Well Oiled

Me: “Man, I just love old country diners like this. I mean, look at the staff zipping around and sharing tasks. This place runs like a well-oiled machine.”

Wonderful Wife: “Well, there’s definitely enough grease to oil a machine.”

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Those People

Waitress: “OK, sounds good. Now, with that breakfast you get a choice of toast or two pancakes.”

Me: (long pause)

Me: “Does anyone really ever choose toast?”

Waitress: “It happens. But you gotta wonder about those people.”

Diner Views

I’m eating my cheap omelet in a diner where “with cheese” means a pale yellow square of American slapped on top. I can still see the wrinkles pressed into the “cheese” from the recently removed cellophane wrapper.

Eddie Rabbit’s “I Love a Rainy Night” rattles quietly above from crackling, overworked speakers.

The too-friendly waitress buzzes, smiling, from table to booth, flaming red fingernails highlighting all the yellow-gold rings on each hand.

Next to me four white-haired, gravel-voiced older men in work clothes loudly discuss old cars, old girlfriends, and how the government should be doing more to protect “intersex people.”

Wait… wut?

I love this town.