20 February 2012
Story #504
R. Linda:
There are those who steal packets of sugar, mustard, ketchup, non-dairy creamer, etc., from restaurants and then go home and have their coffee sugared with the stolen packets and creamers, or get out the ketchup and mustard when about to enjoy a homemade burger. I did not know there was a name for these people until today.
The ones who steal the packets are called Low-End Diner People, and those who buy the packets at the grocery store and use them at home, like they are out in a diner, are the Diner People Elite. Yes, they are. And there is a third name for those who do both. And just how do I know this? Well, take today's lunchtime for an example, if you please.
There I was, enjoying watching Ms. Rowley sashay down the aisle, somewhere in me own dreamland, when I was unceremoniously knocked out of it by Maureen asking me if I wanted to join her and Frank for lunch. I looked up in me startled state and asked who Frank was.
"He's the guy I be dating; he's not from here, he works for a big corporation, and he has loonch half past the hour, an' I want ya to meet 'em." She said. "Want yer opinion on 'em."
OH NO, I thought, no, no, the dating service be closed for the week, this be much too soon. Still, she was pulling me out of me chair and reaching over the back for me jacket and well, she was not taking me protesting NO's for an answer. So there I was, being carted off by Maureen like an errant child down the aisle, her fist tight around me elbow, and out the door and into the wind and cold of Boston, I was thrown. Oi, oi, oi!
"We be going to the South Street Diner to meet Frank an' haf a good warm loonch," she said as the wind whipped her hair in her mouth. That was when she let go to remove it that I had a mind to take off in the opposite direction, but that be cowardly, so I went, feeling doomed, I tell ya, DOOMED!
I won't bother to bore you with me seeming inability to hail a cab, Maureen finally did it, and the next I know, I am being led by the arm into the South Street Diner. I knew we were down by the harbour and Chinatown, but what was worse was that the South Street Station was nearby, and it would have cost us less to take the tubes. Actually, it would have cost ME less since I ended up paying for the ride! Women, I tell ya, when it's not their money they be spending, they don't care if it be the man's last dime.
As diners go, this one be known for its good, hearty chow. There was a giant teacup over the top of the door, so I knew where we were even without reading the sign. The menu has the best home fries in Boston. The only problem be, even if you don't eat the french fries, you go out smelling like you did. Ms. Jaio told me I smelt "stinky poo fie" and never would smell like that if "u ate in Chinie pace," yup. So there we were, and in walks Frank, this portly forty-something guy in a trench coat with belt untied. He looked harassed and harried and was not a very good-looking bloke. He had a meaty face (red like roast beef) and cropped hair that was once brown but sported a healthy sprinkling of silver. I was like, OK, Maureen, are ye datin' yer Da? But I didn't say that.
He seemed nice enough. He's very interested in Maureen, and there was something I noticed when I was watching his hands. His left had a light-coloured ring-like patch on the fourth finger. Hum, had he taken the wedding band off? I said nothing; I just let the two love birds chat away while I tried to see what it was she saw in him.
We had ordered three hot coffees since we were chilled, and there was a Dick Tracy lunch box on the table that held the napkin holder and various sugars. Well, Frank took two sugars, put them in his coffee and then took a handful of the sugars and put them in his coat pocket. Actually, he cleaned them out. I thought, OK. We tried to order, and this is the thing: he wanted a Turkey Club, but they were out of American cheese. It was a big crime, so we ordered something else, but no, if they did not have the cheese, we needed to pay for the coffee and go elsewhere. I was like, WHAT? What is he like? Well, Maureen got her coat, the waitress handed ME THE BILL, and the two of them went outside to wait for yours truly while I paid. Yup, I was getting pissed off. First the cab and now the coffees. I apologised to the waitress, who was very good-natured about it, but really? No cheese so we had to go somewhere else? Why not order your second fav there Frank? Oi.
