Black Coffee and Hash Browns

A Story by hpage

This is a short story that was based on the painting "Nighthawks". I wrote it for an assignment. This is my first attempt at short fiction. Maybe I can get some notes? Work in progress.

Black Coffee and Hashbrowns

I was having an alright time sitting on a stool at the counter of this little diner, waiting for a plate of hash browns and biscuits. The coffee wasn’t very good and I was sure that the waiter knew it. He never once looked me in the eyes as he quickly filled my cup. You can never find a decent cup of coffee after midnight. The day was tiring and I was residing in my solitary-like setting. The smell of crisping potatoes and burnt coffee could never whet my appetite, but I appreciated its attempt.

A younger handsome couple walks in as I am just finishing my cup and encouraging the waiter to make a fresh pot. He claimed the current pot was fresh, I cried foul, and he ground the beans. The couple seemed okay when they walked in. They sat down, sort of annoyed about something; I tried not to eavesdrop. I was too busy brooding because my personal diner was now plus two. I waited for my hash browns impatiently.

They both ordered coffee. The waiter grabbed the pot that had just percolated at my request and headed the way of the couple. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He looked my way mid-step, I raised my brow and held up my cup slightly from the table motioning that my cup should be filled first; simply because I was the one who had requested the fresh pot. He fills my cup first. “You’re too kind.” I tell him as he walks away.

I like my coffee black. I stared into my cup as the couple bickers slightly at each other, the way couples do in public. They were trying to not be heard"all I could make out from their whispers was something about a bank. Not even a good old spoon clanking quieted them down. I should be home right now; not here clanking spoons at frustrated and decent-seeming couples. I was just tired and hungry. Now I was impatient too. “Wha’ya do, grow the potatoes? “ I let slip out between lukewarm sips. The waiter angrily pushed through his yellow swing door. If not for that door there wouldn’t be anything else to look at in this place.

I was deconstructing a crumpled pack of Lucky Strike. I was sure, regardless of how smashed and flat it was, that there was one left. With the foil torn back I saw my assumption was correct, there was one left. I put it between my lips and searched for a match. I hadn’t one. Slightly let down I call out to the couple across the counter. “Excuse me, you got a match?” I asked with a sociable tone, bent cigarette hanging from my lips. The man inquired back me at, “Have you got a cigarette?” I did in fact have a cigarette, but it was the last one to my name. “Just this one.” I replied holding the crooked thing up slightly. “Then I haven’t got a match, pal.” He shot back at me with the same subtle annoyance he was showing his woman.

What a night. I couldn’t help thinking about being anywhere else but here. I should be home. My feet were swollen and my back was tired. Not to mention my reflux had started back up and I was out of antacids. I was out of cigarettes. I had only a couple bucks in my pocket and a trunk full of gadgets and gizmos. I’d been on the road for fifteen days and only managed to sell two smokeless ashtrays, a few potato peelers, an electric razor, and a package of nylons. My revenues from those sales were gone as soon as I had gotten them on account of a blown tire seven days ago outside of Peoria.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter called out to me coming from behind the yellow swing door. “What for?” I snipped back. The waiter explained, “The cook burned your hash browns and biscuits. He’s gotta drop ‘em again.” I waved my hand and rolled my eyes showing my aggravation. “Sure thing, pal.” I flung at him, rubbing my chin and biting my tongue “Say, why don’t ya throw in a couple ’a sausage patties for the trouble?” The waiter looked at me irritated. I smiled a sarcastic smile. “Sure thing, pal.” He mocked, throwing the yellow swing door back open, returning to the kitchen.

The couple across the counter caught my eye once more, the annoyed gentleman staring a hole through me. “Can I show you a smokeless ashtray, potato peeler, or perhaps a nice set of nylons or curlers for your lady?” I inquired of the man with slight irreverence. “No thanks, guy. I’m not looking to buy any of your s**t, and watch your tone big shot.” The stool I was sitting on started to get to me. I tapped my single Lucky against the top of the counter damning the fact that I hadn’t a match. I could’ve asked the waiter, but I was sure he had enough of me tonight, so I let it go.

