Lou’s Diner
Su Kopil
From her station behind the counter at Lou’s Diner, Betty taps the end of an unfiltered cigarette and listens to the young couple in the corner booth.
“What I said back there. I didn’t mean it,” the man says.
“I know,” the woman answers.
It’s half past midnight. The only other customer is a man with a cane, shuffling toward the register. Betty places her unlit cigarette back in the pack and drops it into her apron pocket. She rings up the man’s coffee and hands him his change.
He nods, glances at the young couple, and limps out into the night. His exit brings a draft of cool air. It weaves past the empty tables and chairs until it finds the corner booth.
Betty watches the woman pull her thin jacket tighter.
“What I said, it just came out. You know it didn’t mean anything.” The man tosses aside a half empty sugar packet. “It just came out.”
“I know,” she says.
He stirs his coffee, and watches the woman, but she’s not looking at him. Her finger pushes the few granules of sugar that spilled.
She starts to speak and Betty has to strain to hear. “Do you always take what you need and abandon the rest?”
He swipes the bits of sugar onto the floor. Betty frowns. She’s the one who’ll have to clean up his mess.
“Forget about the sugar.” He begins again, “Look, I don’t know why I said it.”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” the woman says.
He turns away from her and stares out the window.
Her gaze follows his.
From her vantage point, Betty can see the man with the cane leaning against the lamppost, haloed by the circle of light. He’s facing the diner, his hat brim shadowing his eyes. Is he waiting for someone? Or is he watching the couple through the window? She wonders if he saw the evening news—the announcement of another murder not far from here.
Her gaze returns to the couple, their attention back on each other.
“I like you, Mary. I do.” The man is speaking again. “But love…”
Betty catches Mary’s eye. Can’t he see the woman’s mortified? Shut up, Betty wants to yell. Instead, she brings out the pack of cigarettes, her hands unsteady as she shakes one out, smells it. Lou won’t let her smoke up front. She’s not even supposed to have them with her. Teases the customers, he says. Well, if no one likes the rule, why enforce it, she counters. It’s the law, he says. Betty didn’t have to like the law, but she needs the job, so she compromises. She keeps her cigarettes close, but doesn’t light up while on the floor. She looks out the window again. The halo of light is empty.
“I shouldn’t have said it.” The man’s voice is pitched higher now.
“Richard, please.” Mary’s hand hovers in the space between them.
He stares at her across his half empty cup. “I don’t love you.”
Scream, cry, beat him, Betty wills the woman across the diner.
“I know.” Mary’s shoulders slump.
Betty puts the cigarette away, slips the pack back in her apron, and grabs the coffee pot. What is it about the Richards of the world that attract women? She’s known her share of Richards. They’re as addictive as tobacco—taking you higher one minute, killing you the next.
“More coffee?”
Richard’s cup rattles.
Mary’s knees hit the table.
Betty smiles, neither of them heard her approach.
Richard recovers first, points to his cup, and pulls a pack of smokes from his jacket. “May I?”
Betty points to the No Smoking sign on the back wall. The one Lou insisted on hanging.
Richard peers around the empty diner before producing a smile meant to charm. “Who’s to tell?”
“Me,” Betty answers.
Richard slaps the pack on the table making Mary jump.
“Tempers aren’t worth the time you put into them.” Betty refills Mary’s cup, eyeing the abused pack.
“Let’s get out of here, Mary.”
Mary’s face is pale, pinched. She wavers, then suddenly stands. “I need the restroom.”
Betty points to the far corner.
Mary nods and scurries past.
Richard scowls as Betty tops up his coffee, swipes a rag across the table, and returns the pot to its station. When he pulls out his cellphone and makes a point of ignoring her, she follows Mary into the bathroom.
The door on the second stall is shut. She can see Mary’s shoes—brown, flat-heeled, serviceable—shoes for a woman who expects nothing from life, who takes what she’s given.
Betty taps out a cigarette and places it between her lips. The lighter was her grandmother’s, an old Zippo that flips open and snaps shut to extinguish the flame.
The first draw is heady and sweet—a coming home, a sense of peace. She holds the smoke as long as she can, unwilling to let it go, until finally she’s forced to breathe. She opens her eyes, unaware that she closed them, and stares at the stall door.
“I had a Richard once, promised me the moon and back, promised to love me forever, until he promised himself right down the aisle to another woman. When I told him I was pregnant, he denied it was his.” She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “Not that it mattered. I lost the baby, my daughter. Doc blamed the cigarettes. Men stick together. Remember that. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
The stall door swings open. Mary steps out, clutching her bag, and shakes her head.