We ended up at McDonald's. Yup, we did; go ahead, laugh. I don't know how many windy cold blocks we walked to Frank's, saying, "It's just up ahead," I think it was like six or eight very long, cold and windy blocks because as we reached number three, it wasn't there, but it was "just up there," yeah and I was relegated to walking behind the "couple" and you know what, it dawned on me that there was not one thing wrong with the diner, it was the price of the food that had Maureen's cheap date. Yup, I noticed right off that the entire order he had been contemplating would have come to $20 easy. But Mickey D's was about $5, and if that doesn't entice a cheap man, I don't know what would. Yeah, he was married, he was too old for her, and he was cheap! But more than cheap, I found out he was, IS, a Low-Class Diner People. Once we were at Mickey D's counter, he took meaty handfuls of mustard and ketchup packets and even had the girl give him extra non-dairy containers for his second cup of coffee. All went into those big bulgy pockets of his trench coat. Then, as we passed the soda machine, there was an island with more napkins, packets of every condiment imaginable and lots of non-dairy creamers. He put the tray on the table and took his empty soda cup to be filled (yes, coffee and soda, caffeine freak for sure), and as he got the top on the soda, he helped himself to a large handful of straws! I wanted to laugh and mention it to Maureen, but she was busy with a salt packet on her fries, probably the last salt packet because Frank had taken a box of those AND pepper and emptied it into his large coat pockets as well.
Maureen had left us for the ladies' room, and Frank noticed jelly packets still on the table from the morning. He emptied—I kid you not—the entire metal mesh container full of them into his already bulging pockets. This had got me attention, and never one to hold me tongue, I asked him, "Frank, I can't help but notice you arr fillin' oop on all dese packets an' tings. Why is dat?"
"They taste better than you buy in the store, and I am a diner kind of guy; I like diner food, and when I'm home, it makes me feel like I am having diner fare."
I was gobsmacked I was. What does one say in response to that? YOU'RE CRAZY? I noticed we were short on napkins, so I told him I would get a few from the dispenser on the counter, but he told me he'd get them; he was sneaking another Coke at the Coke dispenser, haha. OK. He brought back one napkin for me and had a fistful he was stuffing in the breast pocket of his coat! AND the stolen Coke? I will be pretty sure you can get refills, but I thought it wasn't worth me telling him that; he'd probably find a way to empty the entire soda dispenser. It was amusing watching him covertly fill his cup again, looking around like he was stealing from Fort Knox. I tell ya, I don't know where Maureen finds them.
When she and I were alone, this time on the tubes back to the paper, I asked her what she saw in him.
"He's funny, he's nice to me . . ."
"AND? Because Maureen, he certainly is no sugar daddy; he's cheap." I quipped since she seemed to be reaching for good things to say and couldn't think of any more than she had. Where does he take you for dinner?"
"OH, we go to . . . to the umm Galley Diner and the Rox Diner, and the Lunch Box diner, and Mass Avenue Diner . . ." And then it dawned on her. "He takes me to diners." She said, looking a little flummoxed.
"And when he does, does he stuff his pockets full of jellies and jams, ketchup and mustard, sugar packets and non-dairy creamers?"
She stopped in her tracks and looked at me, her eyes wide in realisation. She nodded, looking sort of greenish, "And salt and pepper."
"An' ye never noticed dis until now? You know Maureen, I don't want to rain on your sunny day, but . . . and I say dis to ya wit da best intentions, BUT Frank be a packet hoarder an' diner man who I believe be a married man as well. Let me tell ya why, single men don't take da girl day hope to date to a diner unless it be late at night and dere be nuthin' open. Plus, I don't see wot YOU see in a hoarder of diner condiments and such."
She said nothing. We walked in silence to the door of our employment, and then once inside, she said to me as we waited for the lift, "You are right. Oh my God, dat would explain all da cracker packets! I've turned a blind eye because I wasn't tinkin'. Dere be a term for those who steal packets an' such from diners. It be low-end diner people. What it really is is thievery." And she sighed, her sorrow heavy.
"Well, he not only steals it, he told me he buys it too."
"Oh my God, those are called diner people elite, but when they do both, they have an addiction going." She said seriously. "Those are called 'skitsophrenic' diner people. Dey arr da worst kind! Dey dunt know but anything diner related an' it's all about dose packets!" Then she thought a minute and said under her breath, "One ting, we never did go to da L Street Diner, and we were by dere a enuff tymes. I wonder why."
REALLY? 'Skitsophrenic' diner people? Oh my God, what is she like?
I parted ways with her as soon as I returned to our floor, and then Ms. Jaio accused me of smelling like a stinky french fry. Maureen returned to her cubicle sometime later, but I saw her on the phone having a heated conversation. It wasn't the packet stealing that had her. It was the married part. And as it turned out, I was right. He is married, and here is the insult: he is married to a diner waitress from the L Street diner, which explains the avoidance of THAT diner! Yup, he is. Old habits never die. I told Maureen she'd be better off without him in the long run, and he was too old for her. Really, I mean, there is Patrick, well, there is. She thought I'd run back and tell Patrick she was seeing a corporate exec, and he'd get all upset. But Frank is no corporate exec. He's the run-of-the-mill guy who never gets promoted. That may be why he steals from diners, but no, according to Maureen, he be a 'skitsophrenic' diner people or person. I dunno what Maureen was thinking, really. One look at the guy, and, well, he's not Patrick!
