The Fifty-first Street Diner

This was originally two separate pieces that were intended to carry a common element (a character, a location, a theme, etc.) but I decided to make it one long piece and see how it fit.

Charlie's finger cleared away the grains of salt clinging to the metal crown of the shaker. The grains scattered over the top of table twenty-three and made her arms feel grimy against it when she leaned forward. The salt stuck to her skin and she studied the granules. They were very cube-like, with the tiniest hint of jagged edges.

Charlie’s looks were understated and her frame petite. When she walked her gait was modest and consisted of short, imprecise strides, but sitting at the booth left her quite unremarkable. She was moderately attractive, but humble. She had a cute face but did not possess the elegance she strove for. Her mousy brown hair rarely ever got her noticed and though she had been coming here for years she was unsure whether or not the diner staff even recognized her.

*

Barney stood across the street from the Fifty-First Street Diner and berated himself for leaving his lunch on the bus. Had he been in his car he’d have grabbed it from the passenger side out of habit but the night before, after seventeen loyal years, his boxy old Buick had finally kicked the bucket. It absolutely refused to turn over, even after Barney attempted to reason with it. He’d stood with it in the deserted lot, shoulders slumped as though in eulogy, for nearly thirty minutes before the local bus had coughed its way to the stop on the corner. Perhaps it was for the best.

The town only had the one bus, but it suited the unhurried locals just fine. He’d have preferred to ride his bike to work, if not for the forecast’s predicted rain showers. The ride to work the following morning had been less than pleasant. It jostled him from side to side until his brain had begun to swim inside his skull. The smell of old sneakers permeated the air and the noise of the engine suffocated was suffocating. He couldn’t get away soon enough and when he stepped off the bus onto the inviting pavement he left the small brown bag of lunch in his place. He’d have to get used to public transportation.

*

Charlie had been coming to this place every day for nine years. She made it a habit to sit at a different table or booth each day. She was hoping for a New York City experience of her own so she cycled through the tables in numerical order, never repeating a table until she had eaten at each one. It kept things from getting too comfortable.

*

Now on his lunch break, Barney briefly cast his eyes upward into the cloudless sky and finally entered the diner. He had never been inside the diner before. For years he had opted instead to take his lunch breaks on the park bench across the street. Today was as good a day as any.

He enjoyed people watching and had found over the years that folks were much more likely to edit themselves when the square footage was confined within four walls. He assumed it had something to do with the unwritten social codes one learns from a small age to follow without question – a failure to obey often resulted in nasty looks from older women.

It seemed the entire town was on lunch – the place was packed. Barney finally found a seat at table twenty-three. There were no barstools lining the counter on the opposite wall because Mrs. Wanamaker's famous pies filled the monumental glass displays on top. An old Felix the Cat clock called out and reminded him that his twelve o’clock lunch was nearing its end.

The bistro tables that were clustered around the entrance and small booths lined the wall opposite the counter. It was common knowledge to the locals that the décor was inspired by an old coffee shop in New York City. How fitting. It wasn't a very authentic representation of New York, but Barney was unaware of this.

*

Charlie watched the grinning eyes of the cat clock tick to the left and tock to the right. Yesterday when she'd sat at the neighboring booth the clock hadn't been visible from table twenty-two. Table twenty-one's view distorted the clock because it could only be seen through the pie displays.

The seat at table twenty-three gave her an oddly omniscient view of the diner. There were no barstools lining the counter because Mrs. Wanamaker's famous pies filled the colossal glass displays on top. The old Felix the Cat clock chimed in the eleventh hour.

A menu slapped the table, calling her attention back to the diner around her. White apron strings bisected the black clad bottom and carroty polo top that stopped a few tables away to take another patron's order. The server's steps had barely faltered as the menu left busy hands. Charlie didn't need the menu, but she looked it over out of habit. The coffee stains were in nearly the same place on every menu. Assuming they didn't give her the exact same menu every day, she found this to be quite a feat and it amused her.

The server in the carroty polo stopped back at her table, poised expectantly with a pad and pen to take her order, but saying nothing.

"I'll have a Mexican omelet, please. With cilantro and sour cream?"

A nod was all she got in response and the carroty polo was gone. She always ate a Mexican omelet with cilantro and sour cream at table twenty-three.

*
 
A server came by and took Barney’s order. He found himself musing over the color of the shirts the employees had to wear: polos of a very distinct orange shade. Carroty, almost. Not at all pleasing to the eye.

He'd done research on hues years ago for a client and remembered how the color orange was thought to encourage haste. Fast food joints used it to get customers in and out. Considering the diner’s leisurely patrons, the theories seemed to have it all wrong.

*

Charlie’s omelet arrived exactly the way she liked it. She cut into it, took a bite, and reached for the salt, but the shaker seemed glued to the table. The corners of her mouth fought gravity for a moment. Her eyes searched the customers for a laughing face but no one had noticed. This place never changed. She pulled harder and finally it came up. In its place was what looked like a ring of spilled coffee or soda and she remembered knocking it over the last time she’d eaten at twenty-three.

She’d been envisioning an impending conversation with her father. He knew of her desire to escape to college but with money so tight he needed the long hours and couldn’t leave the younger ones home alone every night.

She’d practiced it many times in her mind. The dialogue ran smoothly. In her head she was cool, collected, and lighting up a cigarette. She'd never smoked a day in her life but whenever Charlie played a would-be conversation through her head she saw herself elegantly igniting a cigarette or taking a sip of coffee from a sleek Styrofoam cup like those suits in New York. There was something about these casual acts that evoked witty remarks and a poised exterior. Her eyes would dance, confident and unconcerned. An assured half smile would slip over her lips, the second hand smoke or steam from the coffee lightly framing her face. In her head she was very New York.

She’d been reaching absently for the salt when she bumped her drink. Coffee or soda, she couldn’t remember. It had spilled everywhere.

That had been forty-three tables ago. She was a little disgusted that the mess was still there, but even more upset with herself for never working up the courage to have the conversation with her father.

*

Barney finished up his grilled cheese. It was a perfect way to spend his last lunch in the small town he’d grown up in. He glanced at the bill the Carroty polo had left moments before. He’d have to get used to lunches that were nowhere near as cheap as this once he arrived in New York.

He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, wiped his mouth, and got up to leave. He turned when he reached the exit and took a last look at the diner, studying it so he would know what to expect when he got to the Big Apple.

*

Felix's mechanical tail ticked and tocked back and forth, winding down the minutes until noon. Charlie thought of all the responsibilities waiting for her at home. She took a deep breath, savoring the few moments she had left to herself, and reached for the greasy saltshaker. It was stuck again and when she tipped it over to use it, nothing came out. The salt had clumped into one lump, fixed to the bottom of the shaker.

Author's Note

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think... and don't be afraid to let me know what's not working.

Reviews

[Angel's Lady]

Wow. You are a very charged writer...very dynamic...very powerful. In ten years, you will be someone to take notice of within the writing community and, all I mean by that is, age does bring a broader range of maturity and this expands into your writing. My writing of ten years ago was much more narrowed in my thinking...and, as broad as your writing is now, you will reach epic proportions in ten years...I mean this as a compliment in case I have wandered away completely by now...I will be interested to see what else you write...Please add me as a friend, if you would, for I am definitely interested in seeing what else you come up with...Tom Robbins-ish but NOT. I know, that's an oxymoron but I can't help it. You are just that unique, in my humble opinion. And by this analogy, I was actually referring to Fishing. ;)

[Yaooooooo]

Very well written.
Feel free to send me a request when ever you like...
Thanks for sharing...
One!