When they opened the door and entered the diner with their heavy boots, everyone stared. They always did no matter who entered, no matter what. People stared, and then came the head nods.
“Hey. Hi, how ya doing?” the father would say while raising his hand in an informal salute to the various hunters sitting all around. This diner, filled with tacky train memorabilia was a home to orange. It thrived during opening weekend, and maybe just maybe they could use the money to replace the water stained painting in the backroom. Or, maybe the 70 year old waitress could have a weekend off.
They preferred her. Knowing that she covered the tables in the backroom, they passed the clean empty booths near the door, and instead chose the only available one in the back. They waited patiently as the waitress came bustling in with a coffee pot in one hand and a wet rag in the other. The table was covered in sticky syrup and mug-rings.
“What can I get you guys to drink? Sprite for you right? Orange Juice? Apple Juice? Anybody need coffee?” She would ask as three of them flipped their mugs over simultaneously. Two drank it black, the other, obviously young, added a creamer and a pound of sugar. After licking the sugary-spoon, she picked up her menu and decided to quick focus on breakfast before she was completely lost in thoughts of the morning.
The family favorite was kielbasa, half an order of potatoes-extra crispy, one egg (over-easy for the girl over-medium for the rest), and wheat toast, but that’s because there wasn’t much to choose from. Here, you got white or wheat, and the girl was thankful because the extra decision would make it that much harder, and she was hungry enough to eat the menu.
“So did you get anything?” The mother would ask, always prematurely, and always averted by the father.
“Well,” he would respond. “We have a story for you.” His eye brows rising as he lifted his mug to take a drink, and say no more. No, the mother would have to wait until the breakfast was set down to know if there would be venison in the freezer, and she was growing impatient due to the shortage of ground-meat. The hunting party would entertain their mother/wife with little stories, like the squirrel that came so close one hunter saw a birthmark, or the deer the sister saw that just wouldn’t come any closer. Impressively, and magically, the waitress would seemingly deliver the breakfast within minutes.
“Can I get you anything else?” She asked, already eyeing up an empty mug two tables away.
“Mustard,” The girl and father would request simultaneously. Amid the scraping forks and inhaling breaths, the mother would try once more.
“So, did you get anything?”
The three hunters exchanged looks and smirked.
“We have a story for you.”
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