Lunch At Roscoe's

Earlier today I had lunch at rundown, dingy Roscoe's Diner. Roscoe's has four small, wobbly tables and a counter with six swiveling stools, each repaired with plenty of duct tape. As I perched myself on a stool, my peripheral vision noticed the guy sitting next to me giving me a quick glance.

"Hey, I recognize you," he chirped, a trace of enthusiasm in his tone, "you're that guy who has that 'seldom seen' blog."

I was hoping for a nice, quiet lunch. I could see that it wasn't going to happen so I sighed and nodded as I pulled a menu out from behind the counter's napkin dispenser. "Yeah, that's me," I acknowledged with a note of reluctance.

"That blog stinks," he declared. "I don't know why I bother reading it."

"Well, it isn't like reading it is costing you a fortune," I returned, my tone emotionless.

"Yeah, I guess that's true."

About that time, Eunice, Roscoe's waitress, appeared on the other side of the lunch counter, her green order pad on the ready. I requested a couple of eggs, sunnyside up, wheatbread toast, and a cup of joe.

"What are you going to write about next?" my new friend asked as Eunice departed. "Maybe some dumb memory of a bicycle crash you had as a boy, or some blind date from your younger days who had b.o.?"

"Nope, I got nothing like that on my mind."

"Okay. Are there any oddities you've noticed in the world that might appear in that dumb blog you've got? Maybe you've made some observations that'll appear in that lame 'seldom seen' internet thing of yours?"

"Why do you care?" I huffed.

"I don't care. I'm just curious."

I turned just a bit in the direction of my inquisitor. "All right," I began, "I don't like all the slap-fives and quick hugs that I've been seeing in sports lately. I'm watching TV and a basketball player misses a foul shot and his teammates give him what looks like a congratulatory five. In a women's doubles tennis match, one player blows an easy shot and she gets a hug from her playing partner."

"You don't like that?"

"No. It's not right. Listen chief, what if Eunice were to bring me out my plate of eggs and toast and she stumbles with my food falling across the floor. Do I give her a 'slap five'?"

I could see by the look in his eyes that I'd got my lunch companion to contemplating. "Yeah, okay, I see what you mean."

"If I'm a competitor out there and a teammate volleyball player delivers a winning serve, he gets a 'slap five'," I continued. "If he puts it in the net, I'll let him see me roll my eyes in annoyance."

"Okay, all right, anything else that perturbs you?"

"Well, the other day I was watching the movie Saving Private Ryan," I declared. "At the end of the movie, an elderly Private Ryan talks to the Normandy Cemetery tombstone of his commanding officer who was killed 45 years earlier in the war. The old man even stands at attention and salutes the grave marker."

"Yeah, I remember that scene. What in the world could you find wrong with that? I thought it was very moving."

"Well my mother and father are both dead and you know why I never visit their gravesites?"

"No. Why?"

"Because my mother and father are dead," I pronounced, emphatically. "They are no more in those graves than are Phyllis Diller and Hugh Downs."

"Not everyone feels like you do," my fellow Roscoe's patron stated calmly. "Besides, isn't Hugh Downs still alive?"

"It's Hugh Downs so who cares? Point is: if you want to remember the dearly departed, look at their photos where they are laughing and enjoying life. Buried at that grave is a skeleton."

"Okay, well, I've got to go," said my co-conversationalist. "You don't mind if I do not give you a 'slap five'?"

"Naw," I muttered, a quick shake of my head. "In fact, I'd be disappointed if you did."