? I hear the waitress say.
Shh, he said.
I imagine him now leaning forward over the table, motioning her in close. She’s that lonely waitress archetype – she can’t help herself. I bet she’s wondering if he might kiss her. She doesn’t care if he’s a lunatic or who’s trying to kill him. He’s the best thing she’s got going.
Him? the waitress says.
He makes a noise to quiet her again.
I just can’t believe – she starts. I guess when you said, you know, following, I thought…
I imagine her shaking her head.
He looks like a college kid, she says. Normal…
Quiet, he whispers, barely audible, like he was mouthing it mostly.
I just thought you meant someone… she continued, then stopped. Someone… not here…
Okay, fine! I shout, slam the table with my palm.
I slide out of the booth, turn around, stand over them. If you want me to quit following you, just ask! You don’t have to talk about me like I don’t exist!
He looks at me, looks at the waitress. Back at me… incredulous.
Quit. Following me, he says.
Confidence rising. Cocky almost.
Please? I say. I mean just because you’re upset doesn’t mean you can’t still be polite. It’s what makes civilization… That and art, anyway.
Why? he says. Why are you following me?
Why are you following him? the waitress asks.
I – I stop, pause. It’s for a class, Jesus… Forgive me for trying to get an education!
Get out, she says. Leave here now, or I call a cop…
There’s no need for that, I say. Come on… I just said: All you have to do is ask.
Leave, he says.
Fine, I say. Fine.
Throw up my hands.
I exit the diner into the near-deserted block. I pause, look back through the window, and I see them standing now, laughing. She bats his shoulder. She sees me, nods and he turns, looking at me through the window. He waves me off like I’m some kind of a jerk. As soon as I’m walking, he turns back to her and they’re talking again. I can just imagine it: he’s asking her what time she gets off. If she wants to get some coffee. They’re in a diner already, but whatever. Okay, she says. But decaf… And they laugh away the rest of their nerves, some imagined disaster now averted.
What a waste, I say to myself, passing under a street light.
Maybe this can be a story they tell their grandkids some day, I tell myself, trying not to think about the novel I need to write. As for me, I don’t think there’s any way for me to use it.
Photo: Unsplash