Toast

“You want some coffee?” a middle-aged waitress, Dorothy, in a yellow shirt and white apron held a pot of dark coffee in her left hand, the weight of the liquid tipping the pot so the coffee was touching the spout. She spoke to a man in his mid-thirties, Paul, who looked out the window on his right inside the diner with his hands folded and fingers interlocked. His face was expressionless.

He jumped back a little, as if woken up from a sleep, and looked at Dorothy with tired eyes. “Thanks.” His voice was light, as if he needed to warm up his voice not having spoken today. Paul watched her tilt the coffee into his small white mug on the table in front of him and then drifted his eyes back out the window.

“What else?” Dorothy asked without looking at him, simply holding the coffee pot and staring at the table.

“Some toast, maybe.”

“We don’t have toast, sir.”

Paul looked away from the window and up at the middle-aged woman with sun blots on her temples, still staring down at the table. “What do you mean you don’t have toast?”

“It’s not on the menu.”

Paul looked at the laminated menu and picked it up with his right hand, bending it down the middle with his thumb to hold it up. “What do you mean? I see pictures of toast right here.”

“It comes on the side, sir. You can get a combo and have toast on the side.”

“But I’m not that hungry. I just want toast.”

“We don’t serve just toast.”

Paul pointed calmly with his left hand at the menu. “Yes, you do.”

“It only comes on the side, like I said.”

“Ok, well,” Paul placed down his menu carefully. “How much is a side of toast?”

“Sir, it only comes—”

“Just listen,” Paul put up his right hand and waved her down. “How much is a side of toast? If I get one of these meals and I want a side, how much extra is it?”

Dorothy pursed her lips in disdain. “Buck fifty.”

“Great. And that’s how much a side of toast would be, too, if I wanted that with a meal?” Dorothy glared at him. Paul leaned towards her and tried smiling. “So why don’t I just give you a dollar and fifty cents for a piece of toast?”

“Because we don’t serve just a side of toast. Sir.”

Paul straightened his posture and looked back at the menu quickly, perusing it over with haste. He then slapped his palms on the menu and looked up at Dorothy with a big grin. “Okay then. Your name is Dorothy, right? I can see it on your nametag. Dorothy, what I want you to do is to go back there to the kitchen and order me a number one combo. And when they make the eggs and the bacon and the hash browns, and they put the plate up on that bar to bring out to customers, and then they put the plate of toast next to it, I want you to leave the plate of eggs and bacon and hash browns, Dorothy, and just bring me the plate with the goddamn toast. Got it, sweetheart?”

“If you think I’m going to let them cook that whole meal and only take the toast, you’re out of your mind,” she raised her voice.

“Here’s a thought,” Paul forced a wide smile. “How about you don’t have to have them cook the eggs and bacon and hash browns and you just—” he slammed his fist on the table, cluttering the cutlery, “bring me a piece of white goddamn toast?”

Other customers turned their heads over their shoulders to get a glimpse at the growing scene. Dorothy set the coffee pot on the table, splashing several dark drops of coffee on the table, and put her hands on her hips. “Listen, sir,” she held up her right pointer finger as a warning. “I don’t know what your problem is, but do not talk to me like that or I will kick you out. We don’t serve just toast – I won’t say it again. You can order a full combo with a side—”

Paul held up his hands in dismay, looking around the table like he was trying to find something missing. “Alright – okay,” Paul threw his hands on the table and pushed everything off. Crash! The pot exploded like a glass balloon of coffee. The silverware scattered across the tile, the coffee mug shattered against the bar, the menu flipped in the air before sliding to the other end of the room, and Paul shot up from his booth. Dorothy took several steps back with hot coffee soaked from the knees down of her pants, flailing her arms in front of her face; she breathed sharp, short breaths in panic.

Paul angrily brushed back his hair with his hand and looked around the diner. He saw the customers staring at him nervously; some people wrapped their arms around their children. One of the waiters rushed to the back and returned shortly with a man in a white shirt and black tie and pointed at Paul.

The man in the black tie stormed up to Paul. “Excuse me, sir. Is there a problem—?”

“No, there’s—look,” Paul sighed, embarrassed with himself, “I just wanted some toast. She said I couldn’t have any unless I ordered a whole meal. But I’m not that hungry, alright? I wanted a cup of coffee - alright? - and a piece of white toast with a little butter.”

“Sir, I need you to calm down,” the manager spoke plainly.

“I am calm, I’m calmed down now.”

“Sir, please calm down.”

“I am calm. You telling me to calm down is not keeping me calm.”

“If you don’t settle down, sir, I’m going to call the authorities.”

Paul’s expression contorted into a fit of silent rage. He chose to remain quiet and closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. He raised his hands and gave a half smile as an apology. Paul sat back down in his booth and rubbed his forehead.

The manager stepped towards his booth. “Is there something I can get you?”

Paul paused and stared straight ahead. He licked his lips and slowly turned to face the manager. “There is.”

“What can I get for you?”

Paul waited to answer, looking at the manager. The manager waited patiently. Paul took a long breath and smiled softly at the manager. “Some coffee. To start.”

“Anything else?”

“And a piece of toast.”

“Sir, unfortunately, it only comes as a side order—”

Paul slammed his left elbow on the table and waved for the manager to come closer with his index finger. “Come here.” The manager complied and leaned in. Paul crossed his arms on the table and looked in the manager’s eyes and spoke very softly. “You know what happened to me this morning? I found out my wife slept with another man. Someone I know. And she’s thinking about getting a divorce.” The manager’s face turned pale. “When I woke up, Glen – your name is Glen, right? I can read it on your nametag there. When I woke up, Glen, I didn’t think my day was going to go any different. I didn’t think my wife was going drop a bomb on me while I was brushing my teeth. I got out of bed and thought about breakfast. Now, I’ve since lost my appetite thinking about my wife having an affair, but I still wanted to have something to eat. So how does this sound? I’d like a fresh cup of coffee and a plate of toast with a little square of butter melting on top. And if you tell me a single fucking thing about it being a side order, I will throw you out this fucking window and drive my car over your goddamn head.”

The manager stood perfectly still, scared stiff. He looked down for a moment and then suddenly left. Paul pressed the bridge of his nose with fingers and sighed in exasperation. The manager came back with a white mug of coffee and a small white plate with white buttered toast on it. The manager left without saying a word.

Paul looked at the toast and lifted the corner of the piece, then set it down. He pressed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and tried pushing back tears. He sobbed quietly to himself.

“You okay?” Dorothy asked, keeping a larger margin between herself and Paul.

Paul quickly pinched his fingers together to wipe his tears, then used his shirt sleeve to dry his red eyes. Paul smiled politely at Dorothy and then looked down at her pants. He pointed with his right hand across his body. “Sorry about your pants.”

“They’re work pants,” she replied plainly. Paul nodded in gratitude. “You want anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

Dorothy put her hand in her apron pocket with her elbow sticking out and looked at Paul sympathetically. “Sorry about your wife.” She smirked warmly at him. Paul tried to smile in return but he was too emotional to allow it. So he nodded once more.

Dorothy started to leave when Paul cleared his throat. “Uh, Dorothy.”

She spun around. “What?”

“What do I owe you?”

“It's on me.” She turned back around and walked into the kitchen.