N is for Nothing

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

Ted sat there at the table, dumfounded at the task at hand.  The idea of quieting his mind when he had so many thoughts racing through it seemed about as likely as the bustling diner suddenly becoming silent.  There was too much activity, too much distraction, too much... reality.  It was impossible.

But then he thought, maybe that was exactly what he needed- distraction.  Something other than his own thoughts registering in his brain.  Maybe the attention to external world would knock something loose and grant him the epiphany he needed.  So he closed his eyes, and listened.

He heard the chaos- the typical clatter of forks scraping on thick porcelain plates and a mess of conversations bleeding into one another.  From across the room the loud ring of the cash register and coins in a plastic tray.  The scrape of a chair being pushed back from a table and a call for a refill from an impatient patron.  Closer by the clinking of ice cubes in a glass and the squeak of someone adjusting themselves on the plastic upholstery of the bench.  He found the sounds reassuring, reality marching on in spite of his uncertantainty.

As he listened he became aware of another distraction as the unmistakable scent of syrup-covered pancakes filled his nostrils.   He inhaled fully and relished the scent, imaging the fluffy texture and sticky sweetness in his mouth.  Underneath the scent of his own coffee, strong and dark and slightly acrid from being left on the burner too long.  Another scent, one he couldn't distinguish immediately, drifted by.  He focused on it and tried to place it but couldn't.  Frustration forced him to open his eyes and look around for the source of the odor.  Finally he spotted it- chicken soup landing on a table nearby as Alice placed the bowl in front of a salivating customer.

He smirked at the site and finally turned his attention back to the purpose of his auditory and olfactory excursion- the notepad app on his phone screen shone up at him, the maddeningly blank page waiting for him to start punching in letters.  He hovered his fingers over the screen and waited for inspiration to strike.  Nothing happened.

Now instead of the thoughts from before- worries about Scott, questions about Stew's judgement, the impossibility of Cole ever speaking to him, the endless pressure of day after day of responsibility and obligation- he had nothing.  A blank space in his brain that was supposed to be composing an apology or a heartfelt confession or even just a word.  A single, shitty word would have done.  But there was nothing.

"You figure out what you want, hon?" Alice interrupted him from his abyss to again try to wrestle an order from him.

He looked up at her in a daze and then blinked.  Without really thinking he said "pancakes" simply because the smell lingered in the air and he couldn't think of anything else.  She nodded and walked back towards the kitchen, leaving him again to his empty screen.

He sighed and hated himself for going completely blank when all he needed to do was start writing something, anything.  But there was nothing, nothing he could possibly say would undo the past or offer healing to the damage he'd done.  And then it hit him- nothing was exactly what he needed to say.

"I know that nothing I can ever say to you will change what has happened," he began, and his fingers jumped around the keyboard in a flurry of movement.  Finally, the words came.

M is for Meditate

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"Anyhow, you boys ordering?" Alice asked, keeping the smile on her face in spite of her impatience.

"He is, I'm heading out," Stew said, taking a huge swig of coffee.

"What?  You're leaving me?" Ted asked. suddenly panicked at the prospect of being left alone with the task.

"I'll come back," Alice said, sensing her intrusion, and sidled away.

"You need time to think," Stew said, and swallowed the rest of his coffee.  "Geh- I gotta stop at one cup, I know better."

"No, no, no, no, no," Ted puttered, making a grab for Stew's jacket in a desperate attempt to keep him there.  "I need you to talk me through this!"

"I can't tell you what to say, you gotta figure that out for yourself.  He's your son, you're making your amends."

Ted just looked at him, his slumped posture, large eyes and slightly protruding lower lip making him look too pathetic for Stew to bare.  "Don't ask him for anything, just offer.  Let him know how you feel, what you've been working on, and then leave it.  If he responds, we'll go from there."

"And if not?"

"We'll go from there, too.
 
Ted nodded but still looked lost as he glanced down at his mug.  He seemed to be searching the liquid for some spark which didn't come.  Stew sighed and sat back down, drawing his attention back to him.

"What do they tell you to do when you don't know what to do?" he asked, trying to guide him without telling him.

Ted thought, his face showing the strain, and hesitated.  After a long while the spark finally came: "Pray?"

"Right, 'sought through prayer and meditation', that's how it goes.  And remember, praying is the talking part, meditating is the listening part.  So meditate, and see what comes."  Stew didn't wait for a consent but stood up again and fished out his wallet to throw a tip on the table.  "You call me when you're done, and we'll talk."

Before Ted could respond Stew turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the din of the busy diner.

L is for the Letter

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"So what's plan B?" Ted asked, redirecting his attention to the issue at hand.

"You're not gonna try to change the subject on me?" Stew asked, surprised.

"We came here to talk, right?  Besides, if plan B involves anything other than me calling the same number a million times with no response then I want to hear it!"

"Fair enough," Stew said, and took another sip of his coffee.  "A letter."

"What, like send him an e-mail?  I don't-"

"No, I mean an actual letter.  Like pen and paper, stamps and zipcodes, the whole nine."

"Wh- why?  I mean... yeah, why?" Ted asked, dumfounded at the suggestion of something so simple.

"Because, it's less invasive- doesn't require a response right away."

"Well, clearly neither do my phone calls- I don't understand why I'm backing off when I can't even make contact."

"That's exactly why- clearly he's not ready to talk to you.  You call and call and he doesn't call back because- well, really, who knows why?  I'm sure he's got his reasons.  But a letter?  He can just leave that sitting in a pile of mail if he wants to.  He can think about it without needing to do anything about it."

"Or he can burn it, which seems like the most likely response," Ted said flippantly.

"I don't think so, Ted.  He's your son- no matter what he's interested, at the very least.  I think you'll get a response, eventually."

Ted was about to protest again when the waitress from earlier approached, a pot of coffee in one hand and two menus in the other.

"There you are- you ran off on me," she said, dropping the menus on the table and putting her hand on her hip.  She stood with the pot of coffee hanging from her hand and her head cocked to one side in what seemed like an accusatory manner.  "What can I get you boys?"

