Short Story: 24/7

I had been working at Phillies’ for a little over two months now. I do the late shift because I get what other employees don’t want. Eleven am to seven am. I don’t have a wife or kids, so the only person it affects is me, I don’t mind so much, there isn’t much to do late at night. Just keep making coffee my boss always says. We don’t get much business late at night, only nighthawks past twelve. My boss calls the customers that come in real late nighthawks. They never want to go home and there always looking for somewhere to go. I don’t understand it; maybe it’s an old person thing.
Working in a diner has trained my ears very well, it’s hard not to eaves drop on conversations going on at my tables or especially at the bar. This one couple came in a little while ago, a beautiful red head with her husband on her right arm. They were dressed up like they came from Broadway or something.
“Stewart that was awful.”
“Hun, it was the premier, do you know how many people would have died to see
that play?
“Eve of St. Mark? I’m not sure many people have even heard about that play.”
I can picture them fighting before they got out the door now. Look at them just sitting, he’s smoking and she’s mangling a piece of bread. Gosh, I can’t wait till I get married! I smiled and turned to the gentlemen to my left. He just lost all his money at the poker game and couldn’t stop whining about it. He doesn’t know how to explain to his wife about their new money trouble or his minor gambling problem.
“where have you been David?”
“ I told you, I went to Paul’s tonight”
“Oh, right, how was that?”
“we went to the bar around the corner and just had some drinks. Go back to bed.”
He’s not going to tell his wife about their sudden loss until the next bill comes. Maybe he can recover some losses at work or something. When he does tell her, they are probably going to get into a fight and he’s going to end up right back on my bar school drinking his coffee.
Gosh. What a life I lead. Working all day and making up stories for people that I serve. Well its better than hearing the actual ones I guess. The red head stood up and said,
“Next time go to the crappy play yourself!”
She started walking out when her husband stood up and went after her. I watched them through the windows. Her yelling and using hand gestures like a pro, while he just stood in front of her with his hands in his pockets. He was like the punching bag for her words, he just stood there and took it while she kept screaming at him. I watched them yell for what seemed like forever, just drying my coffee cups glancing out the windows non-schelontley every couple of seconds. The gambling man sat facing me, oblivious to what was going on outside. The man opened his mouth and said what seemed to be one word. The woman shot him a look of disgust and slapped him with her white gloved hand. He turned around and walked down the street out of my site. The woman stayed in the same spot for a while, collected herself and came back and sat at her pervious bar seat.
“Coffee ma’m?” I asked her.
“Make it an irish.”
I poured her coffee with a shot of liquor from my flask. I felt bad for her. I didn’t know what to say to her, I don’t really talk to my customers. The ones that come in late at night either need to sober up or think to themselves. The gambler got up and quickly walked out the door without leaving a tip. Maybe he really didn’t have any money. So it was just me and the red head, I had to talk to her.
“Miss, are you ok?” I asked.
“Why, yes, I’ll be just fine. He just likes to push all my buttons at once. He really
gets to me.” she replied.
I turned to put away more dishes. I tried to hold off on all the things I had to do until late at night because otherwise I’d get bored as soon as I was done. I turned back towards the front door to see red’s husband stumbling back in.
“That bastard mugged me!”
“What?!” his wife asked.
“You know that guy that was sitting right across from us, he mugged me when I
was having a smoke down the street!”
And that’s why I don’t like people. Man is never satisfied with what he already has, there’s always a want for more. I’ll never understand how you can steal someone’s money or something that they’ve worked hard for, or that they earned. I guess that’s what I get for working in a diner that’s open twenty-four/seven. There’s no morality in the stories I hear or the things I see here.