𝗜𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘀 | 𝐁𝗼𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲/𝗥𝗙𝗞

XXXVII: "Diner Talk"

[June 1951]

On one balmy afternoon, in a nearly empty diner, a  waitress with gaudy blonde hair replenished an older man's cup with coffee. Her matchstick neck was drenched in summery sweat, and the gingham-patterned uniform she wore did not help with the case. Amidst attending to the customer, the woman glimpsed at the clock behind; it had struck one p.m. — her least favorite hour. "Cliff, get ready! Those Harvard kids are barging in any second now," she yelled to the cook in the kitchen, her forehead riddled with veins. "Alright, alright!" Cliff responded in a similar tone. He put on his greased apron and proceeded to heat the flattop grill.

The gentleman at the counter had his green eyes peeking over the cup of joe he was sipping. "Those Harvard kids?" He inquired, seemingly amused by the blonde's lexicon. "Ah, you know... rich kids turn this place into their hangout during lunchtime," the waitress remarked exasperatingly as she wiped the counter with a damp cloth. "Must be tough working here. Waiting tables at the age of... twenty-five?" The man took a guess, making a cutback from the actual age he thought of, ergo, making the lady smile with delight. "Almost. Twenty-seven," she gladly answered (perhaps her anti-aging cream ostentatiously advertised in the Boston Herald had started working).

"Twenty-seven... while some spoiled brats come in and treat the place like their own, ordering milkshakes like no tomorrow; singing along to Sinatra on the jukebox—just rubbing it in your face?" The loquacious man reached for a lighter inside the burgundy suit he wore, and the waitress nodded at just about every word he uttered. "Tell me about it! Just the other day, one of them broke a plate..." she held up the said object to emphasize, "...told me it wasn't his fault and left without paying for it!" Her complaint received a subtle smirk from the older man. "A lost cause. One of them is my kid, you know?" He took a drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke disperse around him and the waitress. "Oh... well, I don't mean anything by it," the young woman explained — she certainly meant those words — though the smoker wouldn't blame her if she did. "I understand your frustration is what I'm trying to say," the man coolly said. He sipped his warm mediocre coffee while keeping his recherché eyes fixed on the poor waitress.

The bell hung on the door rang, and a sudden burst of laughter and chattering permeated the diner. "I can't believe he did all that for ten bucks!" One of the boys from the group exclaimed. They continued their ongoing conversation like they indeed owned the place. "Did you hear about Mendez?" A youthful feminine voice began, "he's going to ask Theresa out," she decisively went on. "Seriously? He is so out of her league!" Another youngster replied without any forethought. "I know! That's what I said!" The initial voice added her remark to the discussion again. When the group was finally in their standard booth, the oldest one whispered to the woman in his arm, "Evelyn, I'm going to go use the washroom. Order me the usual, dear." His whispering suggested that they'd been together for some time for him to instruct her casually. "Okay, Paul," Evelyn answered, nodding as she obeyed her lover. It might've been her remarkably velvety voice that caught his attention, but the man at the counter gave her a furtive look thrown over his shoulder.

Young and cordial Peter Davis slipped his hand into his shirt pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes before quickly realizing it was empty — except for the few bits and pieces of tobacco lying at the bottom of the paperboard container. "Damn, I'm out of Luckies. Going to get some from the machine," he informed his girlfriend and immediately left the booth (he craved his fix like a junkie — which he was, but it was during his freshman year, and it was just reefer). "What're y'all havin'?" Asked Sally O'Hara, the new addition to the clique; she was a "Southern Belle" who originated from the upper echelon of Georgia and immigrated to Massachusetts to attend Harvard — the same old story with hundreds, if not thousands, of its students. Her rosy lips matched the color of the bubblegum she was chewing noisily; it used to annoy the group, but they'd gotten used to it — like how Evelyn got used to her father's chewing habit. "Pete and I are... going to have the hamburgers," the girl with the straightest, blackest hair replied, eyes going up and down the menu as if she was unsure of her choice.