"Alice, let me ask you a question," Stew started, not missing a beat, "when was the last time you got a letter?  Like an honest-to-God hand-written letter?  In the mail?"

Alice furrowed her brow and pursed her lips at the same time, an expression of deep though that came off more comical than contemplative.  Ted couldn't help but smile, in spite of himself.

"I think I had a pen pal in third grade.  You know, one of those classroom exchange things?  He lived in... Buffalo, I think.  Some place with a whole heck of a lot of snow," she finally announced, pride  in her voice at the recollection.  "It was fun, you know?  Gettin' all excited about the next letter and what it would say.  The anticipation, I guess.  Like waiting to open a present."

"And if you got a letter today, how would you feel about that?"

"Oh my goodness- I don't know," she laughed.   It was a melodic, lilting sound and Ted got the distinct impression it was the secret behind most of her tips.  "I think I'd be just about set to die happy."

Stew looked at Ted, folded his arms at him and said, "I rest my case."

"Alice, let me ask you this- what if the letter was from someone you didn't like, someone who hurt you?" Ted asked, challenging the point.

"Well, why are they writing?" Alice asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean is it a nice letter?  Or a mean letter?"

"Nice!" Stew jumped in.

"Then yes, especially yes.  Even more so, yes," Alice responded, her enthusiasm lighting her face.

"But if the person really hurt you.  Like, really, really hurt you?"

"Honey, there ain't a whole lot of letters goin' around in the world, and even fewer nice ones at that.  If someone who done something wrong to me in the past came out of the blue with a letter that they took the time to write, and it said nice things to me?  I'd be dancin' on the ceiling with happiness to see that thing," Alice concluded, that big smile back on her face as she poured more coffee into Stew's mug.

Stew for his part grinned at Ted in the most annoying way he could.   "Like I said, I rest my case."

K is for Kindness

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"You goin, or just gettin' out?" Jim asked, nodding towards Ted.

He suddenly felt stupid and insensitive in a way that made him hate his ability to speak and choked on the response before he could make it.  

Stew played rescuer out of impatience and spoke up saying "He meant metaphorically."

"Oh," Jim said, and shut down, his gaze returning to the empty space he'd been staring into so intently.

Ted hated himself more than he had before coming in, and hated Jim for making him feel that way, and hated himself more for hating him.  On the outside, however, he just looked down at his coffee and frowned.

"Yeah, see- they talk about stuff like that, and they teach you stuff, and you gotta listen because that's how it all starts to make sense," Scott explained, gesticulating rapidly towards Ryan as he did. 

Stew observed the man with a growing suspicion and was troubled by a feeling which grew stronger with each word he excitedly spoke.

"It's like, you realize you kind-of know it, like you've always known it- but it was buried under so much shit you never knew, sort-of," Scott said, clearly oblivious to the fact that his young protege was entirely too physically preoccupied to comprehend any of his poorly defined explanation.

Ted noticed Ryan's unsure glance around the place and felt he knew what he was looking for.

"Bathroom's are right back there," he said, nodding behind him.

Ryan craned his neck and then, seeing his salvation, lifted himself off the bench in a decidedly painful way and limped towards the bathroom.  Jim took the opportunity to remove himself from a situation he'd clearly been trying to find a way out of and said "I better get going, too."  He turned and walked out before Scott could get out any more than a plea to call him.

Seizing the opportunity Stew warned his friend with a question.  "What are you doing?"

"What?" Scott asked, a confusion on his face.

"That kid is entirely too green for you to be shoving all this stuff down his throat- you're not gonna do anything but scare him away," Stew said, doing his best to keep his voice patient, and kind.

"And Jim doesn't seem like he's entirely bought into any of this in the first place," Ted said, watching the door close behind the man.

"But I- I'm getting them hooked up.  That's what you said, right?  Get connected?" Scott said, the defensiveness clear in his voice.

"Yeah, but you gotta seek it out- remember?  You came with us, nobody dragged you here.  You asked the questions- you gotta want it yourself or else it's not gonna stick," Ted said, in a decidedly less patient tone.  "That kid needs real help, not a dime philosopher."

Scott looked down at his hands, suddenly sheepish.

"It's good that you want to help, but you gotta kind-of ease into the heavier stuff.  For now just invite him to meetings with you and Jared.  And if he wants, Jared can get him hooked up with a sponsor," Stew said.

"Talk to Jared about it," Ted said, redirecting him back to his sponsor, who should've been keeping a better eye on him anyway. 

Scott nodded, but his face showed defeat.

Stew looked at Ted, giving him a hardened expression.  Ted raised his eyebrows at him.  Stew nodded towards Scott with a vigorous jerk of his head and Ted looked at the figure next to him.  The slumped shoulders, the nervous fiddling of the hands- all the excited energy he'd come in with now drained out of him.  He couldn't take it.

He slid a tiny bit closer to him in the seat and punched his arm to get his attention.  Scott turned and looked at him. 

"This stuff's hard, you know that," he said, gently.

"I know- that's why I wanted to-"

"And you yourself are still so new to it," Ted continued, passing by the interuption without letting it affect his words.  "It's sort of a tricky balancing act in the beginning- trying to take take care of yourself while helping getting the new people hooked up.  But that's the best you can do- hook them up with people with more clean time, don't take on the burden yourself."

"But isn't that what they always say- help the newcomer?"

"Yeah, but you're not really not new yourself.  You're still in your first 90, right?" Stew asked.

"47- today," Scott said, a smile returning.

"Your parents proud of you?" Ted asked.

"My mom is!  My dad... he still doesn't trust me.  I mean, he says he's proud when my mom asks him at dinner, but the way he looks at me.  You can tell..."

"He'll come around, just keep to it," Ted added before that ghostly look could completely steal the smile.

"He coming to pick you up?" Stew asked.

"Nah, Ryan said he'd give me a ride."

"Be careful with him," Stew said, unable to ignore the suspicion he'd had since watching the way the kid moved.

Scott didn't have time to ask exactly what he meant as in that moment the subject of their conversation returned from the bathroom, looking even paler than he had when he entered.

