The Diner and the Druggie
I met a druggie today, my first. A very nice guy.
He was more polite and respectful than your average pedestrian, and slightly less scrubbed-up.
I went to breakfast with a friend at a greasy spoon restaurant. One of the greasiest, no doubt, which is why my friend selected it. It was about 5:20 in the morning, and we'd been playing poker since the wee hours with other friends and co-workers.
The others had left around 4 a.m., and after another hour of heads-up Hold'em poker with my friend, it was time to eat. I was losing to him as usual, so I didn't mind quitting.
I drove a mile or two to this 24-hour "diner." It was a very small place, room enough for maybe 25 customers to sit at tables and 10 more on stools along the counter. I didn't look around much, just headed toward a booth by the window. I was hungry, and there really wasn't anything appealing in the way of decoration in the place. Had I the energy, the best the place could offer was good people-watching fodder.
My friend began talking with this guy, asked him if he smoked. "Yeah I was about to," he said. "Is that going to bother you?" His tone communicated concern that the smoke might interfere with our dining experience. We said no, and my friend asked if he could bum a smoke. The guy's eyes were glazed and a little shot, but he spoke lucidly, and he was friendly. He handed my friend a cigarette, and then offered my friend's buddy -- that's me -- a square. "No thanks, I don't smoke," I told him.
So my friend continued the conversation. The guy introduced himself and shook our hands. He made mention of my handshake in a slightly lower tone than he'd been using: "Nice grip." I sat and turned in my seat so I could see the guy on my right, or my friend on my left, with just a turn of the head.
They talked about baseball (Cubs fans), the guy's job -- helping load trucks or something, and the 40-something woman he shagged in a van last night. He called it a "teenager move," and laughed. Apparently he hadn't slept much or at all, and was only a couple hours away from a day's work.
I wasn't terribly interested in the conversation; I was more amused with the way the conversation carried on. I mostly listened, sprinkling a few comments in on occassion. I glanced over the menu, torn between a cheeseburger for breakfast or traditional fare. I decided on the burger, but changed my mind when I discovered the ultimate artery-clogging selection: 3 eggs, 3 sausage patties, and biscuits and gravy. A glass of O.J. should wash that down nicely. I preferred tomato juice, but they didn't have it. My friend had requested the same meal, but ordered a large milk instead.
The waitress said they were "changing the milk," and had to "kill the other cow." It would be a couple minutes. I guess they went through a lot of cows.
The guy's hands trembled very slightly as he cut his ham and eggs with a fork and butterknife. His fingernails were neatly kept, clean and trimmed. The cook had made a mistake on his order the first time, and he very politely asked in Spanish for the correction. When he got the dish back, he thanked the waitress "very much" three times.
He wore a wife-beater undershirt (I don't know what they're really called) on underneath an obviously worn-out tee-shirt. He'd mentioned something about having done two loads of laundry last night before hooking up with his ex-girlfriend, but I couldn't say whether this was one of the clean items. I doubted it very much.
Halfway through our meal, amid intermittent conversation, he offered my friend and I a couple slices of ham he only cut through, hadn't touched. "I'm not even hungry," he said, "I'm just here sitting in here." Against my usual judgement, I accepted at my friend's prompting. It was good ham. The gravy on my biscuits had a flavor I couldn't -- and probably wouldn't want to -- identify. I ate it all anyway. Not the best bad breakfast food I'd ever had, but probably not the worst either. Probably. I didn't care: my friend was treating. I'd lost enough money to him playing poker to buy several meals.
My friend told me about another diner he'd been banned from. He'd developed a habit, sometimes with large groups of friends, of going into the place and ordering large quantities of food, then walking out without paying. This was typically after a long night of drinking, and following one such incident, the owner busted him and banned him under threat of arrest. He hasn't been back.
We finished up our meals, but my friend was hankering for something sweet, apparently. He asked the waitress if they had any cookies. "You want me to go to Dominick's and pick some up?" she asked. "If you have time," came the response. They both laughed and she called him a smart-ass.
My friend had been to the restaurant countless times before and exchanged banter with the waitress on the regular. She was a heavy-set lady with short curley hair and coke-bottle glasses, though the frames were smaller than usual for such a thick prescription. My friend asked about donuts instead, and accepted a long-john. "That's on the house, right?"
He offered me half, but I could tell the thing wasn't fresh and declined the offer. He handed it to me to give to the guy.
The guy took it, said thanks, and hit it against the table laughing, "It's like an old brick." I turned back to see my friend with the first half submerged halfway into his glass of milk. He ate it greedily. The guy broke a small piece off the glazed pastry and handed it back to me. I put the unappetizing chunk on the table.
After my friend paid the bill, we stood to leave. The guy got up and offered my friend another smoke for the road. He declined and the guy shook our hands again, saying goodbye. As I stepped toward the door, I heard the guy make mention of my handshake again. In the same lower tone as the first time, he said, "Yeah, you get your hand around his neck, it's over." I took it as a compliment.
