Cursory Glance: The Diner – Nonfiction

His arms were covered in veins of World War One trenches. The contours stuck out like a frame captured by a British spotter, showing the primary trench, maintenance trenches, and all the supporting features. His skin was tanned and almost leathery. Not leathery, but almost. His biceps were small only because he himself was a small man. However, the biceps he did have packed a wallop, as a few guys could attest to, including one cop during a routine stop. Of course, he’d done time for that, but it led to him quitting the drink. So, in some sense, he appreciated that particular event.

Nearly forty years passed since he quit drinking. Gary worked the grill at the diner. Every day, he worked from 5am to 2pm, cooking eggs in every method except poached. He found eggs benedict to be too rich and he thought only uppity folks eat that shit. Gary preferred the simplicity of eggs over easy. Grab an egg, break it, fry it, flip it, and eat it in two bites. Gary ate three eggs and three sausage links each morning. Once a week, on Sundays, he’d add a piece of French toast with butter. 

Gary cooked more than just eggs, obviously. Pancakes, toast, biscuits, bacon… if it could be on the flat top, Gary cooked it. He was almost in a daze while he worked, some far off place that wasn’t exactly a dream, but something else. Gary wouldn’t be able to explain it even if he tried. He focused so intentionally on the slips coming in, pouring batter on the grill with one hand while his other hand flipped an egg. That other hand never dropped the spatula. It was practically glued there. Gary felt an emptiness when he left work there on his palm. His right hand, the spatula hand, almost always formed a loose fist. Sometimes, he had to work his fingers open in the morning so he could piss before heading in.

 The grill was his safe space. As long as the batter pail was topped off, the butter stocked up, and his eggs nearby, Gary was fine. He worked without words. His spatula did the talking, shuffling under a row of bacon, shaking up scrambled eggs, or tossing a burger patty in the air. Gary had thirty years of experience on this grill. Actually, the restaurant had forcibly replaced the old grill five years ago. That was the first time the old Gary surfaced briefly. He had nearly lost his job before settling down. After that debacle, Gary came to work and the grill looked nearly the same. There were just fewer grease stains. So, it should be said he had twenty five years on one grill and five years experience on this new grill.

In any case, Gary’s life revolved around this grill. Time away from the grill was difficult. Gary is an alcoholic. Any time his brain isn’t occupied, he ponders alcohol. He struggles to avoid the isles of alcohol and he doesn’t dare even enter a gas station if it sells booze. Gary’s apartment is devoid of any decorations. There’s one newspaper clipping with a picture of him at his grill. Dated August 1995, the title reads 35th Anniversary or Diner. Gary isn’t smiling in the picture. He hasn’t smiled since he punched the cop. Hell, he hasn’t laughed since he finished his last beer before he punched the cop. 

Gary’s apartment, nestled just next to the diner, was occupied by little. The bedroom has a twin bed and fifty year old bureau. His bathroom is clean, but small. Gary can’t stand dirt. In the living/dining room, Gary owns a small couch and coffee table. It’s just enough for Gary to start his day with coffee and end it with chamomile tea. Gary has an older TV in the corner. He hasn’t turned it on in ten years. The kitchen is filled with the old grill. That was the diner’s way of thanking him for his loyalty. They hooked up the grill on a custom island built by Gary and the owner’s son. Gary adores his kitchen with all the bells and whistles a flat top cook could ask for. 

Sometimes, in the moments where Gary is so close to breaking his sobriety, he hangs up a line of slips (which he snagged from the diner) above his grill top and cooks. He could close his eyes at this point to cook the orders. He memorized them after four evenings when he really wanted to sip a cold beer. But the act of hanging the slips from some paper clips on a line of string ripped the thought of a beer away. He focused on the scent of eggs, sausage, two biscuits, and a blueberry pancake. That kept him straight. 

In thirty years, Gary had taken three days off. The first was for his mother’s funeral. His mother had raised Gary and his two brothers on her own after his father died in a car accident. He hadn’t been particularly close with his mother, but Gary respected her and appreciated the labors she bore in raising three boys. Gary spoke at the funeral because he was the oldest. He didn’t cry or even come close to it, but it was a nice speech, especially for Gary. His brothers offered a few more words, but they were the ones who cried. Their tears streamed down ruddy cheeks and fell on the pulpit. Gary, sitting in the first row, briefly wondered if he should have cried. But he didn’t feel the need, so he didn’t. 

The second time, Gary attended his brother’s funeral. Phil died of a heart attack at the age of 55. Gary was more close with his brothers than his mother, but he still didn’t cry. He spoke about his childhood and the respect he had for Phil. A few of Gary’s coworkers attended the service. Gary had not asked for them to show up. He had only mentioned it to his boss. But here they were, showing some support. He said thank you, surprising them with his soft voice. They expected Gary to have a deep and rough voice, formed from years of shouting. But Gary hadn’t shouted since he punched the cop. No, it was when the diner took away his grill. But they had given it to him, hadn’t they? Gary apologized profusely after the incident. He hardly spoke at all now.

The third day off was today. Gary took today off for no reason at all. Perhaps, he wanted to challenge himself to not drink on a day off. Of course, the first thing he thought of when he opened his eyes was having a beer with lunch. He literally flopped out of the cheap sheets at that idea. He pried his right fingers open, pissed, and washed his hands. He made his three eggs and three sausages. He ate standing up and sipping his black coffee. 

Gary decided to walk around town. It was a gorgeous day. The sun was peeking behind light clouds. There was a slight breeze and rain was predicted for the evening. Gary wore a long sleeve, hiding his arm trenches. He slipped on a faded pair of jeans and his work sneakers. He walked past the diner and turned left on the road. He paused momentarily to feel the breeze sweep past his ears. The sun offered itself fully to his face. And for the first time in four decades, Gary smiled.