"You ready to go?" Scott asked, standing up from the bench with a swiftness that made Ted's guilt re-emerge.

"You don't have to go," he said, even though just moments prior he'd been cursing his arrival.

"Nah, I should get home- I got a job interview tomorrow," Scott said, and the brightness was back in his eyes.

Ted smiled at him, and it was genuine.  "Knock 'em dead."

"Nice meeting you!" Stew called after Ryan as he started walking away.

The kid made a half nod to him and then started shuffling towards the door.  Scott gave a wave as he followed.  Ted watched them both leave with concern in his eyes, hoping he'd been kind enough to make up for his horrible greeting.

J is for Jail

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"So why are you homicidal?" Stew asked, eyes still closed.

"Oh, I don't know.  Could be the weather, could be the fact that I've been calling my son for a month now and still haven't heard his voice, could be just a Thursday- who knows?"

"You're feeling trapped, I get it," Stew said, rolling his head forward and eyeing him slanted.  

"Yeah, that's a good way of puttin it.  Trapped, kind-of squirrelly."

"Well, that means it's time for plan B," Stew said, taking another swig of coffee and gulping it down.

"There's a plan B?  Why the hell didn't we try that a month ago?" Ted asked, indignant at the knowledge that he could've stopped the infuriating activity sooner.

"Oh, shit," Stew said, looking over his shoulder.  He slipped down in the bench, his shirt making a squeaking noise as it rubbed against the plastic upholstery, and ducked his head.

Ted strained his neck to see what caused him to want to hide, then sighed a tired sound.

Across the restaurant Scott had come in with two peers in tow.  He had spotted them after searching the periphery and was now waving excitedly, his shirt raising above his belt and revealing the soft belly underneath.

Ted watched with pain growing behind his eyes as Scott approached and brought his mug to his lips to occupy his mouth and prevent it from saying the things he was thinking.

"Hey guys- see, I told you they'd be here," Scott said, waving a hand towards the two of them as if showing them as part of a tour.  The two men behind him looked as if they might be on a tour what with the level of detached, easily distractible observation.  One of them had the unmistakable pallor of someone who had spent a long time in bed without the benefit of sunlight.  He had a death grip on his elbows and the fingers grasping each limb were bony, the knuckles white.  Ted guessed he couldn't be more than 20 years old and for a moment forgot about how angry he was at the interruption and instead felt sad.

The other must have been close to Ted's age and showed the normal wear and tear from a longer time in the trenches- the swelled gut, the nearly purple nose, the perpetual scowl forcing his brow to shadow the rest of his face.  He looked around the restaurant as if scanning for a escape and Ted got the impression he might turn on a heel and leave at any second.  He disliked him instantaneously for reminding him of himself.

"Jim, Ryan- this is Ted and his sponsor Stew.  Guys, this is Jim and Ryan," he waved his arms back and forth in a gesture of offering and then without waiting for an invitation sat down next to Ted, shoving him over.  

Ted had to resist the urge to shove him right back and couldn't help but tense as he slid further in and situated himself against the wall there.

"So, to what do we owe this unexpected visit?" Stew asked, failing to keep the irked tone out of his voice.

 "Nothing, I just wanted them to meet the crew," Scott said, smiling a smile that made Stew want to smack him.  "Sit down, shove Stew over, he won't mind."  

The one he'd introduced as Ryan perched himself on the edge of the bench next to Stew but so little of his body was actually in the booth that the space Stew had made sliding over looked silly.  He settled himself with his back against the edge of the chair and hand on the bench itself, wilting into position. Tthe entire gesture seemed like one made more from exhaustion than social script.

Jim for his part just showed his hands into his pockets and waited, looking like the unwilling sentinel.

"The crew?" Ted asked, a dubious eyebrow raised at him.

"Yeah, you guys are my crew," Scott laughed, and again the over-exaggerated smile made an appearance.

Stew ignored it and instead turned to Ryan next to him.  "You come from the clubhouse?" 

The boy looked at Scott with a gaze that screamed uncertainty and Scott jumped in to save him.  "Yeah, we all just hit the nooner, right?"

Ryan nodded, relieved at the response provided, but didn't say anything.  Stew waited for an actual word to escape the kid's mouth but nothing came. 

"Jim introduced himself, which was good," Scott said, nodding towards the large man.  "And Ryan's still sort-of detoxing so he's working on it."

"You just get out of rehab?" Ted asked, nodding towards him.

"I- eh" Ryan started, then interrupted himself with a cough.  The sound was dry, gritty.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  "I just did the 5 day thing, not the rehab part."

Stew resisted the urge to pat him on the shoulder in congratulations at forming a coherent sentence, his fatherly instincts coming out.  "That's good, it's good that you got to the meetings now."  

Ryan turned his head to look at the man and a tiny, almost imperceptible smile curled the corner of his dry lips and then vanished, replaced by the haunted expression he wore when he came in.

"What were you guys talking about?" Scott asked, missing the entire exchange.

Because he was so irritated already, and because Scott was playing rescuer to someone who needed genuine help, and because he was just unwilling to put the effort into not being an ass about it Ted gave the tart, sarcastic response: "Jail." 

I is for Inventory

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

Again Ted found himself sitting in the booth and again he felt uneasy.  'I should go for a walk outside, just get moving.  I shouldn't drink so much coffee, makes me jittery.  I should read chapter six again.  I should take a damned vacation and just get the hell out of here...' his mind raced, jumping from thought to thought like a television on the fritz.

His hands followed suit, folding and tearing the empty sugar packets until a small pile of paper shavings amassed in front of his mug.  When he'd exhausted the paper he turned to stacking the empty creamer cups, spreading droplets of white liquid and sugar crystals across the table.

"You need a refill, hon?" a horse voice asked him.

"Huh?" he startled, not knowing at first what had interrupted his frenzied mess-making.

"Your coffee- you need a refill?" she asked, waving the pot she held towards the mug in front of him.

"Wuh- uh, yeah- yeah, sure," he stammered, then tried to clean up the mess in front of him, embarrassed.  He cupped a hand just under the lip of the table and began to sweep the sugar into it, apologizing as he did.

