Short Story: The Diner

I check my watch. It’s closer to midnight than I had suspected, but still not close enough. Forks are scraping plates and mugs are steaming as I peel my back off of the red vinyl. A shriveled woman is lamenting to her equally-shriveled companion.

“Not even on my birthday!” she testifies. “Christmas and Mother’s Day – that’s all I deserve, I suppose. Have mercy.”

I sip from my cup, and it bubbles louder than I had anticipated. I look around, but nobody’s noticed. I take a louder sip to test the limits.

A teenaged couple are avoiding eye contact with each other. He’s mopping his plate with a dry piece of wheat toast, and she’s dabbing the corners of her mouth with a folded napkin.

He clears his throat to loosen some phlegm, and she gets up to go to the bathroom. A chubby waitress saunters over, lifting her hips way too high on both sides – so much for subtleties – and sets the check down lightly. She turns around, and I have to take another sip of my coffee to hide my surprise. Her mustache is bold. Thick. A blonde caterpillar, cozy on her philtrum. My eyes dart down to the checkered pattern in front of me.

“1985,” I hear. “Sugar prices are climbing, people in suits are panicking. Coca-Cola is screwed. Pepsi’s been gaining on them since the late 70’s, there’s no way they can afford to switch to a cheaper sweetener now.” His friend is chewing. Nodding, but mostly chewing.

“Unless,” he bellows,  “they can divert everyone’s attention to another product entirely.” He pauses dramatically…

“New Coke. It’s like drinking from a rusty spittoon. No corporation in its right MIND would take such a successful product off the market, and replace it with a completely different formula. People cry. Angry letters are written. Phone calls are made. 77 days later, when Coke re-introduces its “classic” formula, people are so busy celebrating, that they have no idea what’s been added to their drinks; High. Fructose. Corn syrup.”

He leans back in his seat, smiling, puffed up with self-appreciation. I check my watch. It’s closer to midnight than I had suspected, but still not close enough. I lift my mug to take a drink, and realize it’s empty. I look for Tom Selleck the Waitress, but she’s busy eyeballing the kid, whose girlfriend has returned and still isn’t saying a word.

“Victor knows that Julia and Michael have been seeing each other,” says the pruny lady. For a second, I think she’s talking about real people.

“So he locks him up in a bomb shelter he built in his basement, and makes him watch on a television screen while he makes love to her.”

The waitress refills my drink, but doesn’t bother to smile at me. Even if she had, I wonder to myself, would I be able to see it behind her crumb catcher? I smile back anyway, and she strolls off, popping her hips like her pelvis is dislocated.

The teenaged couple are at the counter now, and he’s got his wallet out to pay the bill. She’s not giving him the ‘You’re-paying-my-bill-so-now-I’m-indebted-to-you’ vibe! I silently cheer for her in my head. Move closer to him. Give him the Grateful eyes. Something!

He pockets the change, and they exit together, more than two feet between them. I release a sigh of defeat. I check my watch. It’s closer to midnight than I had suspected, but still not close enough.