The Blue Diner

No one except Mike remembers when George first stopped by the Blue Diner on East Avenue. It was over a year ago when Mike was just gearing up to start his day. He noticed a bearded man wearing a tattered Red Sox cap who seemed to be waiting for the doors to open. Mike opened the door.

"You're a brave man wearing that cap in this town bub."

George smiled.

 "Yeah I guess so.....You got Internet hook up?" 

Every week day from then until last week, George would show up at 5:30 AM and park his butt at the same table facing East Avenue. While Mike fetched his coffee and a Danish, George would reach into the tired messenger bag he always carried and either pull out a laptop or the Daily News. George would nurse the coffee and sometimes eat the Danish.

George wasn't much for conversation. His name and the fact he came from somewhere near Boston originally was about all Mike learned about him those first few weeks. He did not ask questions. If George wanted to share, he would share.

Winnie, Mike's wife and nosy waitress, could not stand it. She had to know everything about the regulars. George had been coming in awhile now. It was time to stop the indifferent treatment the walk-ins received.  One morning she was re-filling his coffee cup. George was paying her no mind. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his laptop. 

She finished filling his cup. Instead of moving on, she stood with the coffee pot in one hand, the other hand parked insolently on her hip, and stared over her glasses at him. Her intimidating presence finally broke George's concentration and he looked up at her. 

"So George, what is it you do here in New York?"

She sat down in the seat across the table from him. George straightened, adjusted his glasses and looked across the table at Winnie.

"I'm a staff reporter over at the Journal." 

Winnie leans in. “Been there long?” 

“Well no. Just started a couple of months ago.” 

“What does a staff reporter at the Journal do?” 

George's brows furrowed. He is not sure if he should answer; not sure whether it’s any of her business. Just then Mike tunes up. 

“Oh don’t mind her George. If she’s poking in your business, it means she likes you. Tell her to pound sand.” 

Winnie shoots Mike the look. He grins, and goes back to stacking coffee cups. Flinging Mike a final dark look, Winnie stops the interrogation, gets up to continue her round of coffee refills.

Some minutes later, George stands. At the register he pays his bill. He turns to leave and stops. Turning back around, he says to Winnie, “A staff reporter writes the crap no one else wants to.” And he walks out the door. 

Winnie turns to Mike, sticks out her tongue and flips him the bird.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. George became a fixture at the Blue Diner. His background began to come to light through short conversations and casual remarks. An ex-reporter for the Boston Globe, he came to New York City after an ugly divorce. He had lost the house, his boat and worst of all, his ex, out of spite, took his dog. By all indications though, George was happier now. Or so he claimed.

Last week George sat at his usual table. Mike was sitting on a stool at the counter watching the city go to work. A woman walked by and stopped in front of George’s table. She knocked on the window to catch his attention. They looked at each other through the glass. She hurried inside and sat down at his table. A tense, hushed discussion followed. After she left, George quickly stood and headed to the register. Winnie asked who she was.

" My ex. She finally found me. I'm fucked now."

"What do you mean George?"

George stared at his change and mumbled, "Never mind. See ya later."

Winnie was suspicious. Just how acrimonious was their divorce? She decided to drop the dime before his ex did. She didn't care what Mike thought.

George left that morning and was never seen in the Blue Diner again. 

A few days later Mike was refilling sugar jars and watching the early morning news. George had been found floating in the East River. He had been beaten severely and garroted. The news story went on to say that speculation was he had been tracked down and killed for a series of articles he wrote in the Boston Globe about Mob activities in Rhode Island. Police were investigating.

Mike turned to Winnie.

"I thought we agreed to not make that call." 

She looked at Mike. 

"We need a vacation. Now we can afford one." 

Mike frowned, shrugged and thought:

"Damn women. When they're right, they're right."

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"George" - Flash Fiction / Changed the title to "The Blue Diner"

• Originally written in the 1st person on 3/12/2010 
• Re-write - changed it to 3rd person

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What music goes with betrayal. Apparently too many tunes to count. Now to sift through some .......... Shit. After too many tastes, I gave up on the betrayal association. I chose "songs about diners" and finally.........

I found or is it I remembered a tune by Tom Waits about a diner. Here is Tom Waits with "Eggs and Sausage", off his album,  "Nighthawks at the Diner".