The Odd Stigma of Dining Alone
He sat staring at the watch. Gold plated with a dozen faux diamonds encrusted around the dial. They twinkled in the dull light, reflecting scorn on the holder.
The man tilted the watch to re-read the underside. The inscription was short. Brief. Barely noticeable. It was as if every letter cost a small fortune and money was tight. ‘For Service’ it read. A cold statement of fact. Service to a company that had long stopped noticing who he was. Years spent grafting in a basement with no windows. Years spent missing birthdays and anniversaries. Years and years trudging through the minutiae of office life. A permanent being of stasis.
In solitude, he sat. Alone, in a corner, counting salt grains on the Formica table. An apt metaphor for his working life. An existence so dull and tedious he had struggled to explain in his speech just what he had achieved over the course of fifty years. There was a smattering of applause. A cough or two. An awkward silence between the five people who acknowledged the end of his career. He had never felt so defeated.
The diner was empty. A bleak oasis stranded on a highway. He had been eating at this diner for as long as he had been employed. A weekly ritual that felt comfortable. An old blanket that he could throw over himself for protection from the cold.
He looked up and surveyed the scene one last time.
Behind the long counter stood Mike, much the way he had stood for the last fifty years. Unbending. A solid structure of formidable existence. Mike did what Mike usually did, cleaned glasses. The vigorous wiping of imagined grease. A shuffling motion destroying every speck of unwanted germs. Mike acknowledged his presence with a nod.
Behind Mike, the faded wood paneling was in the end stages of slow decline. Stained from years of deep-fried bacon and desperation, a wreath, wilted in diminished glory hung beside a day-glow ‘No Smoking’ sign. Its elaborate curvature of letters mocked the living.
“This is it, Mike.” “Whassat fella?” “This. This is what it's boiled down to. Me. Here. Alone in solitude. A cup of joe and a patron who would forget me the minute I left. This is my life. Do you even know my name?” “Of course.” “Don’t leave me hanging in suspense Mike. What is it? At least tell me that I mean something to somebody even if it’s a minor character in a shitty diner longing for attention.” “We do the same dance every night. You, sitting there, nursing a coffee. Me, standing there, willing you to leave. Day after day. Year after year.” “I don’t understand.” “No. You never do. You don’t get it.” “Have I said something…?” “I loathe you. I hate the way you sit. All hunched and shielded. I hate your hat. A dung brown that lacks personality. I hate your mumbling secretions. Your demeanor that’s so depressing I need to take a long walk just to get the stain of you out of my mind. I hate this goddamn hour so much simply because of you and your existence. A plague that has haunted me every day since I first opened this diner. Why? Why do you keep coming back? What have I done to ever offend you? What have I done in life to have YOU as my ball and chain?” “Shit…if that’s the way you feel…” “That is EXACTLY how I feel. Your custom is worthless. You’re a malignant stain in my diner. Countless nights I’ve wanted you gone.” “But here we are.” “Yes. Here we are.”
The man stood up. Not suddenly. It was a deliberate and contentious acknowledgment of how he had outstayed his welcome, again. He half-smiled under his hat. He liked this dance. A reliable pantomime they both played out. But this would be the last time.
Sipping the remaining dregs of coffee, he nodded at Mike and made his way to the exit. One hand on the door, he turned and spoke.
“Thanks again, Mike. I’ll never forget you.”
The bell chimed on his way out as another angel got its wings.