“Good.” Betty inhales a lungful of smoke, anticipates the shiver of pleasure.
“Why did he say he loves me, if he didn’t mean it?” Mary stares at her serviceable shoes.
“Honey, we’re just dolls to them. In their minds, we’re plastic, without a lick of feelings.”
“May I have one of those?” Mary gestures to the cigarette.
Betty shrinks back against the sink, cradling the half-empty pack against her chest, her eyes narrowed from the smoke. “It’s a bad habit,” she says. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of starting because of heartbreak.” She studies Mary through the smoke. “If I could quit I would have, long ago. It gets under your skin, in your blood, same as guys like your Richard.” She gestures toward the front of the diner where they’d left Richard waiting. “Quit while you still can. I would give my own daughter the same advice, if I could. You can go out the back way, wait in the alley for a cab. Lou’s in the kitchen but he won’t mind. We’re about ready to close up anyway.”
“I thought this was a twenty-four-hour diner.” Mary relaxes her grip on her bag, holding it with one hand at her side.
“Not since the murders. We stay open until the movie theater lets out the last show. We get a few couples, like yourselves, but most hurry on home.”
“I can’t just walk out on Richard.”
“Honey, men like him need to be taught a lesson.” Betty snuffs the end of her cigarette against the sink, then slips the stub back into the pack.
“Mary,” Richard yells. “You fall in? Let’s go.”
Mary pales. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
Betty puts a hand on the girl’s arm. “Head high, Mary. He can wait on you until the cows come home. Not that he would. And that’s no mark against you. It’s just what he is. Women deserve better. You scoot out the back. I’ll handle Richard.”
Mary hesitates, then leans into Betty and gives her a shy hug.
“Lou might look like a bear,” Betty whispers, “but he’s not one of them. Tell him I said you want a cab.” She opens the restroom door and gently pushes Mary to the left, toward the kitchen, while she turns right, into the dining room.
Richard is standing near the corner booth searching the area.
A thrill of pleasure moves up Betty’s spine. “Lost something?” she asks.
He spins around, relaxes. “My smokes. Where’s Mary? Did she take them to mess with me?”
“Maybe you kicked them under the next booth.”
He grumbles but squats down to look.
“Shall I ring up your bill?”
“Where’s Mary?” His voice floats up from beneath the table.
She ignores the question, rips their check off her pad, and takes it to the register. She scribbles his name on top of the check, sticks it in her apron next to her cigarettes, and rings up the two coffees.
“Find them?” she asks when he approaches the counter.
He shakes his head and looks toward the restroom. “She crying in there?”
“Who, Mary? No, she left. Went out the back.”
“She what?” His brows lift then drop back into a scowl. “Just assumed I’d pay her way, did she? Well, good riddance.” He taps his jacket pockets searching for his smokes.
“Here.” Betty reaches under the counter and carefully pulls out a cigarette from the second pack she keeps in her bag—her own special blend, shared with a select few.
“Thanks.” He takes matches from his pocket.
Betty holds up her hand, points to the sign. “Not in here.”
He snorts. “Right.” He tucks the matches away and tosses her a five-dollar bill. He waits for his change.
She drops two quarters into his outstretched hand.
He gives them a little flip then shoves them into his jeans pocket. With a last scowl toward the restroom, he walks out of Lou’s Diner. He pauses under the halo of light, a match flares, and he moves on.
The next morning, Betty wakes before the sun. She rolls over, feels for her cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand, and brings them into bed with her. The flame from the lighter momentarily brightens the small bedroom. The tip of her cigarette glows a warm red. She inhales, smiles contentedly, and tosses the empty pack onto the floor.
She feels along the bed, finds the remote and turns on the television, switching to the local news. “A body was found late last night on Baker Street. Although it’s still too early to know for sure, police believe this to be yet another victim of the killer, dubbed ‘The Exterminator’ by police.” An image of Richard fills the screen.
Betty swings her feet over the side of the bed, turns on the lamp. She retrieves a thumbtack from the nightstand drawer, finds the slip of paper she left on top, and stands to tack it to the wall above her bed. Richard’s name stares back at her from the diner check, along with the names of three other men scrawled across their own checks.
That thrill of pleasure moves along her spine. She takes the cigarette from her mouth. It’s getting so she can’t tell what she craves more. She looks at the empty pack on the floor and makes a mental shopping list: cigarettes and cyanide.