The Last Diner

They seek him here, they seek him there

[A Diner In The South-Midwest — seemingly abandoned, at first glance, but then the viewer realizes the place is clean, including the counters and even the windows; there just aren’t any people in it — but wait, a form moves behind the main counter; a WAITRESS, about 50, in a gingham shirt-dress with an apron, who bar-mops the counter, then goes to the Bunn-o-Matic double burner, takes the more overcooked of the two coffee pots to the sink and dumps it out. As she returns to change out the filter basket, a distraught-looking MAN, white, slim, about 40, hair modishly cut, wearing Botega Veneta glasses, grey khakis, and a long-sleeved powder blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carrying a shoulder bag, and a lanyard around his neck, stumbles to the glass door, cups the sides of his head and looks through the door into the diner; he seems despondent, then tries the door, finds it unlocked, opens it, walks in, looks around, spots the waitress, goes over to her.]

WAITRESS: Hi, how are you.

MAN: I’m, I’m good! Oh! I’m so glad you’re open!

WAITRESS: Six a.m. eight p.m. every day except Sunday.

MAN: [Looking around] Well, listen, this is a beautiful place —

WAITRESS: Thank you.

MAN: — so I’m just surprised there’s no one —

[He covers his face with his hands, gives a laugh like a sob, drops his hands.]

— I’m not surprised. Every diner I go to is like this, every single one.

WAITRESS: [Nodding] Price o’ eggs.

MAN: Yes! How much for the breakfast special, by the way – two fried eggs?

WAITRESS: Seventeen thirty-five.

MAN: Wow.

WAITRESS: Comes with all the hash browns, bacon, toast and truffle butter you can eat.

MAN: Truffle butter?

WAITRESS: Got a case of it from some Frenchman was leavin’ town in a hurry.

[MAN rubs the back of his neck.]

MAN: Well, I’m pretty hungry and it’s on the expense account so OK. Over hard please, rye toast.

[He walks to a table.]

WAITRESS: Comin’ up.

MAN: I’m Tom, by the way.

WAITRESS: Hi, Tom. I’d tell you my name but then I’d have to get a protective order out against you.

[WAITRESS heads to the kitchen.]

TOM: [To himself as he sits] Maybe someone will come in… maybe…

[Beat. The men’s room door opens and another MAN comes out; he’s about 60, wearing clean but worn overalls, a plaid shirt, clodhoppers, and a red kerchief tied around his neck. Hair is disheveled, salt and pepper. He moves slowly, as if his limbs and joints have been worn out by time and toil. He starts to move toward the door. TOM notices him, suddenly gets up and goes to him.]

TOM: Hey! Hello there! Having breakfast?

MAN: I done et.

TOM: Well, can I get you a cup of coffee? I’m Tom Demitasse from the New York Times, love to talk to you a minute if you can spare it.

MAN: I sorta have to get back.

TOM: Well, you know what, listen, let me be honest, the Times —

[TOM lifts his lanyard for the MAN to see.]

— sent me out here to talk to someone and you’re the only one here, so please, I, I can spot you for breakfast tomorrow, even for the rest of the week if you like, just let me talk to you for ten minutes, please, OK?

MAN: Reckon I can spare ten minutes.

TOM: Great, great! Have a seat.

[They get in a booth. TOM gets out his iPhone.]

You don’t mind if I record? Just want to make sure I heard you right.

MAN: [Looking dubious] Well, OK, but like I told that feller from the Warshin’ton Post, I’d like t’ have a look at the quotes before you go t’ press.

TOM: [Crestfallen] The Washington Post?

MAN: Now, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Tom, they never did run that story, an’ the way you’re pushin’ I ‘spect you’ll rush this t’ print and beat ‘em to the punch.

TOM: Oh! Well, OK — sorry, I didn’t get your name.

MAN: Festus Clydesdale —

[FESTUS leans into the iPhone.]

— and I’m doin’ this interview conditioned on review o’ m’notes afore Tom Demitasse here goes t’ press.

TOM: Of course! Of course! OK, first, Festus, how old are you and how long have you lived here in Cutplug?

FESTUS: Sixty-two year, man and boy livin’ here in Cutplug, m’daddy an’ his daddy runned a general store, now I run it, ‘cept now it’s sorta what you’d call a mini-mart. Called the Culvert, over t’ Henson and First.

TOM: I was there last night! Very nice store, but forgive me, I don’t think your father would have charged me seven dollars for a travel-size shaving cream.

FESTUS: That’s what the market’ll bear, Tom. We got us a lotta city folk out this way an’ they don’t seem t’care what we charge.

TOM: Well, Festus, let’s get right to it: Maybe you heard about the polls on President Trump. Now, I know that back in New York, we’re all pretty effete and denatured, and we don’t see things clearly like you folks out here in God’s country do, so when —

FESTUS: Now, hold on, Tom, don’t you go sellin’ y’self short. Matter of fact, two of m’nephews live over t’New York, one in Bushwick, the other t’Inwood, an’ they like it right fine.

TOM: Oh! Well, I didn’t know —

FESTUS: Fact, back in the ‘80s I usedta go t’New York ev’ry so often an’ get t’clubbin’, down t’th’ Anvil an’ the Boots and Saddle. Or when I was tuckered out, we’d just mosey over t’ the Duplex or Marie’s Crisis and listen to some music.

TOM: I don’t know those places.

FESTUS: [Chuckles] Well, New York was a purty diff’r’nt place in them days, I tell you what. Plenty o’ anonymous sex, meatracks an’ whatnot. Course when the AIDS hit we had to tone it down some, so I jes’ coupled up with m’partner Seth an’ we been runnin’ the store since.

[Pause]

But you were askin’ ‘bout Trump, well, I don’t pay much attention t’politics. I figured second time around he’d be more or less the same but hoo-wee, feller seems fucked in the head, don’t he? Foolin’ with international trade an’ messin’ with vaccinations an’ arrestin’ all them poor Spanish people — you know the reason I charge so much is all my good Spanish workers tuck off ‘cause the ICE was nosin’ around. Feller’s off his rocker, is what. No good nohow. An’ don’t git me started on that dairy queen he got for a V.P.

[Pause. TOM looks around.]

TOM: Wonder where the waitress is?

FESTUS: Well, she got a purty bad oxy habit, reckon she’s nodded out.

[TOM gets up, picks up his iPhone.]

TOM: Well, thanks, Festus, let me just get your email here and we can review notes.

FESTUS: Sure, Tom, it’s Heywood Jablome at gmail dot com. You need me to spell that out for you?

[Beat.]

TOM: I think I got it, Festus. Say goodbye to the waitress for me.

[TOM leaves . Pause. The WAITRESS comes in, stealthily, carrying two cans of beer, looking at the door; sits with FESTUS.]

WAITRESS: We had him goin’, Fess.

FESTUS: Not as bad as the feller from The Economist. But yeah, we had him goin’!

[They laugh and crack the beers.]