The Old Man and the Diner

What can make the heart ache for a stranger? What is it about those moments in a person's life, arriving completely unexpectedly, that make you stop hard, as if a wave of arctic water suddenly and forcefully washed over your entire being, sucking the very breathe from your body? These moments make you take stock of your life, the way you live, what you say to others, where you spend your money next, or even, occasionally, to gaze slowly down to the plate of hot, freshly-prepared food in front of you, making you feel superbly appreciative of it, yet guilty for it, at the same time.

I experienced such a moment just the other night, sitting inside Mickey's Diner. It's a classic joint, situated in downtown St. Paul, MN, and has been there on its corner since the mid-1930's. An elongated box-car of sorts, it seats perhaps 30 people max, and has long since become worn and faded throughout its 24-hour-a-day operation cycle, and 7 decades of patronage. When you walk in, you immediately feel the oldness of the place, the stories embedded within the scuffed and marked tile floor, or the greasy, stained, faded red walls of the interior. In short, it's just the sort of place to go for a bowl of Mulligan stew and chocolate malt, which we did, last Saturday evening.

It was the first time I had ever been in Mickey's Diner. A prominent fixture of the town, this iconic landmark has made its way into the National Registry of Historical Sites, as well several major feature films, and yet, it was the first time I had ever dined there last Saturday. That's when I saw him.

Seated at the diner's counter, upon the last stool to the right, and a mere two feet from me, was an elderly man, I'm estimating in his mid to late 70's, resting silently on his old, simple seat. This was a Saturday night, 8:10 to be exact, and here was this fellow, incredibly skinny, with long, thin, wispy hair down to his shoulders, white and streaked with strands of gray, hunched over at the neck from years of existence, staring down into his cup of coffee. His rough, wrinkled pink hands clasped each other upon his smart, smooth gray slacks, and slowly rubbed back and forth. He sat there, silently, alone, and wore a faded sport jacket, brown in tone, along with his slacks, and perfect wingtip dress shoes, all from another era. I wondered just how long he had been there.

As I turned back to my wife, we both thought the same thing: "Is he all alone? Does he have any family, or friends? Can he afford only a cup of coffee, if even that?" These questions rang hollow through my mind, as I slowly cut and ate my egg and ham sandwich, and slurping down my malt. As I turned back, I noticed that this gentleman had not stirred, not moved his bearded head up once, but continued to stare silently into his coffee, quietly, and rubbing those aged, worn hands.

I wanted to go up to him, ask if everything was alright, ask if I could buy his meal, but then realized, he didn't have a meal; what's more, who was I to suggest such a thing? After all, he didn't look destitute, necessarily; he simply dressed from another time, perhaps from when the diner itself was a newly-minted business. But it wasn't so much his finances that concerned me; it was his absence of any company, his dress, and his manner. I thought, perhaps this is his evening out, and that to him, this was socializing, by dressing up in his finest, and sitting alone with other diners, never talking, only sitting, staring, head down, and soaking up this cold, Saturday night in Minnesota winter. And that was the moment when my heart felt very heavy.

What should we do in times like this? Why even feel like we must do anything? After all, this is a stranger, and there's no reason to butt into his or her business. But perhaps, just perhaps, that's all that this person wants - someone, anyone, to "butt in", become a warming stranger, and say Hello. Perhaps ask about the diner, what's good to eat here, implying that he's a regular customer; maybe just to ask for the time - anything to make contact. I don't know what it is about me, but the solitude of this patron really affected me in a deep and passionate way. Would I be the one to say something this time?

As the evening wore on, and we had completed our meals, we discovered that this gentlemen did at least know the friendly, vociferous staff. He was offered several refills on his coffee, which would cause him to smile pleasantly, nod, and mutter "Thank you". Later, I heard, "Would you like a doughnut now, Paul?" Paul - that's his name. And Paul said yes, he would like that doughnut now. It made me smile, but also feel strangely uncomfortable - would that doughnut be his dinner? I didn't dwell on it long.

We paid our bill, and as I prepared to leave my musings, I found myself passing by my subject, where I gently tapped him on the shoulder and said, as he turned to me, "Have a good night, Paul." He smiled then too, cracking his white beard into a wide, toothy grin, and said, "Yes, thank you. You too."

And I did.