Week 9: The Daily Diner

You work at a diner and every day, the same customer calls. 

"Who's working the fryer?"

"Hi Ernie. How are you?" I move the phone to the crook of my neck, a familiar habit when I hear his voice. I ignore the question and start with the pleasantries. 

I hear his deep sigh, then the clearing of his throat. "I'm good, good. My mailman came two hours late, can you believe that?" 

"I cannot," I reply absentmindedly, reaching out to serve a pie of cherry pie to the customer at the counter. I wink at the customer as I turn away. I can't imagine the amount of free time you would need to get mad about mail being hours late. "Why the rush to get mail?"

"Well my granddaughter is getting married, see, and I want to make sure I get an invitation. I don't know where the darn thing is!"

"Well, can't you just call?" Like you call us every day, I think to myself. I spike the receipt from the cherry pie on the discard pile and turn the kitchen wheel to clip another order on. I can feel a blister forming on the back of my foot as the morning trudges on. I shouldn't have worn my new work shoes. 

"I can't find her number in my address book, and my son isn't answering." I hear another sigh come from the other line, right in my ear. He asks the same question again. "Who's on the fryer?" 

I lean in through the window and turn my head to confirm who is on the fryer. A young kid, barely sixteen, is sweating switching the metal baskets from the hot oil onto the drying racks above it. His red bandana is two shades darker above his brow where the sweat has stained it. "Damian, Ernie, the new guy. You haven't met him yet." I move the phone to my other ear and fill coffees, one by one, down the counter. 

Ernie used to come in everyday. He lives two blocks down, above the hardware store, where a steep, skinny flight of stairs separates him from the rest of the world. He used to be able to climb down them, not easily but it could be done, and slowly walk to the diner. His white hair would reflect the sun as he shuffled in, his button up shirt crumpled under the armpits and near his belt, his kakis stained from lack of washing. He would go to the same spot (corner, two person booth) and read the same paper (Daily Chronicle). He would order the same meal: two over easy eggs, two slices of bacon, sourdough toast and black coffee. Every time I would suggest something new - french toast, blueberry muffin, cherry pie - he would decline.

"No, no," he would say, "I just want that." And he'd go back to his paper, ending the discussion, always missing the eye roll I gave him in return. 

The days have turned into years, and eventually the daily trips were too much for him. He is trapped by those stairs, unable to climb them, so instead of visiting, I get a phone call. I try not to be bitter about the missed tips. 

I see a customer eyeing me from the end of the counter. His menu is closed and he's tapping his finger against it, the shiny coating reflecting the florescence bulbs above. 

"Listen Ernie, I've got to go. Customers are waitin'. You coming by today?" I always ask him, even though I know the answer, just like my breakfast suggestions. 

"No, no. Not today." 

We exchange goodbyes and I hang up, nestling the phone back into its jack. I start walking towards the customer, and promptly forget about him.