Cold, miserable, dead. No, you’d be forgiven for thinking I was morbidly describing the weather or even a change of season.
In fact.. spring was in full bloom, flowers once vacant were now bursting with new life through the winter beaten soil. We meet Glen, a man previously towering at 6 foot 2 inches and standing proudly in his much respected Air Force uniform. years of his youth spent enduring lengthy deployments in war torn lands of conflict & writing home to the girl that holds him together, the love of his life, a voluptuous brunette of 5 foot 7, Jerika. Of course, those were the old days, Glen is now barely a shadow of his former self, reduced in height by 4 inches and 76 years old. no, that isn’t just the ageing process, it’s partly the sad slump in his shoulders, each line, every wrinkle engraved into his sunken face in the passing of time, all telling a different story of hardship & emotional trauma.
Regular as clockwork, Glen rinses with a wash cloth, takes his medication, slicks back what little silver hair remains and begins his daily commute. at this age, walking to his favourite diner is a challenge. This man used to be as fit as a butchers dog, but there is no telling of how cruel time can be. Walking slowly away from the comfort of his town house, passing children filled with laughter, 21st century Business types talking on cellular phones walking swiftly. young lovers, holding hands..
He eventually arrives at the diner, it’s taken Glen 10 minutes longer than it would of done 20 years ago. This place may just be a diner, but to Glen, this is a home away from home. The staff all know him like a friend almost, greeting him as if he were a part of the fixtures & fittings, If he weren’t to turn up for breakfast, they would only assume him dead. his favourite Waitress Flo, joyfully wishing him a good morning as she helps his 124lb body toward his favourite stool at the counter. Flo notices that Glen isn’t Glen today as she asks him ‘usual, hon?’ there is no smiling with false teeth, and there was no cheeky gesture in the form of a kiss. Just a woeful nod. Flo won’t ask what’s wrong though, she will carry on with refilling coffee and waiting tables, Glen will eventually confide in her, he always does.
‘Well good morning there, Glen!’ chef Pete cheerfully shouts through the service window as he does every morning .. Glen barely raising his head with acknowledgement, a struggling grunt the only sign of life. Pete, cooking Glen’s usual meal of bacon, sausage & egg, an extra bacon rasher today maybe… that should do the trick.
‘Coffee today, Glen?’ Flo asks in a soothing tone as she props herself against the counter, hand resting beneath her chin. she normally asks this anyway, but today she instinctively knows she needs to be a little more sympathetic.
‘I’m fine no, fine, thanks’ Glen mumbles, his words on the edge of a breakdown it seems, fighting back the outburst that is surely going to ensue as he fiddles with his hands, almost a nervous disposition.
Flo, a caring soul naturally, though her image stereotypically portrays otherwise, tall, leggy, curly red hair & bright red lipstick. she isn’t just a waitress, oh no.. Flo is a counselor, friend, therapist, all rolled into one – When you work in a diner with regulars, your job role isn’t just to wait tables it seems.
‘well hon, we’ll see if breakfast don’t sort you out then you feel free to chat to me darlin’ as she rubs Glens shoulder through his thick brown coat.
A breakfast of this variety may be able to fix a hangover, prepare any soul for a hard day.
Pete, ringing his bell, Flo walking to the service window, almost like a homing call to a flock of pigeons. He passes through Glen’s breakfast, making a suggestive face to Flo silently as if to ask her what is wrong with him.
She places the breakfast in front of Glen, he doesn’t seem to notice.
A million miles away in his own head, even the aromas of bacon & sausage couldn’t alert him. He knows he isn’t really hungry, the very sight of food not goading his interest.
He came here to chat, when you’re Glens age, if you need to talk, you either seek out whatever family remains, or you invest in a ouija board to contact the majority of your friends, it’s sad but incredibly true to life; nothing waits for you. He walks down the street these days, and barely a soul will notice him, it’s the fast pace of modern life of course, though sadly, he is also the forgotten generation. The staff here kind of have to talk to him, he is a paying customer.
‘Flo, why is life so insistently inconsistent? Please ask me if I am okay again’
He asks, tears forming in the eyes of an old, worn out soul.
To be continued..
Diary of a Tony 