"Oh, don't worry about that- we'll get that," she said, shooing him away with her hand.

He paused and looked up at her, a sheepish grin on his face.  She caught his eye and winked at him, not in a flirty way but just an expression kindness.  He took her in fully for the first time.  She had brown hair that had greyed at the temples and deep crows feet in her eyes from smiling so much.  The name tag said 'Alice' and he found himself imagining a back story for her based on nothing more than the way she held the coffee pot.    A single mom, with more strength than most.  A stubborn independent.  The kind of woman who'd shoot you down with a compliment that called you out on your deepest insecurity and laugh.

He could've sat there all day studying the lines of her face and assigning meaning to every gesture but the sound of the door opening distracted her and she looked up to watch the next patron come in.  He followed her gaze and saw Stew on the other side of the glass door.

His hand slid off the handle as the door hit his shoe and bounced back.  He saw rather than heard him curse through the glass and reach again, yanking the door open with a loud 'whooshing' sound.  He slipped in, scanned the booths along the side, spotted Ted in his usual spot and stepped forward.  The tie of his trench coat caught in the gap as it closed and stuck, pulling him backward with a jolt.  He turned and yanked at the tie, cursing as he did and growing more furious in his movements.  The plastic buckle caught on the other side and he grew so frustrated in his futile movements that he threw his entire body sideways into the door, knocking it open and pulling the tie inside.  He jumped back into the diner, pulling his coat in with a wave and a loud, exasperated 'ugh'.

As he turned to Ted his face held a scowl and a look of rage so full it eclipsed his face in red.

"You ok, there?' Alice asked, raising an eyebrow at him as he approached.

Stew said nothing but threw himself down on the bench seat across from Ted.  "Coffee," he growled.

She left to retrieve a mug and Ted inserted himself into the wait.

"Oh, thank God you're having a bad day- I would've lost my shit if you came in here all zen recovery master."  

"Why the hell are we sitting here?" Stew asked, shooting Ted a look that would have drained the life out of him if he'd held it too long.

"What do you mean?" Ted asked, cocking his head to the side in question.

"I mean you sit here every friggin time- right in the middle of everything.  There's too many goddamned people around," Stew emphasized the words with a wave at the patrons sitting at the long counter across with them.

"Here you go, sweetie," Alice said, returning with a mug full of the hot brown gold.  "Take a load off and I'll be back to take your order in a sec, ok?"

"I don't want to sit here," Stew said after she'd retreated again.  Rather than waiting for Ted to respond he picked up his mug, stood and walked away, heading to the back of the large room.

Ted looked after him, shocked for a second, then sighed and followed with his own mug in tow.

"What the heck was that all about?" Ted asked as he re-seated himself across from Stew in a new booth at the back of the restaurant.  He looked around at the new layout and immediately disliked it.  Back here, adjacent from the bathrooms and out of site of the long line of windows he felt uneasy, cold and irritated.  "I don't like it back here."

"Tough shit, this is where we're sitting," Stew spat at him, angrily ripping off his coat and throwing it on the bench next to him.  "I want to talk, not teach and if we sit at the windows we gotta teach.  Scott or Jess or Nicky will show up askin' questions and I don't have that shit in me today."

"Ok," Ted said, taking the hint and shutting up.

Stew readied his coffee, pouring a creamer in and stirring.  Ted let him sip and watched some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he swallowed.  He waited until he leaned back against the bench seat in a decidedly less aggressive manner and then ventured an opening line.

"So, I'm guessing this isn't just a first year-thing since you've got a long while on me."

"What's not a first-year thing?" Stew asked without looking at him.

"This... homicidality."

"Homicide-what?  Oh, you mean the hissy fit.  No, no it's not."

"So me wanting to kill everyone isn't a deeply rooted character defect that I missed in my inventory?"

"Nope, 'fraid not," he answered, taking another sip of the warm, calming liquid and closing his eyes in exaggerated bliss.

"Why afraid?" Ted asked.

"Cause if it was something in your inventory you'd be working on it, maybe be able to change it.  But this?  Losing your freakin' mind just from the sheer weight of living?  That shit doesn't go away, no matter how long you stay sober.  Or so Lou tells me," Stew said, shrugging at him.

"Oh.  Well, that does suck."

"Yup."  And this time Stew smiled at him, but in a decidedly wry manner. 

H is for Habits

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

Suddenly a din arose from the corner of the large room and everyone turned in their seats to watch the commotion.  The couple from the casino who had been arguing were now in a full-on fight and the man banging his fist on the table had sent a glass and plate off the edge.

The four men watched awkwardly as the woman began to cry, her tears landing in the wavy hair nearly covering her face and glistening in the dim light from overhead.  It was a universal truth that seeing a woman cry undid the most unbreakable facade and not one of them knew how to respond though all felt the need to end her state.  

Greg clenched his fists, wanting to punch the man sitting across from her who, for his part, seemed lost with his his hands continuously running across his scalp as if trying to wring her emotion out of his hair. Ted swallowed hard and hated himself for not knowing what to do.  Stew just stared, unabashed at his rubbernecking.  Scott hesitated for a moment, and then got up from the booth and walked across the room.

The three men watched him go with utter shock on their faces.

Scott arrived at the same time as the waitress and waved away her protests as he started picking up the broken pieces and loading them onto the plastic tray she'd brought.  He joked with her as he loaded the shards and even though the three of them couldn't make out his words they watched her nervous laughter.  The man at the table busied himself digging in his wallet for cash, pretending to not even notice the two people kneeling on the floor next to him.  The woman, now looking up from her damp hair, had a look of disdain on her face and the scowl set into her jaw showed lines in her cheeks put there by an expression used too often.

"Well, I'll be damned," Ted said, awe in his voice.

Scott stood as the last of the shattered remains were collected and walked with the young waitress back to the counter.  Behind him the man stood and huffed an angry command for the woman to follow.  Greg stood as the man walked past him and hesitated on the verge of a really bad decision but Stew held him back, a careful hand grabbing the corner of his jacket and holding it firmly.  The man was ignorant of his rage and proceeded to the small counter where he paid the bill as the woman slowly collected her coat and followed, moving like a wilted flower.  The three of them watched the couple leave and with them left a weight that hung on each of them since failing to respond.

