Nighthawk Journals 2

Another day at the diner, same old regulars drifting in like hourglass sands. Same coffee, same food, same snippets of conversation floating stale in the air. Very little ever really changes here, only the faces of the overworked or uncaring staff. The two are rarely the same, interestingly enough. They seem to be either one or the other, since those who don’t care don’t work and the others work too much for the meager amount they earn. But it seems that such is life, doesn’t it?

 

The folks that drift in regularly, often at the same time daily, differ as well. Some come in before, during, or after work, others have nothing better to do. They all want the companionship though, whether they like one another or not. Just to talk and have someone listen to bygone days. Just as with any group, you get your one-uppers, those who have done and seen it all, and better than you. Or those who know a guy who knows a guy, who had a friend who’s 8^th cousin thrice removed knows it, has it, or can get it.

 

If you peer behind the masks and see the true underbelly of these places, they’re depressing. Simply a coffee cup graveyard of glory days, shattered dreams failed schemes. A low-cost, low wage hell, filled with hot grease and trans-fats instead of fire and brimstone, occasionally coming across a rare old sage who offers wise advice.  Too much talk without any substance is the norm. Just old men shouting into the wind, complaining, cajoling, haranguing any open ear, willing or not.

 

Often the younger folks are not much better, teens and twenty-somethings with no real upbringing and a wildy swinging moral compass. No sense, no etiquette, demanding everything and giving nothing. Trashing a booth or table with no recompense for those that have to pick up after them. The drunks are not always worse than the sober ones.

 

Social misfits also seem to flock here. Those who really fit in nowhere, awkwardly trying to make conversation about anything and nothing, still failing, only to fall into an even more awkward silence. What is it about this place that often seems to attract the lower forms of human life? Not always, but often, customers and employees alike.  I simply don’t understand, try to, or want to.

Reviews

[Emerald Seas]

Yet, the character seems enthralled to sit back and observe this set of society. It's an interesting read, maybe the setting for a longer story - a kickoff point for something deeper perhaps.