Harvey hired me in the middle of a breakfast rush after one of his cooks quit without warning.
“You know how to carry three plates?” he barked across the counter.
“No.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
That was my interview.
Harvey looked intimidating enough to scare most people on sight. Huge guy. Permanent scowl. Voice like gravel scraping concrete.
But underneath all of that, he was one of the kindest men I’d ever met.
If he noticed I skipped meals to save money, he’d shove a burger toward me after closing and growl, “Eat before you pass out and become paperwork.”
Mrs. Holloway came into the diner every Wednesday and Saturday morning at exactly 7:30.
First booth by the window.
Black coffee.
Toast burned slightly darker than normal.
And complaints about almost everything.
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
“Daniel,” she said. “You look exhausted.”
“Long week.”
She snorted. “Try being eighty-four.”
That was basically our friendship beginning.
After that, she always asked for me.
“You ever smile?” she asked one morning.
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