He was more polite and respectful than your average pedestrian, and slightly less scrubbed-up.
I went to breakfast with a friend at a greasy spoon restaurant. One of the greasiest, no doubt, which is why my friend selected it. It was about 5:20 in the morning, and we'd been playing poker since the wee hours with other friends and co-workers.
The others had left around 4 a.m., and after another hour of heads-up Hold'em poker with my friend, it was time to eat. I was losing to him as usual, so I didn't mind quitting.
I drove a mile or two to this 24-hour "diner." It was a very small place, room enough for maybe 25 customers to sit at tables and 10 more on stools along the counter. I didn't look around much, just headed toward a booth by the window. I was hungry, and there really wasn't anything appealing in the way of decoration in the place. Had I the energy, the best the place could offer was good people-watching fodder.
My friend began talking with this guy, asked him if he smoked. "Yeah I was about to," he said. "Is that going to bother you?" His tone communicated concern that the smoke might interfere with our dining experience. We said no, and my friend asked if he could bum a smoke. The guy's eyes were glazed and a little shot, but he spoke lucidly, and he was friendly. He handed my friend a cigarette, and then offered my friend's buddy -- that's me -- a square. "No thanks, I don't smoke," I told him.
So my friend continued the conversation. The guy introduced himself and shook our hands. He made mention of my handshake in a slightly lower tone than he'd been using: "Nice grip." I sat and turned in my seat so I could see the guy on my right, or my friend on my left, with just a turn of the head.
They talked about baseball (Cubs fans), the guy's job -- helping load trucks or something, and the 40-something woman he shagged in a van last night. He called it a "teenager move," and laughed. Apparently he hadn't slept much or at all, and was only a couple hours away from a day's work.
I wasn't terribly interested in the conversation; I was more amused with the way the conversation carried on. I mostly listened, sprinkling a few comments in on occassion. I glanced over the menu, torn between a cheeseburger for breakfast or traditional fare. I decided on the burger, but changed my mind when I discovered the ultimate artery-clogging selection: 3 eggs, 3 sausage patties, and biscuits and gravy. A glass of O.J. should wash that down nicely. I preferred tomato juice, but they didn't have it. My friend had requested the same meal, but ordered a large milk instead.
The waitress said they were "changing the milk," and had to "kill the other cow." It would be a couple minutes. I guess they went through a lot of cows.
The guy's hands trembled very slightly as he cut his ham and eggs with a fork and butterknife. His fingernails were neatly kept, clean and trimmed. The cook had made a mistake on his order the first time, and he very politely asked in Spanish for the correction. When he got the dish back, he thanked the waitress "very much" three times.
He wore a wife-beater undershirt (I don't know what they're really called) on underneath an obviously worn-out tee-shirt. He'd mentioned something about having done two loads of laundry last night before hooking up with his ex-girlfriend, but I couldn't say whether this was one of the clean items. I doubted it very much.
Halfway through our meal, amid intermittent conversation, he offered my friend and I a couple slices of ham he only cut through, hadn't touched. "I'm not even hungry," he said, "I'm just here sitting in here." Against my usual judgement, I accepted at my friend's prompting. It was good ham. The gravy on my biscuits had a flavor I couldn't -- and probably wouldn't want to -- identify. I ate it all anyway. Not the best bad breakfast food I'd ever had, but probably not the worst either. Probably. I didn't care: my friend was treating. I'd lost enough money to him playing poker to buy several meals.
My friend told me about another diner he'd been banned from. He'd developed a habit, sometimes with large groups of friends, of going into the place and ordering large quantities of food, then walking out without paying. This was typically after a long night of drinking, and following one such incident, the owner busted him and banned him under threat of arrest. He hasn't been back.
We finished up our meals, but my friend was hankering for something sweet, apparently. He asked the waitress if they had any cookies. "You want me to go to Dominick's and pick some up?" she asked. "If you have time," came the response. They both laughed and she called him a smart-ass.
My friend had been to the restaurant countless times before and exchanged banter with the waitress on the regular. She was a heavy-set lady with short curley hair and coke-bottle glasses, though the frames were smaller than usual for such a thick prescription. My friend asked about donuts instead, and accepted a long-john. "That's on the house, right?"
He offered me half, but I could tell the thing wasn't fresh and declined the offer. He handed it to me to give to the guy.
The guy took it, said thanks, and hit it against the table laughing, "It's like an old brick." I turned back to see my friend with the first half submerged halfway into his glass of milk. He ate it greedily. The guy broke a small piece off the glazed pastry and handed it back to me. I put the unappetizing chunk on the table.
After my friend paid the bill, we stood to leave. The guy got up and offered my friend another smoke for the road. He declined and the guy shook our hands again, saying goodbye. As I stepped toward the door, I heard the guy make mention of my handshake again. In the same lower tone as the first time, he said, "Yeah, you get your hand around his neck, it's over." I took it as a compliment.
posted by Joseph at 4:35 AM
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