(A Hundred Words Plus Narrative Commemorating Our Fallen on Memorial Day)

Claudia placed the check next to the cup she had just refilled with coffee. Given what seems like extra foot traffic at the diner this Memorial Day weekend, I figured she deserved a larger-than-usual tip for my usual toasted buttered sesame seed bagel, which always goes well with a cup of joe. As I left the booth and walked to the cash register, where a growing group of patrons was waiting to be seated, I noticed the older gentleman sitting at the corner counter stool. I had first seen him upon my arrival 30 minutes earlier.  

He seemed surprisingly patient about waiting for whomever he was expecting to meet at the busy diner this morning. He was slowly consuming his first cup of joe. Or, perhaps, he was on his second cup. He caught me glancing at him while getting ready to take another sip. He then nodded before returning to his blank stare toward the counter. I guess he felt it was necessary to offer a non-verbal greeting. 

As I inserted my debit card in the card reader, I turned to him and politely commented, “I also know the feeling of waiting for someone who may not show; it’s always embarrassing when the staff here tells me that it looks like my wife stood me up.” This was followed by my quick chuckle, which was well known to the diner’s owner and her wait staff. The diner staff are familiar with my spontaneous greetings and verbal observations, usually made in jest to strangers and familiar faces alike, usually seated at the counter or booths near the entrance. 

The older gentleman smirked as if to show appreciation but did not seem truly amused by my comment, calmly replying, “My friend will not be joining me today.” After an awkward, brief pause, he proudly added, “Every Memorial Day weekend, I eat breakfast here in remembrance of my best friend who gave his life on the frontline; he always spoke about joining the army as his way of giving back to the country.” There was another brief but awkward pause before I commented, “Oh, sorry for your loss; it sounds like a great ritual.” As appropriate as anyone may have considered such a comment for a person who had lost someone close, it seemed devoid of any sincerity. At least, it felt this way to me. 

After paying for my check and being somewhat contemplative, I proceeded to the counter, sitting a couple of stools over from the gentleman. I never exactly knew the reason, but I always felt there was something special about hearing the story of a visitor to the Bay Street Diner that creates a sense of belonging. I waved to Claudia, using my usual hand gesture to request a cup of joe. I then looked at the older gentleman, smiled, and asked, “Would you mind sharing more about your veteran friend?” 

It was the Memorial Day weekend, after all. I knew I could stop by again tomorrow with my wife for the Sunday brunch special after church, before heading to my cousin’s home for a family barbecue. But would this gentleman be here? Would the next time we cross paths be Memorial Day Weekend next year? There was this sudden curiosity to converse with him sooner rather than later. And I figured the timing was perfect to do what I know best–listening to the story of a diner patron. And what better way to pay tribute to the gentleman’s best friend than to hear the story of one of our brave, fallen service members during the three-day holiday commemorating their sacrifice?

(This narrative is also available to read on my Medium profile.)

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