“Say, why don’t you run down to the newsstand and grab a pack and some matches.” The gentleman with glaring eyes asked of his woman seated next to him, while staring a hole through me. She obliged, and he pulled a handful of change from his pocket, shoving it into her hands, and dropping some on the floor. “Pick that up.” He shot at her. She had a hell of a time trying to collect the coins from the tile floor in four-inch heels"but the view wasn’t bad. She walked towards the door like she was trying to impress someone, and she did, took a look back and walked out. Her man then rose from his seat and walked over to me. The smell of frying sausage had been in the air and I was pleased, until this man plopped down on the stool next to mine. The odor of his aftershave was overwhelming; it wafted with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

He pulled his jacket to the side and disclosed the fact that he was concealing a pistol. “Say, what’s the big idea?” I barked at him as he placed himself on the stool next to mine. “Listen buddy, I don’t play game"and neither do you if you want to keep your head in one piece.” He threatened. “Just be calm, pal.” He started bluntly. “You got a car?” He asked. “Sure, I got a car. I’m a traveling salesman.” I told him. He seemed pleased with my answer. “Good. When my broad gets back you’re going to give us a ride, okay?” He demanded, reminding me of the pistol in his waistband. “Where do you need me to take you?” I asked hesitantly. “You are not going to drive us anywhere. I said you’re going to give us a ride. What I meant was you’re going to give me your car. You get the picture now, pal?” He painted out, once again reminding me of the pistol.

The man continued to intimidate and explained to me something that he called his “big one”. “Ya see pal, my broad and I need to over to Newark, we got a bank to hit. Got it all planned out, ya see? I got a buddy on the inside, owes me a favor, he’s playin’ ball, now I need you too. You gimmie your car, you don’t go off and get yourself killed. My woman and I get to where we need to be, we get a good chunk of dough, and we’re livin’ the high life after that.” His plan sounded like he had it all figured out, but what the hell did I know?

At that moment his woman had walked back into the place. She walked again like she was trying to impress. “Here.” He said to the woman motioning for the pack and matches she fetched. He set them down on the counter in front of me. “Now, gimmie your keys.” He demanded, like it was some sort of trade. I was not in the mood to bring a cup of coffee to a gun fight; of all the things I needed that was on the bottom of the list. I clumsily pulled the keys from my pocket and tossed them on the wooden counter. He took them, looked around and out the window. “That you right outside? The teal sedan?” He asked. “Yeah, that’s me.” I answered. “Good, good. Now, we’ve got to be going, ya see. Not a word, alright?” He said this time pulling the pistol from his waistband. The two ran out as simply as they had some in. I didn’t even bother watching as they left. I didn’t need to see it to believe it.

“Where’d that couple go?” The waiter asked coming back through the yellow swing door. “Gone.” I sharply stated. “They didn’t pay for the coffee!” He shrieked. I let go a brief chuckle at his concern. “Where’s my hash browns?” I queried. “Coming right up, pal.” He assured me, pushing back through his yellow swing door.

I looked down at the counter and realized the thief had left the pack of Lucky’s and the matches. I finally lit my cigarette and tried to forget what had happened. Just as I finished the tobacco my plate arrived. At least something finally went right tonight. “Hey pal,” I shouted to the waiter. “You got a car?” “Not one of my own,” He began to wipe the counter in a circular motion. “I borrow my old man’s on Friday and Saturday nights though. He usually stays in drinkin’, he doesn’t notice when I take it.”

It was almost 1 o’clock. I should be home. The waiter finished his counter wiping and leaned against it with a leg tucked behind, heel of his foot on the shelf. He examined his fingernails briefly. His keys he kept on his belt loop with a clip. They made noise every time he stomped to and from the kitchen through his little yellow swing door. He unclipped them from his pants and started trimming a hangnail with a set of clippers he carried on his key ring. When he was done, before folding up the clippers, I stopped him, “Hey pal, could I borrow those for a moment? I got one of those too,” I say holding up my left index finger. “ Been bugging me all day.” The waiter complied to my request and handed me his key ring. He then stepped away to take the dishes to the back. He went back through his yellow swing door and left me alone. I was slightly panicked, yet eager. I quickly scanned the keys on the ring, there had to have been about twenty different keys. Luckily, the key I was searching for was plain. We had the same model. It was exactly like the one that so unfortunately left my possession. I released the key from the rest and shoved it into my pocket.

“Closing up in a few, mister.” The waiter said coming back through from the kitchen. “Oh yes, of course, it is getting late. Whadda’I owe ya?” I asked, outreaching my hand to the waiter to return his keys. He snagged them from my hand and started reading the bill, “ Uh, that’s thirty-five for the hash browns, biscuits, and sausage. And twenty for the coffee.” He clipped his keys back to his belt loop. “Twenty for coffee?” I hollered. “Yes sir, because of rationing I have to charge by the cup. No free-refills pal.”