"What the hell is wrong with us?  Are we just too old and cynical now that we can't get up and help?" Ted asked aloud, anger in his voice.  "Are we too damned embittered to get off our asses and do something selfless?"

"I wouldn't rush too quickly to judge yourself, there," Stew warned and pointed towards their young fellow who was still standing with the waitress.  

Now that she was standing close by they could see her face- the arched eyebrows, the triangular chin, the long neck declining into cleavage visible through the deep v-neck of her black t-shirt.  Her nervous laughter had subsided into a lilting chuckle and her head tilt let them know the conversation was more than friendly.  Scott was animatedly telling her some story which conveniently involved him flashing  his best smile.  An exaggerated gesture brought his hand into contact with her shoulder first by accident and then purposefully with a quick apology.  He let it linger there and she did nothing to dissuade the touch.

"That's not good," Ted said, staring at the scene.

"You gotta forgive yourself, man," Stew was saying to Greg, worried eyes on the man who now sat dejected.

"Forgive myself?" he started, the rage boiling up again.

Stew gave him a steady gaze, like staring down an agitated child, and then softened as Greg let out a sigh.

"You know we all got demons, but that habit of yours is gonna lead you to into more," he said, a pat on Greg's back following.

Greg shrugged the gesture away but nodded, soothed for the moment.

"Hee, hee, hee- look what I got," Scott announced as he neared them, showing off the phone number he'd just obtained from the pretty girl who had retreated into the kitchen with a smile.

Ted made a quick motion and snatched the paper out of the young man's hands, leaving him balking.

"What the hell?"

"Nope, not a good idea," Ted said, jamming the paper into his pocket before Scott could make a grab for it.

"Are you freakin' kidding me?" Scott asked, indignant.

"Haven't you ever heard the expression 'don't shit where you eat'?" Stew asked, throwing cash on the table to serve as the tip.

"Yeah, so?" Scott asked as Ted made a shooing motion for him to move.

"So, it applies," Ted said as he slid himself over to stand.

"How?"

"You're not in any shape to give that poor girl anything but grief, just leave it be," Stew said, taking him by the sleeve and leading him towards the door.

"But..." Scott protested, but it was a lifeless dissent.

"We all got our habits we gotta break, man," Greg said as he followed, exhaustion in his voice.  "Just let it go."

G is for Gratitude

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

A sharp noise distracted the men and a glance at the corner let them know that the couple from the casino were now arguing openly.  Animated hang gestures from the man punctuated the woman's high-pitched words, most of which weren't audible above the sounds of the diner.

"Makes me sick," Greg said as he watched them, the anger that had been there previously edging his voice with a promise of more to come. 

"Yeah, well, we should probably be going anyway.   Work don't start any later the days after nights like these," Ted said, giving a warning eye to Stew.  They both knew Greg always got a little unsteady when he talked too much about himself and that seemed to be bubbling up to the surface now. 

"See you at the gratitude meeting on Sunday?" he asked as he nodded at Scott to move.

"Yeah, yeah- wait, though.  What's that all about?" Scott asked, a knee up on the bench as he paused.

"What's what all about?" Ted answered, slightly weary.

"The whole gratitude thing?"

"Boy, you is just full of questions tonight, ain't ya?" Greg observed.

"I'm 'sposed to be learning, right?" Scott asked, taking another fry from the plate.  He seemed intent on finishing them all, and Ted had given up on eating a while ago anyway.

"Gratitude is an action that gets you where you want to be in recovery- whether it's happier or content or whatever," Ted said, re-energized by the question.  So long as he didn't have to talk more about his character defects he could be a little late getting home.

"How is it an action?" Scott asked, another fry slipping in.

"Well, you say thank you, right?" Stew asked.

"That's not it, though.  Nothing's ever that easy.  Like I'm not doing step one just because I say I'm an addict."

"In a way you are.  I mean, yeah, it's a smaller version of a bigger concept but that's the basis of it.  Say you're an addict and you make your way towards acceptance.  Say thank you and you make your towards gratitude," Stew said, an eye glancing at Greg who had returned to watching the corner where the couple continued their heated discussion.

"So it's a state of being, sort-of?" Scott asked.

"Sort-of, but you know we can't control what we are other than by controlling what we do.  So practicing gratitude is what makes you grateful- the action, you know?" Ted asked.  The look on Scott's face let him know he didn't.

"So, if I think about everything- my son not calling me back, and how damned early I have to get up for work in the morning, and how much a friggin' cup of coffee costs now," Ted explained, raising the mug as a reference point, "I can get totally overwhelmed and want to drink.  But if I thank my higher power that I still even have the chance to call my son and pay for this cup of coffee which I can drink and enjoy because all my hard living somehow didn't kill me then I'm no so overwhelmed and I can live my life one day at a time, you see?"

Stew placed both hands palm down on the table and took an exaggerated breath in, his chest puffing outward as he did.  "The air you breathe," he exhaled, then pointed at Scott who was holding the last french fry, now cold and soggy.  "The food you eat."

"The roof over your head," Ted added, a hand waving at the ceiling above them.

"The fact that I ain't that sorry piece of shit," Greg growled, still distracted by the couple in the corner.  

Stew shot a look at him which he didn't see and then looked to Ted and nodded the need for their departure.  "Just go to the gratitude meeting on Sunday- it'll start to make sense."

"Yeah, ok," Scott said, slightly discouraged.  Then he stopped, face lighting as he realized.  "Hey, thanks for the fries!"  

F is for Fellowship

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"I get that," Greg said, his eyes showing that same far-off gaze that had been going around the faces of the table as they talked.

The men turned their heads to listen, knowing more was to come.

"I wasn't there for my boys, either.  Not for them, not for their mom, not for nobody.  The only time I showed up was to sleep, shower and grab some more money so I could be off rippin' an runnin' again."  Greg paused, took a sip of coffee with a loud slurp, and resumed.  "Adele, she tried to get me to stop.  She'd drag me to church and they'd be all prayin' for me and shit.  She'd hide the money and try to lock everything up so I couldn't steal nothin'."

