Breakfast

Today, I had loads of errands I needed to run, plus I wanted to take a walk around the community park. Before I got on the road to accomplish all this, I needed a hearty breakfast. I was in the mood for pancakes, so I went to a little diner off of the freeway.  It's a hole-in-the-wall place, with simple but delicious food, friendly waitresses who call everyone "Honey", vintage fruit crate labels on the wall, and a toy train the runs the perimeter of the dining room.  My favorite part is the weekday clientele.  It's a group of old men who totter in and greet each other warmly, probably every day of the week.  I'm not trying to be funny when I say that they seem deeply pleased that they've all woken up to see another day.
This morning, they were being interviewed by a freelance writer who appeared to be doing research for a book on World War II veterans.  I was stifling giggles, listening to the exchange.  The writer was trying to engage the men by complimenting them on their service to the country, and the men weren't having any of it.  Maybe they've heard it all before, or it's too painful to reminisce about, or they've jettisoned their past stories for more immediate concerns.  The writer kept addressing each one, like, "Bill, I know you were shot down over France, and Jack, I know you survived D-Day, and Joe, you were at Pearl Harbor, right?" and the old men just nodded and said, "Yeah, yeah" or started talking about something else.  At one point, the writer said "Lou, can you tell me about your recollections of the invasion of Italy?" and all Lou was interested in was the bill and who ordered cream cheese, because they owed 50 cents more.  I felt sorry for the writer. It's going to take a lot more breakfasts with these guys to get the stories he wants.  I hope he does, though.  It's a fascinating cross-section of history sitting at that diner table.