I was absolutely appalled by the notion of paying twenty for coffee, but I didn’t want to escalate things and I had flustered him enough to keep any notice from his missing key. Throwing fifty five cents on the counter I dug for another dime for a tip. I didn’t have one. I made a slick exit before he could notice. That stool was better left, too. Out on the street I stalked the block for the car this key belonged to. Behind the diner in the alley I found it. It was a blue sedan almost exactly like mine. I pulled the handle, it was unlocked I sat down inside.

The car smelled like cigarettes and bourbon. I wasn’t so sure that the waiter’s father only drank on Friday and Saturday. Maybe the waiter only drank on Friday and Saturday. I quickly perused the car. The camel interior was faint in the darkness, but easily distinguished as I was used to it. Not much to look at inside, the color helped disguise the half fifth of bourbon sloppily thrown under the seat. The clock on the dash was telling me that the diner would be closed in fifteen minutes. The waiter will most likely be locking up a few minutes sooner having no customers.

I started the car with the ill-gotten key. I ducked briefly hoping the car wasn’t so close to the building that the waiter could hear. Everything seemed okay. I pressed on the clutch and put it in first. The car started to roll quietly through the alley. The headlights fell into the street; I looked around and took a deep breath while applying the brakes. Accelerating, I turned from the alley headed south. I saw the waiter giving the floor one last sweep as I drive past the window. Four dollars, a pack of Lucky’s, book of matches, and a stolen automobile was all I had. I was down one Lucky and match as I exited the city. I never went back to New York after that.

The car radio was still a fairly new distraction, but I liked it. I turned it on and found a crackling broadcast of a news report. Seems all anyone talks about anymore is the war and that jerk Hitler. They need to kill that b*****d already and end this crap. The broadcast signal thinned as I got farther and farther from the city. I intended to head towards Allentown, one of my usual stops on my circuit. I had nothing to sell, and needed to get rid of this car. Luckily it was approximately a sixty-some odd mile drive; I could make it just fine.

I needed to ditch this car and find a gig quick. First, I needed to find a decent place to rest my eyes. I came upon a small motor lodge right outside of Allentown; it was glowing with miniature florescent lights, floating on a sea of white gravel. I shut off the headlights and pulled into the white parking lot. I parked the car among the rest and bowed my head for some quick shut eye. I needed to get some rest; I would be traveling on foot once I wake. I took a generous pull from the half fifth of bourbon I noticed earlier. Before I knew it I finished the bottle and fell asleep hard.

As usual, when one finds themselves drunk, the night passed very quickly and the sleep was nowhere near as refreshing as one would have wished it had been. Regardless of how I slept, I needed to get moving. It was 7 o’clock and my pockets weren’t going to fill themselves with the money I needed to fund my way back home. I adjusted the mirror to get a look at myself, I straightened my tie and half combed my hair with my palm. I figured I would have a hard time finding temporary work on a Sunday, but I was determined to do so. I exited the car and took a deep breath of the light morning air. I stretched and looked around. I needed a coffee. I started walking, heading for a diner. Half my life has been in diners. I’ve probably spent $100 on coffee and hash brown over the last three years that I’ve been doing this salesman thing. I should have never left the quarry. Trading in my work boots for dress shoes seemed okay at the time; I didn’t realize I’d also be trading a paycheck for uncertainty.

One thing that was certain though was my appetite. Luckily enough there was a greasy spoon about a half mile down the road. Thanks to the sunshine I didn’t mind the walk, and damn-near enjoyed it. I kicked a few rocks as I was leaving the gravel lot. One in particular I kicked the whole way to the diner. Few vehicles passed me along the road. A milk delivery van and a pick-up loaded down with hay bales were witness to my walk. Neither driver offered me a lift, probably owing that they were going the opposite direction. After a few minutes of walking I could see the diner up ahead. The wind was calm so I lit up a cigarette. I came upon a small culvert and had a seat along the galvanized railing. I puffed my cigarette leisurely and looked down over the side into the thin stream running beneath.

My focus turned back to the diner that was still a brief walk away. I threw my butt on the ground and stomped it out with the toe of my loafer. I blew out the last bit of smoke and proceeded to walk. As I was walking I noticed a car coming my direction from far off. I watched as this car turned into the diner where I was headed. From the distance this car looked familiar. I had a strange feeling about it. It was the same model as the one that I had let go without a fight back in New York the night before, same color and all. “Ain’t that queer?” I thought to myself as I walked towards it still, I kept my eyes on the vehicle and the driver. As I approached the diner I slipped beside a telephone booth and peered over the edge, still watching the car.

