A worried looking, slightly overweight girl with scraggly hair, sitting with a thin skater with severe eyebrows and long khaki pants. The skater occasionally mutters things, and the girl occasionally covers her eyes to hide her tears from the restaurant.
Three middle-aged men in leather, having an intent discussion about their Church, and their Wives. One man, the obvious ringleader, will not stop talking. He strikes me as one of those pompous guys who is obsessed with being a giver of wisdom, so he tries to stretch a basic piece of advice into a long, flowery lecture, and absolutely MUST have the last word. When they get outside, they stand in a triangle with their heads down while the pompous man offers a rambling prayer. Then they get on their motorcycles, rev them in appropriate manliness, and take off in opposite directions. Church people are so insular, and the reasons are obvious: No one else will listen to their crap.
Two men and two women, who came rolling up in a huge Chevy SUV. Approximate age of the men: 37. Approximate age of the women: 27. Tight pants, bony cheeks, goatees, half-conscious eyes, and a bald spot. Crude, cynical, sour. I really felt like walking over to them and asking, "What are you people FOR ?" But I know the answer. What they're for is, keeping out of my way, working their service jobs, making my widgets, and supporting organized crime. Somebody's gotta do it.
I have another talk with the cook, and meet a third late-night waitress. We talk about camping trips, weather, and a narcotic but evil-tasting nut that grows in the jungles of Guam. We talk about hand sizes and I describe the way my father's arms are so large he can hold a baby comfortably on one forearm. We press our palms together. When the waitress goes back to gather drinks, the cook leans in to me and says, "She is so totally hot. A major flirt, too. Dude, I want her." I lean back and laugh. "She does have nice hands," I say.