A diner connected to a bowling alley. A place Iâ€™ve driven by about a hundred times on my way to other things. Itâ€™s a small, corner room with oversized windows along two walls, providing lots of natural light. The dÃ©cor is black & white, with a checkerboard counter. Thereâ€™s a decent lunchtime crowd and Iâ€™m sitting at a booth across the table from a friend, catching up on things. An elderly woman in a wheelchair greets her waitress with a â€œhello, Dearâ€ and a kiss on the cheek. This atmosphere is calming and the coffee is perfect. An old man in a black straw fedora with a much younger man (his grandson perhaps?) sits down at a dirty table by the door and stares expectantly toward a staff who has not yet seen fit to acknowledge his party. Thatâ€™s the unmistakable look of a customer who wants attention. Itâ€™s a standoff that canâ€™t last too long. And it doesnâ€™t. â€œCan we get a goddamn busboy over here!?â€ the old man wheezes with the effort of a shout as the young man smiles nervously. A waitress promptly approaches. Sheâ€™s tall and blonde, a hardened forty-something. â€œNow, you be quiet!â€ she scolds. â€œWhat the hell is wrong with you people?â€ says the old man. A grin cracks on his face and then breaks out into a full smile. So this is their little game. I wonder how many times this scene has been played out here. My friend sees that Iâ€™m distracted and I apologize. Iâ€™m new here, and Iâ€™m just watching the regulars.