 
 John's DinerStopping by the Diner on a Sunday Morningby Michael Hahn 
 

        "Table for three, Cosmo," I said to the maitre d'.  "Debbie 
    and the dog will be along shortly."
        "No Dino-dogs," cackled Cosmo, shaking his brightly-colored 
    head.
        "I know your fruit-testicle supplier, Cos," I countered, my 
    trademark half-smile playing about my lips.
        "Table for three, coming up," Cosmo grumbled, waving a wing at 
    a corner booth.
        I settled into the booth, glanced around the diner.  Maxine 
    Urso, wearing an evil grin, was sitting alone at a table piled 
    high with cream pies, bananas, Dave's Chili, and bowls of jello.  
    David Winer and Don Hemenway were drawing pileated woodpeckers on 
    Steve Minton's Etch-a-Sketch.  He was watching, quacking quietly.  
    Howard Palmer was at the counter, cleaning a revolver and nodding 
    automatically at a monologue/harangue by a white-robed Francis 
    Albert Stiffneck.  Francis was pounding "Moral Indignation" 
    on the floor for emphasis, and his stool was surrounded by splinters.
        The Doorway opened in mid-air over the Barco-Lounge, and 
    Cecilio Morales dropped through.  He plucked himself out of the 
    meager collection of windbreakers, brushed himself off, and joined 
    Steve Myrick and Jeff Epstein at the journalists' table.
        T.P. Diffenbach walked in, flipped Cosmo a fruit testicle, and 
    sauntered over to my booth.  "Are you awaiting the arrival . . . 
    uh," he paused at my frown, his jaw twitching with remembered 
    instruction.  "Waiting for somebody?" he began again, relaxing at 
    my smile.
        I nodded, adding, "Good work.  Concise."
        "Thanks," Tom said gratefully, and ambled over to the counter.  
    He waved at John Chambers and scooped up an ashtray all in the 
    same motion.
        A harried-looking Shan O'Meara scooted up to the booth.  "Can 
    I take your order?  Can I?  Are you ready yet?  And can you look 
    at this tagline I just thought up?"
        I grinned, shook my head.  "I'll have a plate of onion rings, 
    a club soda with a twist of lemon, and treat yourself to two 
    Valium on me."  Shan looked puzzled, then scuttled away, 
    scribbling furiously on his order pad.
        I raised an eyebrow at Lucia Chambers, two tables away, deep 
    in conversation with Jeff Green, Ron Fitzherbert, and Ted Husted.  
    She excused herself, slipped into a chair adjacent to the booth.  
    "What's up?" she asked.
        "I think your waiter is having a FRAP [ed. note: Frenetic 
    Random Activity Period]," I chuckled.
        "Shan tends to get a little too, uh, enthusiastic," she 
    chortled.  "He works cheap, though--we bought him a MetroPass.  
    Where have you been?  You haven't been in as often."
        "I've been around.  The new job takes me out of town a little 
    more frequently than my, shall we say, avocation."  I paused, 
    added, "Dino-dog takes up some time, too."
        "Dave Holloway was asking if you'd read any good cookbooks 
    lately," Lucia gibed.
        I colored, stammered, then cleared my throat.  "Sorry about 
    that.  Made for an interesting evening, though."
        "Good point," Lucia laughed.  "See you later."  She headed 
    back to the other table, joining the conversation in midstream.  
    They seemed to have linked on the subject of hypertext.
        John Chambers slid a plate of rings and a drink in front of 
    me, took the bench opposite mine.  "We locked Shan in the meat 
    locker until he calms down a bit.  Have you met the wheat yet?"
        "The wheat?" I echoed.
        "The wheat.  Ruby brought it back from Oklahoma.  Talking 
    wheat--more like something from Oz than OK, if you ask me,"  John 
    muttered.  "Michael Heinich thought we should print up advertising 
    flyers.  'Course, he also wanted to print up menus, directions, 
    guest lists, ingredient lists, programs, and commentary.  These 
    kids and their new toys . . ."
        Some sort of ruckus erupted in the kitchen, and John departed 
    to investigate.  A stream of Spanish, a squawk, and a free- 
    floating feather signalled yet another attempt at Cosmo L'Orange.  
    Raoul came skidding out of the back, swearing in Spanish and 
    holding his bleeding nose.  Cosmo strutted out of the kitchen, 
    straightened his bow-tie, and glared at Raoul.  Raoul fled back to 
    the kitchen, muttering something that sounded like "beeg cheeken."
        The pandemonium level rose steadily toward that of a normal 
    lunch hour.  All it lacked was Al Ruffin (and as if on cue, he 
    appeared, with a shotgun over one shoulder), and Debbie Hahn with 
    a bouncing yellow Labrador retriever in tow.
        Fifteen minutes later, John's Diner held a cacaphony of     
    barking dogs, squawking birds (Zack had joined the fray as well), 
    talking wheat, arguing birders, Spanish (thanks to Raoul), French 
    (thanks to David Chessler), and Cecilian (thanks to Cecilio).  
    Plates clattered, glasses clinked, doors banged, and the piano 
    tinkled.  There was laughter, and sighs, and the drone of a dozen 
    conversations.
        It was lunchtime at John's Diner.

                                  -end-
                     Copyright (c) 1993 Michael Hahn
