Dreams of the Sleepless

Then - Hot Coffee, Black

The bright light spilled from the diner's windows into the dark street, a beacon calling to storm-tossed travelers in the night. Calling to life's broken souls. Calling to me. It was early, and the small restaurant was almost empty. Like most diners, it was unremarkable. There were rows of booths along the windows to the left and a counter with red upholstered bar stools to the right. The once red upholstery, more like dry riverbed, cracked and a muddy rust color, revealed years of wear. Beyond the counter a large serving window opened into the kitchen. The counter wrapped around at the far end and met the windows just beyond the booths.

I pushed through the door to coffee's friendly greeting. Country music played softly in the background. I couldn't quite place the song. I was sure that I had heard its sad lyrics and melody before, but details like that were lost on me now. Beyond the order window, I heard a woman's voice singing perfect, quiet harmony.

A solitary customer sat hunched over his cup near the far end of the counter, a rumpled newspaper lying abandoned next to him. He was tall and wiry. His short-cropped, white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to his dark brown skin. His dingy white shirt hung loosely from his frail frame.

He'd probably been a much bigger man when he bought that shirt years ago but was now a shadow of his younger self. He turned toward me as I stood just inside the doorway. His face like a fallow field was deeply furrowed. Slowly he studied me in the way that he might study the obituaries, his friends long since passed on. Nothing interesting, just grateful not to see a younger photo of himself smiling back from the pages. Expressionless, he turned back to his coffee. Most people coming to a diner, even at this early hour, are in a rush to eat and get on with the day. His slow, deliberate manner told me that he was in no hurry to go anywhere. Maybe, like me, he had nowhere to go.

I slid into the first booth, as far from the old man as I could. I wanted to be alone. Although he seemed more interested in the depths of the dark liquid that sat before him, I decided to be cautious. Sometimes people in small towns can be chatty. They like to pry. I picked up the laminated menu, sticky with yesterday's syrup, and scanned it. The door behind me creaked open. A guy in khakis and a black polo shirt walked past and took a seat several booths away, facing me. I could feel his eyes on me. Not wanting to make eye contact, I looked out into the deep blackness through the window. The sun would be up soon, but, for now, the nighttime backdrop and lighted windowpane formed a dark, shadowy looking glass. I could see his faint reflection. He held a menu but was clearly looking above it in my direction. It was the kind of scrutiny I anticipated as a stranger in a small town. I knew it well, the suspicious glances, the whispered disapproval, the blatant glares.

I glanced down at my menu. Eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes. The prices seemed fair, but no price is a good price when you're broke. My hands began trembling. I laid the menu on the table and placed them on either side, applying pressure to try to calm them with little success. Worthless hands! I needed to see how much money I had, but my hands were useless. I laid my messenger bag on the table. The once lighter gray nylon was now dark and stained from long hours on the road. The material frayed in fuzzy tufts around the edges and my random jumble of possessions peered out through small holes that formed near the gaping seams. Fighting the tremors, I tried to sort through the odd collection of items and fish out what little money I had left. It was useless. My hands wouldn't cooperate. I dumped the side pocket of the bag on the table. The contents clattered out, some scattering onto the floor. I glanced up. The old man and polo shirt were both glaring at me.

The door behind me banged open and a booming voice announced, "Babe, your lover boy is back!" The booming voice swaggered past me wearing a brown deputy's uniform. He was a large man. Probably played football in an earlier life, but his current heft wouldn't qualify as football worthy. Too many years of sitting in a cruiser. He strode past me, polo shirt, and the old guy as if we weren't even there. I caught the distinct aroma of alcohol as he passed. He glanced around without seeing the three of us. "Where are you, babe?" He plopped down on one of the stools at the end of the counter. The edges of the seat disappeared under his cruiser-trained rump. He boomed again, "What does a fella have to do to get service around here?"