The morning began with my usual stop at Joe’s Big City Luncheonette, a living memorial to the guys who built these nondescript stainless steel prefabs back in the 40's. Joe's establishment looks like a retired city bus left for dead on a corner lot, the bus having somehow taken root and become a building. This wreck is skirted by a strip of dirt, festooned with a clutter of bottles and broken bricks, greened over by a summer’s growth of feral vegetation. I scuttle up two quick steps and I’m off the sidewalk, through the steel door and into the ambiance of Joe’s.
The scent of coffee and bacon is in the air while a row of chrome-stemmed, red-capped toadstools stand like sentinels along the length of the lunch counter. The counter is empty except for a pile of donuts stacked on a plate hiding their age under a glass dome as it hovers above the counter on a steel pedestal. All the action’s in the back, grandiosely referred to as the dining room. I slide onto the middle toadstool and tilt my head taking a sidelong glance down the counter towards the people in the back.
Tables encircle the room, an assortment of square two-tops, each appointed with two or three stack chairs in a variety of shapes and colors. The furnishings give the room an institutional air, kind of like the day room of a state-run flight deck I once had occasion to visit. The scene is warmed by the colorful splash of the “Sights of Greece” placements and each table adorned by a solitary plastic rose leaning forlornly out of a Coke bottle vase. I don't remember any such amenities in that day room.
All the morning regulars are in attendance. Everybody's chatting, sipping coffee, some puffing curls of blue-grey smoke. Just past the counter sits the largest group at three tables pulled together, these are the up-and-comers. They're a very close-knit little society, assuming and self-possessed. To know them is to love them, and to appreciate their bright accomplishments. Of the seven seated together I know most all of them by name, two or three well enough to say “hello”. But together in this group they're unapproachable and appear not to notice any outsiders in spite of covert glances at everyone who comes in. They speak among themselves of the people and things that truly matter. And of course, the people that truly matter are they. "Snobs," I growl to myself.
No one is working the counter today. I’ll have to order for myself at the cook’s window at the end of the counter. I think about a domestic scene of the family dog slinking back into the house after it spent the night outside now trying to slip by unnoticed by any of the family members. The up-and-comers are the family, I’m the dog. On my way to the cook’s window I walk with head down past Table Number One, the Stammtisch . Leave it to the Germans to coin a word for a cordoned territory reserved for the elite of the house. Whether it’s a large venue or small, every joint with a crowd of regulars has one.
The cook behind the service window offers his greeting, “What’ll it be?” he says.
“Morning, Joe. Coffee and a buttered roll to go. Say, where’s Shirley this morning?”
“Ah, her kid’s sick, she’s home playing nurse,” he replies over his shoulder as he flips two over-easy. “She’ll be in for lunch though.”
“Lucky for you,” I answer as I lean back against the counter.
"You said it," Joe replies.
I turn my head a little and my eyes tour the rest of the room. A couple of late-fiftyish gals sit talking, nodding their heads and flipping their hands for emphasis. As they chat they puff long cigarettes held aloft by the manicured fingers of shapely hands. Seated across from each other these ladies make a sort of mirror image of themselves as they respond to each other’s movements and conversation. Heads nodding at each other, hands waiving around, emphasis and empathy washing back and forth across the table.
At the next table Mr. Businessman sits alone behind an upraised Wall Street Journal. He raises a foot and crosses his legs as he turns a page, pants pressed, creases straight and shoes shined. A coffee cup mysteriously levitates off the table and lowers again as the man, his arm and hand remain hidden behind a newsprint curtain.
A couple of tables away two kids, probably 19 or 20 years old, sit leaning towards each other across the table, foreheads almost touching. Goo-goo eyed, in quiet tones they exchange thoughts, hanging on each other’s every word. They’re speaking quickly the way kids do, but privately, with four hands holding each other in the middle of the table. Coffee cups sit unmolested, growing cold. Oblivious to their surroundings, they're aware of no one else in the room, similar to the stammtisch crowd, but different, genuine and purer. They smile in unison. He leans in closer, their lips meet in a gentle kiss. Young love, newly discovered.
There’s a four-top off to the side where three power company guys are sitting. Their forearms and elbows form defensive perimeters delineating their respective table turf. They’re big guys and they lean into their coffee and eggs with gusto. They are yucking it up, something about their service manager back at the shop. They seem like good-natured, regular guys who enjoy being together as a crew. Their morning rendezvous at Joe's is as much a part of their daily routine as punching the time clock or grabbing their hardhats out their lockers.
Behind them Ed sits alone with his papers, the New York Post and the Daily Racing Form. Ed is one of those guys whose pretty much OK, though a little quirky. Maybe he has a tale to tell. By definition he’s homeless but he maintains a reasonable grooming standard, is reasonably polite and he poses no threat. Rumor has it he was CPA from somewhere out of state and now he lives under the highway bridge, plays the ponies and hangs out at Joe’s. Ed is sipping his coffee with brows furrowed as he assaults the Post's crossword puzzle.
“Morning Ed,” I say from my corner of the counter. Ed raises his head and nods a hello.
A funny thing about Ed, when Shirley’s on duty and Ed comes in she always gets him coffee and says, “Ed, can I get you something to eat?” And every time he gives her the same answer, “No thanks, just coffee.” Then Ed sips his coffee and reads his paper, and talks a bit with Shirley. When Shirley’s around Ed is downright chatty, otherwise he’s quiet as a tomb. After twenty minutes or so Ed will say something like, “Hey Shirley, maybe I will have something.” Then proceeds to order a light repast, usually two scrambled eggs with white toast and no butter. Ed comes in everyday, never for breakfast, just coffee. But he never leaves without eating something.
Brown bag in hand Joe sidles around the kitchen corner. “Order up!” he says. Wiping his free hand on his apron he reaches for the register. “That’ll be a buck twenty.”
I hold out two wrinkled bills. “Here you go. No wait, here’s a quarter. Thanks, Joe. Have a good day,” I say as return the spare buck to my pocket.
Joe flips me a nickel and says, “See ya tomorrow.” I turn to leave, another day starts just like the one before.
©1999 Craig Roberts