"Yeah, my parents did the same thing," Scott added, grateful for the common ground.

"But you know how it is.  We always find a way."

"So did you ever try to make amends?" Scott asked, a slightly hopeful sound in his voice.

"Not at first," Greg said, a slight grimace coming over his face.  "I was too busy relapsing for a long time to do anything more than make promises I wasn't keepin'.  You know how we do- you feel a little better and you think you can take on the world.  All that pink cloud shit."

"Pink cloud?" Scott asked, looking around at the other men whose expressions showed no surprise at the term.

"It's how we describe that warm, fuzzy feeling in early recovery," Stew answered.  "You know you get out of rehab and you feel a little better, physically.  You get some money in the bank cause you're not spending it all on dope, you can look people in the eye because you're not lying to them.  Stuff like that."

"And then, life comes along and throws some shit at you that you weren't prepared for and you tell yourself you can't do it.  Ain't no way you gettin' through whatever it is without using, so you do," Greg said, anger creeping into his voice.  The white hairs sprouting from his temples stood out as his brow furrowed at the memories.  "Then  people start gettin' angry.  Adele'd be throwin' me out, Jaylen- that's my oldest- he stopped talkin' to me, stopped believin' when I said I'd be goin' to his ball games.  I think he told Darnell and Elijah I wouldn't be comin' to they birthday parties so they'd stop bein' surprised when I didn't show up.  After that, people stop comin' to see you when you end up in rehab again.  You gotta do it on your own," Greg said, concluding what was, like all of theirs, a much longer story.

"Shit," Scott said, that fear coming over his face again.

"That's how it works, though," Ted said, bumping his shoulder up against the boy in a consolatory manner.  "Whether you got people on your side or not it's always you doing it on your own."

"Well, not entirely on your own," Stew said with a chastising grin.  "You do it with the fellowship."

"Cause ain't nobody else gonna understand your sorry ass like a bunch of other sorry asses," Greg laughed, suddenly joking and friendly again.  It was as if something had passed through him en route to somewhere else.  Something that wasn't his normal self.

Scott for his part didn't entirely know what to make of it and his puzzled expression let the others know it.

"The serious talking- that's not easy.  Hell, that's half the reason I drank- so I wouldn't have to do the serious talking.  Shootin' the breeze and telling jokes- that's what we all want to be doing," Stew said, deciphering it all for the young one.

"So I get to the meetings so I can do both, with a bunch of other scew-ups like me.  And not be judged and not be saved- just be understood," Greg concluded.

"There's always a method to the madness," Ted smiled.

E is for Effort

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"So what, you just call and call and call- forever?" Scott asked, trying to turn the conversation onto someone else.   He found that people were all too willing to focus on him, the 'newcomer', and he couldn't take too much of it without squirming.

"Ask him," Ted said, nodding at Stew.

Stew went to respond, then shut his mouth and nodded back at him.  "What do you think?"

"I think this shit's hard," Ted said, sighing again.  

He surveyed the room again, a favorite past time.  The late night crowd varied widely from the patronage of Sunday morning.  He could tell that some of the customers had recently come from the casino and the sounds of their complaint about the house rigging everything let him know they'd lost.  One particular couple in the corner had the look of desperation on them- that slightly frenzied expression of the eyes as they darted around the menu pages beholding prices that now seemed entirely too steep.

"There should be more GA meetings around here," he observed.

"You're doing it again," Stew said.

"What?"

"Stalling."

"Man, he rides you hard, don't he?" Greg said, smiling a smile that let Ted know he was enjoying watching him suffer.

"I guess..." he hesitated, watching the man sitting at the counter struggle to pull coins out of his pocket.  "I guess  it's about the effort.  You know, in our addictions we were willing to do anything- didn't matter what- to get our booze or our whatever.  We'd screw people over, lie to anybody, move heaven and earth."

"Neither rain, sleet, snow nor hail," Greg joked.

"I guess the effort we put into that can't be more than the effort we're willing to put into trying to repair some of that damage."

The table went quiet as everyone suddenly became very interested in something other than the conversation.  Ted went back to observing the couple who were now bickering in a way that edged on harsher words.  Greg stirred his coffee and watched the brown liquid swirl in cup.  Stew stared off into nothing, contemplating the weight of his sponsee's words.  

 Scott had a haunted look about him, his eyes moving back into the past and observing something unseen by the rest of them.  A grimace flew across his face and before it could settle he returned the focus to Ted.  "What happened anyway?  I mean, why's he so mad at you?" 

Ted sighed again, the honesty tiring him.  "Lets just sum it by saying that when his mom died I crawled into a bottle chasing what I'd lost.  That kid suffered a lot from that, more than a few unreturned phone calls worth."

"So you keep calling," Stew said, a nod letting Ted know he'd done good.

D is for Direction

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

Another Tuesday night, another beginner's meeting, another argument.  It was all too familiar and yet, not.  Reality was always in attendance, chasing away the tedium.

"So if part of why I used in the first place was to say a big 'F you' to whoever then why am I willingly engaging in a program in which I'm constantly being told what to do?" Scott asked, showing a fry into the corner of his mouth.  He'd taken to grazing food off the plates of whoever had ordered.  And because they were older, or because they had money enough, or because they felt sorry for him- or perhaps because of all these reasons- they'd let him. 

"It's 'in which I'm constantly being told of what I should do'.  I think..." Stew corrected him, then furrowed his brows as he questioned himself.

"Don't be a grammar Nazi," Ted dismissed him.  "at any rate, the whole thing's that we addicts don't take very good care of ourselves.  Left to our own devices, we self destruct."

"And when you let another person in, they almost always want better for you than you want for yourself.  So they gonna give you better directions," Greg said, clasping the straw he was sucking on between clenched teeth.

"How do you do that?" Scott asked, bewildered.  He'd been seeing it more and more since he'd been hitting the meetings daily, and it bugged him.

"Do what?"

