Greasy Spoon

The Place is packed on a warm summer Saturday morning. Orders fly through the kitchen window to alight on the arms of waitresses. Plates piled five, six deep and balanced with precision on their way to hungry families and tourists looking for an authentic diner feel.

Coffee percolates. Eggs sizzle and fry. Mountains of hash browns are shuffled onto the griddle to satisfy the crowds. The clink of silverware and bottles of ketchup and Tabasco fill the air with percussion.

A high school kid runs the register and tries not to mix up the checks. A busboy in a blue and gold Lumberjack shirt hustles to clear each table before the next group pounces on it. The regulars perch on bar stools at the counter to be close to the fresh batch of coffee.

“How long have you been working here?” one waitress asks another as they wait for the last biscuit.

“Long enough to go crazy,” she says and their off again without another word. They have to keep on top of the waves of hungry people drawn there by the smell of maple syrup outside.

The diner is so full, one more person might cause it to burst.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Flagstaff, AZ. Follow him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

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