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Bay Front Diner
Their sincerity stunned me — they were all so very sincere.
I'd just ordered breakfast at noon in Port Townsend, sitting in a corner booth alone with the local paper. I'd traveled most of the night and was barely alive and minding my own business. I wanted little but to eat, drink my coffee, and read the daily news. An older couple came in.
They were old enough to be retired but not enough to be coddled. They were ordinary. They sat in the next booth; I could see his face and the back of her head. Along Puget Sound, along water everywhere, restaurants are like that: they line booths up along the window so everyone gets a view, but to see it, you have to turn sideways. I returned to my paper, but the hostess arrived and greeted my neighbors warmly. She was lovely and young, and I looked up, but turned quickly back to my paper, needlessly embarrassed. The hostess gushed, flooded them with happiness, told
them ten minutes of detail about her boyfriend's service in the Navy, asked after their cats and dogs by name, could barely tear herself away to return to her work. The man smiled as if at a granddaughter, his eyes twinkling, occasionally glancing affectionately at his wife, all with a kindly possessive regard towards the hostess. After getting completely behind in her work, she left. Before the man could speak to his wife, a man of fifty years walked up. He commented on their new truck, parked out front. Then, apropos of nothing except perhaps of living well in a healthy community, he said, "you are without doubt my favorite two people, and knowing you over the years has added immeasurably to my life." The man looked a little stunned, and the woman says "oh, why thank you!" and the standing man said, "well, I think we should all sometimes say what we feel more often." Then he left. He said it all dry-eyed. I'd have been crying. I've said less at deathbeds and retirement galas. It was just another day in Port Townsend.
I tucked into my omelet and up walked another man. He was less dramatic but more familiar; he sat down next to the man and put his arm around him. By now I expected halos, perhaps, or to hear someone say "glad you've come through the cancer surgery so well," or perhaps, "I'm sorry to hear your entire family died in a boating accident this morning." But he just sat and talked about a biography of his parents that recently ran in a local paper. His parents seemed to have known the dining couple, who still hadn't received their lunch. They were now absorbing their third round of accolades on an empty stomach; they had to be feeling tipsy. The amiable man soon saw sandwiches coming, and rose to leave. He stood a second, his fingers gripping our man's shoulder, saying how great it was to see them.
The couple began to eat. A man of forty arrived. He greeted them with deep affection and obvious pleasure at just seeing their faces. He said, "I won't interrupt your lunch" as he leaned to kiss the lady's cheek. She turned it up automatically, without the inevitable awkwardness that would ensue if anyone tried to kiss anyone anywhere but Port Townsend. And still, no mention of disasters survived, bereavements easing, travels ending. Just affection. Just a kiss on the cheek and a slap on the shoulder and a few words about a soccer game, and he was gone. I was done with breakfast and on a third cup of coffee and still pretending to read the paper.
A waitress approached them from the far end of the restaurant. "Sorry I couldn't get here quicker. Is Sal taking care of you?" This said winking at Sal, who grins, and the man says "of course, she always does great. How's Gary?" The three of them discussed Gary, the waitress with half her attention on her own tables at the far end of the restaurant. She stepped over to pour me more coffee, while telling the couple Gary's newly in business for himself as a builder, before she dashed back to her own tables. The couple quietly ate their sandwiches. I wondered what they did to deserve such shameless affection; perhaps they taught school, ministered to a congregation, and led three generations of Scouts. Maybe they were physicians. Or maybe they were just decent people, because of course it's not the livelihood that matters — it's the living.
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AUTHOR NOTES:
John Axford writes from his native Vancouver, Washington, but works designing and constructing wildlife refuges across western Washington. His hobbies include writing, borrowed children, hiking, canoeing, and maddening combinations of all four.
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