A rich man
The old guy sat at a table in the back, as usual. He had finished eating, and was sipping his coffee (black, with two heaped spoonfuls of sugar. As always. Even if it made his slight diabetes act up. What the Hell – you only live once.)
The diner was emptying as the clock was going on midnight. The Greek behind the counter look tired, and was wiping the worn metal with a cloth, again and again, the same spot over and over. He was waiting for the old man to finish up and go home. So they could all call it a day. Or night, as it was.
The only good thing about the old man was his tips. They were huge, most often two or three times as much as his regular bill would add up to. They said he had made his money in some shady way, but who cares? Money is money, that’s what the Greek always said.
What was keeping the old geezer? Normally, he would be out of there around eleven, being picked up by his driver, in that big, slick, black limo of his. Who knows where it would take him? Upper East or Upper West, possibly. Or out into the lush plains beyond New Jersey. Who cared? He paid, that was it.
Still, it was getting to be annoying, this. Why can’t he just finish that coffee already? The Greek stopped fiddling with the cloth, and turned his attention to moving some cups and glasses around, making a lot of noise. Or some, at least. Just a sign that he was ready to close up.
Finally. Good. The Greek saw two green bills being dropped on the table in the back, and the old man left, without as much as a “Goodnight” or anything, Bastard. Just because he is loaded, he thinks he can act like an asshole. Shit, he does not own this place, does he?
The Greek saw the old man lower himself into the back seat of the Towncar. His driver was young, and probably Hispanic. Some job, coming over here in that car, at this time. Dangerous, too. Wonder what he is paid?
The Greek turned the lights off. Another day. Yet another tomorrow.
№ 1/1