"Just, freakin', saying what each others thinking all the time- shut up!" he pointed a threatening finger at Stew before he had the chance of correcting him.

Stew closed his mouth which was poised to revise and smiled.

"It's all the same," Greg laughed.  "You hit enough of these things, you get used to the lingo."  The young man adjusted himself, his strong shoulders raising his butt above the bench and then placing him back down.  His dark skin stood out against the silver color, making him stand out even more than he already did as a black man in a predominantly white town in suburban Pennsylvania.

"When I first started, I accused everybody of trying to recruit me for a cult," Ted said, a wry smile on his face as he recalled his angry protest.

"Good times," Stew laughed.

"The dogma, the stupid phrases they say over and over again like 'H.A.L.T. or K.I.S.S. or one day at a time- it all actually means something," Greg continued, unaffected by the interruption.

"And here's the one we're on now," Stew said, taking the cue,  "Good.  Orderly.  Direction.  Listening to somebody who has your best interest at heart, in spite of wanting to tell everybody to shut the hell up.  That's the program."

"Take me for example," Ted chimed in, "I'm calling my son over and over again like an all-out stalker just because this guy's telling me to.  Because I trust that he knows what he's talking about" he said, waving a hand at Stew.

"He's still not answering?" Stew asked.

"I assume he's screening the calls."

"This is your step work?" Scott asked.

"Yeah.  You're young, though.  You'll have a better time of it- less damage done in a shorter lifespan.  All the more reason to get a hang of this thing before you end up like one of us."

"And why am I taking advice from you old guys, again, if this is what your experience has brought you to?" Scott asked.  He couldn't help but taunt the men, it was too fun.

"Because they know what they're talking 'bout," Greg said, his eyebrow raised.  "Respect your elders."

"Besides, look at how well it's served you so far," Ted said, turning his hand to him as if he were a model posing next to a sports car.  "Wearin' t-shirts, putting on weight- you almost look human again."

"Plus, it is a little easier to just do what somebody tells you to," Stew said.  "The hard part comes later when you have to actually live your life."

"You people don't help with that stuff?" Scott said, feigning shock.

"Nope," Ted said, "sure don't."   

C is for the Call

 Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

 "Worried about that kid, he don't look good," Ted said as he brought the cup to his lips and sipped.


"Don't try to change the subject," Stew said, folding his arms at him.


Ted sighed and put the cup down.  "He don't want to talk to me."


"You don't know unless you try."

Ted looked around the room, watching the family just coming in from church being seated by a smiling waitress as the counter-sitters gathered their coats to clear out before the rush started.  "Change of shift," he smirked.

"Talk to me," Stew said, and tapped his finger on the table in an accusatory manner.  "This is the work, Ted.  You know you don't get a pass on this."

"Ok, geez," Ted grumbled, and shifted in the seat.  "Isn't there a loophole to this one?  That whole 'unless it would hurt them' or some shit?"

"It's 'except when to do so would injure them or others', yeah- but that's not what this is."  

"You're a regular encyclopedia, aren't you?"

"It's the big book, not the encyclopedia and you know it just as well as I do."  Stew gave him a stern look and waited.

Ted tore up the empty sugar packet he'd been turning over in his fingers and threw it on the plate with drying ketchup and half-finished hash browns.  He opened his mouth to speak, another protest making its way out and then stopped, sighing.

"He's your son.  He needs you," Stew added, gently.

"Needed, past tense.  It does him no goddamned good for me to be there now.  What the hell would I even say, anyway?  'Hey, it's your dad.  Sorry I been a fall-down drunk your whole life but I stopped shoving booze down my throat and I thought we could, oh, I-don't-know, hang out'?  Yeah."  His voice had an almost sing-song quality to it which made the whole announcement that much more acrid.

"Anger's good.  Anger'll push you where you need to be pushed.  You just gotta use it," Stew said.  "Be pissed at yourself for getting here and use it to get yourself out."

"You say it like it's so goddamned simple," Ted said, and leaned his head into his hand, rubbing his temples.

"Simple?  You want me to tell you about my ex-wife again?" he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow at him.

"No, no- I get it."  He leaned back against the bench and watched the family that had come in.  A young boy with skinny arms was holding a glass of milk with his two hands, blowing bubbles with the straw.  The knobby elbows on the table were his, but the action was all too familiar.  

Suddenly the memory hit him like a blow.  Life-times ago when he was still spending most of his days at the bottom of a bottle.  He'd heard the bubble pop and lashed out, his hangover-induced migraine making the sound grind in his ear drums.  

"Knock it off," he'd yelled, and swung an arm at the glass.  It flew out of the small hands and slid off the table, the glass shattering on the floor.

Cole- only a child then- had looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, stunned by the sudden attack.

Ted had watched as the tears started to form.  He hated himself too much to give in, so he'd yelled some more, demanding he clean it up.  Cole had slid off the chair and knelt over the mess, his tiny fingers gripping the piece of glass and cradling it in his hands as he tiptoed to the garbage.  He'd sat there, watching him and hating him for looking so much like his mother as he moved.

"Where'd you go?" Stew asked, jarring him out of it.  He looked into his eyes with that earnest gaze of his and Ted wilted.

"I don't see how he can possibly forgive me," Ted said, his voice soft and tired.

"You're not asking for forgiveness.  You're offering an apology.  There's a difference."  Stew stopped, noticing the growing din as more people filed in.  "We better go."

He dug out his wallet and threw another bill on the table.  "Just call him," he said, giving his best directive depth of tone.

Ted nodded at him.   

B is for Breakfast

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

"You know, I never used to eat breakfast," Scott said as he watched Eric nosedive into a stack of pancakes with a combination of fascination and disgust on his face.  The old man chewed with the fervor of a starving man, leaving syrup and pancake fluff dripping down his chin. 

"That's the whole point of eating it now," Eric said, mouth still full.  

"God, you're a slob," Ted said.  As true of a statement as it was Ted would never admit to enjoying the display.  Instead he would mock him relentlessly for making inappropriately happy sounds 'like a 50 dollar whore puttin' on a good show' and then chuckled when the old man called him a pervert.

