Man at the Diner
hail, fellow, well met
Andy's was crazy-crowded, absolutely packed on a Sunday just after twelve noon. Clumps of hungry folks in jackets stood waiting for a booth. A man was seated at the counter, third seat from the leftward end. White-haired fellow, cheerful, Napoleonic curls fringing his brow. Eighty, maybe. Eighty-five. Someone had written out in cautious majuscules a list of breakfast items on a pale blue post-it note, which the man held in a hand that he willed to be steady. He read from the list, as Mikayla leaned in with pen and pad: bacon, extra "krispy"; two poached eggs, runny; hot coffee, cream and sugar. At the bottom of this list in the same deliberate capitals, a first name, George, a last name, and a phone number. George was more than a little blurry, perceptibly afflicted in the manner common to those who've seen so many decades come and go. But George was radiating joy, completely incandescent. Mikayla had handed him three or four plastic tubs sealed in glittery cellophane, each tub scarcely bigger than a Forever stamp, and housing a dollop of Smucker's strawberry jam. "I love this stuff! Don't you?" The younger man to his left oh-yeah’d agreement. George kept rhapsodizing: "God, I love this stuff!" He was able to peel off the seal and butterknife the reddish goo onto his bread, this ancient human looking for all the world like a bright-cheeked nine-year-old whose team had just won trophies in small-town Little League.