The Diner

A destitute veteran wraps his threadbare jacket tightly around his thin physique as the icy wind chills him to the bone, reminding the older man that winter is fast approaching. It's time to change the tires on his car. He sighs at how bald they look. He barely made it through last year's snowstorms without a scratch. When given a choice to buy tires versus food, hunger wins every time. I could always go to the food bank. He thought. But I don't want anyone to know what a lousy situation I'm in. His mother's voice resonates in his head. "Don't be too proud to ask for help when needed." I won't request assistance because I want to maintain whatever dignity I have left.

As he enters the empty diner, pictures of the owner's professional wrestling matches adorn the walls. Trophies sit on a shelf at the back of the restaurant, collecting dust. The older man picks up a local paper from a table covered with a cotton red and white checkered tablecloth. The want ads might be looking for a night worker to stock shelves. The pink slip feels like a dead weight in his pocket. He glances at the front page headline that boldly states, "100-Year-Old Company Files for Bankruptcy." At least he's not alone. Many of his co-workers are in a similar situation. The warmth of the diner and the ritual of seeing the owner, a 6-foot 5-inch nighthawk weighing 280 pounds, at 0200 am settles his nerves. 

"Hello, Harry. Are there any suspended coffees available?" Burt asks.

"You're in luck. There's one available, and I'll throw in a bowl of vegetable soup and a bun for free as the pot is almost empty. I know it's been a rough week," Harry replies. Burt smiles and nods in agreement. Harry must have read about the company closing. He is the kindest man Burt has ever known and his closest acquaintance for thirty years. Burt's parents died a long time ago. He never married. Most of his friends have moved away. He's no stranger to loneliness. As Burt sits on a red counter stool, Harry pours him a cup of steaming black coffee in a white ceramic mug before bustling away to bring him food. 

"Enjoy," Harry says as he places the meal before him.

"Thanks!" Burt exclaims as he starts eating with gusto. A look of satisfaction crosses Harry's face. Suddenly, the door to the diner bursts open, and a youth rushes in with bloodshot eyes, wearing a black mask, black hoodie, designer jeans, and orange running shoes, pointing a handgun at the two of them. How much bad luck can one person take in a week? Burt wonders as he looks through the restaurant window to see his buddies waiting in a white Kia EV6. 

"Hey, kid. What are you doing? You don't need to do this. The path you're currently on isn't worth it." Burt states. "Shut up, old man," the youth shouts back. "You don't know anything about me!" Tears collect at the corner of the youth's eyes.

"I know that if you shoot or kill someone, it will haunt you for the rest of your life. I've lived it. You don't need to do this. Put down the gun." Burt declares.

He glances at Harry to see his eyes glaring at the intruder with an intensity that would have any average person recoil in fear. It surprises Burt how soothing Harry's voice sounds when he says, "You must not be from around here. Everyone knows I only have one hundred dollars in the till at night." 

The teenager hesitates. "You're lying!" he screams. "Give me all your money, and it better be more than a hundred bucks!" 

"No problem," Harry replies. "Calm down," he says as he opens the cash register. "Come and see for yourself." He holds up five twenty-dollar bills in his hand. The sound of sirens pierces the night air. 

"You called the police!" the young man cries resentfully. 

"We didn't," Burt exclaims. "Someone must have seen you through the window holding a gun and called 911. Everyone loves Harry." 

The teenager turns abruptly to stare outside, and both men rush the young man. The gun goes off. Startled, the youth looks down at the two men, drops the gun, and runs out with horror etched in his eyes.

Tires screech as the getaway car takes off. "Does this happen often, Harry?" Burt utters suddenly, his face abruptly ashen. "Unfortunately, it happens at least once every few months. It's how gangs initiate a new member into their inner circle. Newbies either have to rob or kill someone. So far, they've only taken money. Where are you injured?" Harry questions the elderly soldier as he runs his hands over his body.

"My arm feels like a hot poker is stabbing it," Burt says. He looks down at the blood seeping through the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm hit," he replies as he realizes that he is lying on the floor. Harry is kneeling beside him. "Why did you move in front of me?" Harry demands, annoyed. "I was trying to protect you! That's the thanks I get, being chastised. Remind me not to do it again!" Burt promises. "I think I'm going to be sick!" Burt blurts. Harry lifts the waste paper basket toward Burt as he rolls him onto his uninjured arm. "I'm going to ease your sore arm out of the sleeve," Harry quietly says. 

"I can't stand the sight of blood, especially my own," Burt jokes in embarrassment. "Ouch, take it easy, Harry!" Burt cries as Harry takes off his jacket.

"You're in luck. It looks like a flesh wound. The bullet didn't hit bone or blood vessels. You'll probably need a few stitches, though," Harry states. 

I don't feel fortunate. I didn't even get to finish my meal! Burt thinks. "You're sure I won't die," Burt whispers. "Because I'm scared that I might die because of how I feel right now." 

"Burt, you're going to be okay. You've got this." Harry reassures him as he ties a towel around his arm before placing a cushion beneath his head. First responders arrive, and the diner fills with firefighters, police officers, and paramedics. They tend to Burt. Amidst the commotion, Tim, a reporter for the local paper, saunters in; the smell of cigarette smoke clings to him. 

"Hi, Harry! Hi, Burt! How are the two of you holding up?" he asks. "I was coming in for a cup of joe when I saw the punk flashing a gun. So, I called 911. I also jotted down their license plate. Don't worry. I've already stated what I witnessed to the police." Harry slaps him on the shoulder, thanking him for being in the right place at the right time. 

"Good job, Tim. I'm okay. I'm thrilled that it's just a flesh wound." Burt says. "Are you looking to write a great story?" Burt asks. Tim laughs, "I'm always looking to write a great story. What do you have in mind?" "Well, Harry's diner keeps getting held up by gang members at least every other month. Maybe you could write about that." Burt suggests. 

"Burt was fearless and took a bullet for me. Tim, you might write about our veterans and what they've done for our country, our freedom, and how they live now." Harry counters.

Burt adds, "It would be great if you could help me find a night job, Tim, or a new jacket!" as paramedics load him onto the ambulance stretcher, an intravenous infusing in his arm, his bloody jacket thrown in the trash can.

The reporter replies, "I'll see what I can do, Burt. I'm very grateful to our veterans. We owe them much more than our gratitude. It's a debt we can never repay, our freedom. I'll write a story about what happened tonight: Burt, veterans, the diner, and thank those currently serving at home and abroad." 

Burt smiles; maybe his luck is changing after all.