Americana

A bounty of buttered, syruped, yellow French toast is spread out on the plate in front of me, and across from that is Galba with tired blue eyes that look younger with each sip of coffee. I feel warm, from the cushion of this worn leather seat and from his conversation, and my eyes shift towards an old man who’s just walked in. Sunglasses. Baseball cap. So tall he almost reaches the ceiling of this diner.

The sole waitress working this morning is startlingly young. She leads him to the booth behind Galba and he turns around. Before he sits, I respect the stars and stripes on the back of his t-shirt and read the big white words printed on top of them:

The strongest weapon in the United States is a patriot’s love for his country.

Galba sees that I’m trying very hard not to laugh. He doesn’t have to turn around to know why; he’s lived in this little town all his life. Smiling wryly, he takes another sip of his coffee.

We are silent. I listen as the waitress takes the man’s order. Briskly, he asks for “jumbo crab cakes, fried.”

He eats alone. I imagine that he’s pleased as punch. The waitress asks if everything came out okay, and he says yes.

“It comes with dessert,” she reminds him.

“Really?” his gruff old voice raises in pitch.

“Yes! Would you like jello, pudding, or ice cream?”

“Can I get vanilla ice cream – to go?”