Older, well-built man behind the counter doesn’t see me
I look through the darkness of the diner, toward the counter. Behind it is a well-built older man, smiling to himself as he wipes down the countertop and checks through the porthole into the kitchen to see how the orders are coming. There is a light of sorts over him that I see him by, although I can’t locate that light’s source.
The man seems happy with what he’s doing. From time to time he looks up and surveys the diner with a steady eye, making sure everything’s okay, and this tells me he’s probably the owner. It’s his place, and he’s proud of it, and he aims to keep it in order.
I find it odd that his gaze moves from table to table, stopping at each one, as though he were carefully scrutinizing each customer behind them just to make sure he’s got the place under control and there won’t be any trouble. The funny thing is there’s no one here except me.
And even though its pitch dark outside, he looks past the tables through the big windows in the same way trying to make out any outlines of possible trouble coming his way. But the only thing visible out there is the vague notion of the hood of his pickup truck.
When he looks over at my table, it’s like he’s looking at other people sitting here, even though there aren’t any, but me he doesn’t see. As he looks my way, I wave at him to get his attention – maybe I can order something to eat, or just strike up a friendly conversation – but he doesn’t see me. And it’s not like he’s faking not seeing me, like some people, who don’t want to be inconvenienced and avoid you by pretending you’re not there. It’s not like that at all.
I wave at him vigorously – no, same thing. He’s not faking a damn thing. The man really doesn’t see me. Just to make sure I’m not there, I add some hoots and address him – “Hey, hey, Mister, hey, Mister, hello, hey, Mister, Mister…” No – I’m not there.
See no evil, I guess, hear none.
Well, and speak no evil, too…
Jack Step, May 13, 2014