"Fine for Now" - Museum Art Fiction

Piece inspired by "Smitty's Diner" - 1943 by Warren William Baumgartner (Courtesy of New Britain Museum of American Art)

The heat of an industrial-sized griddle smacks me in the face. I might not even need coffee anymore. The bell above the door mixes with the sound of crackling of bacon. The backs of heads greet me. No “hello” for me today. No warm Westport welcome-home after a 3-day fishing trip up north.

I take my red cap off before I realize hat removal isn’t a trend this morning. Both men at the counter still have their Knapp-Felt fedoras on. My wool coat’s got to come off, though. I settle into a seat beside the older gentleman, and the burgundy vinyl slides me against the Formica. It’s not too busy considering it’s prime breakfast hours.

“Got any joe?” I ask the cook. The bright white silhouette created by his uniform and soda jerk paper hat stands out against the backdrop of tarnished gray metal lording over the train car-sized space. He sees me out of the corner of his eye as he rests bacon onto a plate, raising an eyebrow at my request. He turns back to his pan.

“Agnes.” The name comes monotone out of his mouth. The woman behind the counter finishes clearing away a dirty plate.

“Yes, Walter?” she replies, sighing submissively through her words without looking up from her task.

“Coffee over here.” He jerks his head in my direction. She spots me and grabs a mug, setting it down in front of me, before fetching the pot of black.

“And you might want to pick up that tip,” Walter says. “You ain’t the only one pinchin’ pennies.” Her eyes search the counter and land on the dull shimmer of nickel and copper. She quickly drags them off the counter and into the front pocket of her apron. The fabric is immaculate, save for a small tear threatening to expand and drop each one of her coins. She pours my coffee. It steams as she tips the carafe towards the mug’s gaping hole.

Her empty gaze meets mine. A pretty ocean blue her eyes are, vibrant against the contrast of her fair skin and dark hair that’s perfectly pinned to her head.

“Mornin’, sir. How are ya?” she says. The corners of her mouth lift slightly to offer a hint of a polite countenance.

“Mighty fine, young lady. And yourself?”

“Alright, thank you.” Her smile turns a little more sheepish. Judging by the company, I must be the kindest man she’s seen today and I’ve barely said a word. “Eggs with the coffee?”

“Oh no this’ll be fine for now, dear.” I turn to the stone-faced men. “Well, golly, you all should be more like her,” I say, raising my voice a bit. “The world ain’t s’bad.”

A spatula crashes down on the back counter. Agnes turns a deep red. Her smile stops in its tracks and begins to wane. Walter storms out through another door on the far end of the kitchen. A cold October blast rushes in to replace him before the solid block of dark wood slams shut.

They look at me with empty stares. There’s that silence again. No crackling bacon this time.

“Anything else, sir?” Her gaze darts down to her free hand, fiddling with a salt shaker. She doesn’t look back up.

“No, thank you. Have-- Have? I offended? I am sorry, I didn’t mean-- ”

She walks away without another word. The coffee sloshes around in the pot trying to keep up with her swift withdrawal. My face must be red by now. Did I say something awful?

I hear a grunt come from the gentleman at the far end of the counter nearest the glass door I came in through. I look over at him, but he stays facing forward, along with the one next to me. Does no one make eye contact in here?

“You must be joking,” the man next to me says, sipping his coffee.

“Excuse me?” I ask. His mug drops to the tabletop with a thud, still clutched in his ever-aging gnarled fingers.

“Where have you been all week son?”

“Backwoods of New Hampshire.”

He huffs in an almost-laugh. He begins to stir his drink with the metal spoon, but changes his mind and lets it clank to a stop against the inside walls of the ceramic.

Leaning over to the other side of him, he grabs a copy of the local paper laying on the counter and slaps it down in front of me.

“WALL STREET IN PANIC AS STOCKS CRASH”

My jaw lowers in shock. A pang in my core. I’m cold.

(Headline from Brooklyn Daily Bugle, October 1929)