Eric took a swig of coffee and swallowed hard, then slammed his cup down on the table and pointed a finger at the young man sitting across, a piece of pancake nearly flying off the fork he held.
"You never had breakfast because you were feeding your addiction, right?"


"What do you mean?" Scott asked, rubbing his arms uncomfortably.  It was too warm for the sweatshirt but his track marks were too visible without it.


"You got up in the morning and, what, stuck a needle in your arm?" Ted asked.


"Y- yeah," Scott said, his head retreating into his neck as he slumped lower in the booth seat, as if he were trying to vanish.


"So that was your breakfast," Eric said, his mouth once again filled with pancake.  He wiped a hand down his beard, trying to shake off excess crumbs.  All it really did was serve to spread the syrup further into the thick, gray hairs.  "You get into recovery, you gotta feed other things to satisfy that hunger- otherwise you'll go back to it.  That's how it works."


"That what all that God stuff is about?  'Filling the spiritual hole' or some shit?" Scott asked, his hands latched to his elbows as if shielding himself from the men at the table.


"This kid's a quick study" Stew said, eying the man next to him with a studious gaze.


"In a nutshell," Eric said, leaning back against the booth and allowing his sizable gut breathing room.  

"That and the fact that the whole premise of the program is the idea that you're lacking stuff that you're trying to get from drugs."  Ted enjoyed watching him squirm under their support, it reminded him of himself.

"An external solution to an internal problem," Stew added.  He sat with a knee up on the bench, facing the kid.  His arms made a V shape with one on the back and another draped across the table, acting as a frame for his discomfort.

Scott sighed, and his chest deflated again.  "I swear it's too early in the morning for you people."

"Don't think about it too much," Ted said dismissively.  "Just go to your meetings, call us and get yourself a temporary sponsor."

"And what the heck is that all about, anyway?" Scott asked, this time his voice raised and a bit of his personality seeped into words.


"It's about you not knowing everything there is to know," Eric said, narrowing his eyes at him and leaning in to say the next.  "Your best thinking got you here, remember?"


"Go easy on him or you'll scare him off, ya big bear," Stew said, and made a shooing motion at him with his hand.


"Yeah, well," he said as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.  He groaned as he stretched back to access the back of his pants and the bench seat groaned back at him in protest.  "I gotta get going anyway.  You need a ride?"


"Um, yeah- if- if you're going that way," Scott said, looking at the money he threw on the table with a longing glance.


"No prob, kid," Eric said and got up with another groan.  "Well, gentlemen- I take my leave of you," he said as he faced them, and bowed with a formality that his large, clumsy stature would not allow.

"You're full of it," Ted laughed.

Eric flicked him the finger as he turned and strode off and Scott followed with the same slumped shoulders and folded arms he'd cradled himself in throughout the meal.
 
The two remaining men watched them walk out and then Ted returned to his coffee and stirred.

Stew turned back around in his seat to face his friend and lowered his eyebrows at him.  "So," he began, "you make the call?"

A is for Al's American

Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction.  Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness.  This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.

On route 104, out near the casino, there's a building shaped like an air hanger.  It's a perfect example of the kind of thing they used to make at the iron factory when it was in full-scale operation.  The long, half cylinder catches the sunlight as it rises over the hill behind and tends to blind drivers as they make their way down the crowded road during rush hour.  Like most of the buildings in the area, this one has a story.

Back in the day, as people usually start the story, the place was a hole in the wall.  The owner Al believed in good old fashioned food and none of the glitz and glamor that so-called "trendy chains" touted.  Items on the menu had simple names like "eggs and grits" or "burger" or "coffee".  It was open for breakfast and lunch, never dinner.  And for the most part the only people who went there were the ones who worked at the factory.

The diner was part of a bustling industry back then, providing food to the workers who got up at the crack of dawn and exited at the whistle blow to return to their simple homes.  Some sentimental idiot would probably describe it as a history lesson in Americana.  But the real history was better told by an economist.

In the factory's heyday, business was good.  Things were simple, or so everybody liked to claim.  The American identity etched in time cards punched and receipts given.  But the world changed while the factory remained, a pillar of old values that would be worn away by the turning tide.

At first it was just small rumblings of fear.  Questions about foreign markets picking back up in the years since the war had ended.  Then raised voices and arguments about pensions bleeding the paychecks of those still working.  Panic inducing words like 'Restructuring'.  And finally, the inevitable shut-down.   In the end, silence.

With its patronage cut-off the diner, like the rest of the town, was dying.  A random stranger wandering in to ask directions on the way to a living town.  Holes in the drop ceiling with brown stains on the edges from leaky plumbing overhead went unrepaired.   Food orders going uneaten and the menu whittling down to almost nothing.  When the old electrical wiring caught fire and burned down half the building a lot of people assumed Al had torched the place himself, just to collect on the insurance.

For years the site was empty, a burned out hunk of metal in a desolate landscape.  And then, like it always does, change came.  Some big investors bought the old factory, knocked down the blast furnaces, and built a casino there.  Then the outlets came.  And the concert hall.  And  the streets surrounding it started featuring all those trendy little shops that Al would have hated so much if he had still been around.

Some big business bought the burnt-out piece of metal.  And, like they had with the factory, left the outside intact while completely rebuilding the interior.  By time the "All American Diner" opened up in the mid 2000's it served as s replica of oh-so-many chains sprouting up all over the country.  Posters of Rosie the riveter and airplane propellers on the wall.  An old jukebox that loud little kids poured quarters into while asking their parents who the heck "Tommy Dorsey" was.  A Bethlehem Steel sign over the back door, almost as if the whole thing was a cruel joke.

Those old enough to remember when the towers still billowed steam hated the place and angrily spat at it as they walked by on their way to the clubhouse.  But there simply weren't that many places around to buy a cheap cup of coffee anymore, and life was just too damned hard to drive 5 blocks to the Dunkin' Donuts.

So they called in "Al's American" to pay homage to the old man and on Sundays after morning sanity the old heads filed in to sip their mud and talk patience.  And it was here that Ted Wilson sat, with Stew and Eric and the new guy Scott, waiting for a miracle.