The driver and passenger doors open at roughly the same instant and the passengers stepped out. “Son-of-a-b***h…” I disbelievingly whispered to myself. It was the goon and his woman, and it was my car! My blood began to boil and I knew I needed to act quickly. What I did was something that went against the very grain of who I was the night before, hell, my whole life for that matter. As he had his back turned to me, closing the car door, and I rushed him. Having seen his pistol so many times the night before I knew exactly where he liked to wear it in his waistband. I damn-near jumped on his back and sharply reached my hand around his waist, my hand hitting the mark perfectly. The man, overwhelmed with confusion, could only shout, “Say! What’s the big idea?!” His woman shrieked in fear, as she had no clue what was going on. I jumped back a few steps away from the man with my arm outstretched pointing that pistol of his at him.

He turned with both fists clenched as if he was about to do something about it. He saw my face and recognized me. He laughed briefly, until he noticed the pistol aimed right for his gut. He didn’t realize that I had taken it, he had thought I was just jumping him trying for a fight. He brushed his hands down along his waist trying to retrieve his pistol. It was then that he realized what had happened. He slouched with both hands half-raised, looking at me with a face that seemed to say, “Yeah, like this is how I’m going down.” He opened his mouth and directed his woman to get back in the car; she accepted his order. Apparently she was in no mood to put on shows this time, as she hurried her sweet cans back into the passenger seat.

The goon tried to get under my skin by saying with a smart-tone, “Why don’ya put that thing down guy? No need to be uncivil"hell, you probably don’t even know how to use it! Why don’ya put it down before you hurt yourself?” With that remark I cocked the hammer and the cylinder rolled with that usual metallic ‘click’. The goon’s face had started to become flush and his eyes widened. The smart-a*s who had just spoke was now gone, in his place no more than a frightened street thug. I finally broke his tension by speaking, “Put the keys on the hood.” I ordered. “Sure thing, sure thing.” he submitted to my demand. He kept talking and talking trying to be real friendly-like with me. It’s funny just how different people are when they are on the opposite end of the gun.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” I told him. “This is my gun now. You no longer have one. That is my car. Those keys on the hood are mine. Okay so far?” I asked him. “Yeah, yeah, sure thing"your car, your keys, your gun"got it, got it.” He responded nervously. I continued, “Now, about a mile down the road is a small motor lodge. There may be a car worth stealing down there if you still feel so inclined.” He looked very agitated with me, but who can argue with a gun in your gun? He requested, “Okay, okay pal, you win. Just let me get a few things out of the car.” He turned and reached for the door and I popped him one with the pistol handle on the side of his head. He fell to the ground, wrapping his hands around the location of impact. I crouched down to his level and whispered into the ear that took the blow, “When I said this is my car, I meant everything in it too. You no longer have anything here, so get walking.”

He rose back to his feet, he was now fully aware that I was no longer taking any of his s**t. He shouted out to his woman, who was still in the car, “Come on, let’s get the hell outta here.” She started to open the door and I looked in through the driver’s window, “No need to get uncomfortable there honey. Why’ont you say a while?” She smiled and blushed, and brushed her hair back behind her ear with her finger. I smiled and took focus back on the goon. “Didn’t I say get to walking? Now scram!” The goon bit his lip and turned red knowing that he was now without any personal effects, a car, a gun, a woman, or a friend. He lingered for a moment, and then got the picture. He started to walk away, towards the motor lodge, with a small stream of red trickling out of his head.

Once he was about a quarter-mile down the road I took up the keys I had him place on the hood. I opened the trunk to check on my inventory. Surprisingly it was all still there. I closed the trunk, released the hammer of the pistol, and placed it in my pocket. I did a walk-around of the car, making sure there were no damages. I noticed something in the backseat through the window, and opened the door to check it out. It was a duffle bag. I opened and was taken back by the contents. It was full of cash. That must’ve been what the goon wanted to retrieve, luckily I stopped him. “Whad’ya know about this?” I asked the woman in the passenger seat. She looked back and explained, “We hadn’t yet had a chance to count it.” I grinned, and zipped the bag back up, “Well then, let’s find somewhere to count it.”

I jumped into the driver seat and started the engine. I looked over the woman in the passenger seat and put the car in gear. “So, who do I have the pleasure to be traveling with?” I asked her. She grinned and the sun streamed illuminating her face, “I’m Barbara, pleased to meet you.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. That was the same name as my ex-wife. We cruised down the road with the windows down; I asked Barbara if she would light me up a cigarette. She did and I took it from her. We both smoked and enjoyed the sunshine. She fumbled with the radio and found a station broadcasting some jazz; we listened contently and headed east at sixty miles per hour. I placed my hand on the woman’s thigh and it was well received. She smiled and placed her hand on mine. I looked at her, and she looked at me, I asked her “You ever been to St. Louis?”