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
There are those who steal packets of sugar, mustard, ketchup, non-dairy creamer, etc., from restaurants and then go home and have their coffee sugared with the stolen packets and creamers, or get out the ketchup and mustard when about to enjoy a homemade burger. I did not know there was a name for these people until today.
The ones who steal the packets are called Low-End Diner People, and those who buy the packets at the grocery store and use them at home, like they are out in a diner, are the Diner People Elite. Yes, they are. And there is a third name for those who do both. And just how do I know this? Well, take today's lunchtime for an example, if you please.
There I was, enjoying watching Ms. Rowley sashay down the aisle, somewhere in me own dreamland, when I was unceremoniously knocked out of it by Maureen asking me if I wanted to join her and Frank for lunch. I looked up in me startled state and asked who Frank was.
"He's the guy I be dating; he's not from here, he works for a big corporation, and he has loonch half past the hour, an' I want ya to meet 'em." She said. "Want yer opinion on 'em."
OH NO, I thought, no, no, the dating service be closed for the week, this be much too soon. Still, she was pulling me out of me chair and reaching over the back for me jacket and well, she was not taking me protesting NO's for an answer. So there I was, being carted off by Maureen like an errant child down the aisle, her fist tight around me elbow, and out the door and into the wind and cold of Boston, I was thrown. Oi, oi, oi!
"We be going to the South Street Diner to meet Frank an' haf a good warm loonch," she said as the wind whipped her hair in her mouth. That was when she let go to remove it that I had a mind to take off in the opposite direction, but that be cowardly, so I went, feeling doomed, I tell ya, DOOMED!
I won't bother to bore you with me seeming inability to hail a cab, Maureen finally did it, and the next I know, I am being led by the arm into the South Street Diner. I knew we were down by the harbour and Chinatown, but what was worse was that the South Street Station was nearby, and it would have cost us less to take the tubes. Actually, it would have cost ME less since I ended up paying for the ride! Women, I tell ya, when it's not their money they be spending, they don't care if it be the man's last dime.
As diners go, this one be known for its good, hearty chow. There was a giant teacup over the top of the door, so I knew where we were even without reading the sign. The menu has the best home fries in Boston. The only problem be, even if you don't eat the french fries, you go out smelling like you did. Ms. Jaio told me I smelt "stinky poo fie" and never would smell like that if "u ate in Chinie pace," yup. So there we were, and in walks Frank, this portly forty-something guy in a trench coat with belt untied. He looked harassed and harried and was not a very good-looking bloke. He had a meaty face (red like roast beef) and cropped hair that was once brown but sported a healthy sprinkling of silver. I was like, OK, Maureen, are ye datin' yer Da? But I didn't say that.
He seemed nice enough. He's very interested in Maureen, and there was something I noticed when I was watching his hands. His left had a light-coloured ring-like patch on the fourth finger. Hum, had he taken the wedding band off? I said nothing; I just let the two love birds chat away while I tried to see what it was she saw in him.
We had ordered three hot coffees since we were chilled, and there was a Dick Tracy lunch box on the table that held the napkin holder and various sugars. Well, Frank took two sugars, put them in his coffee and then took a handful of the sugars and put them in his coat pocket. Actually, he cleaned them out. I thought, OK. We tried to order, and this is the thing: he wanted a Turkey Club, but they were out of American cheese. It was a big crime, so we ordered something else, but no, if they did not have the cheese, we needed to pay for the coffee and go elsewhere. I was like, WHAT? What is he like? Well, Maureen got her coat, the waitress handed ME THE BILL, and the two of them went outside to wait for yours truly while I paid. Yup, I was getting pissed off. First the cab and now the coffees. I apologised to the waitress, who was very good-natured about it, but really? No cheese so we had to go somewhere else? Why not order your second fav there Frank? Oi.
We ended up at McDonald's. Yup, we did; go ahead, laugh. I don't know how many windy cold blocks we walked to Frank's, saying, "It's just up ahead," I think it was like six or eight very long, cold and windy blocks because as we reached number three, it wasn't there, but it was "just up there," yeah and I was relegated to walking behind the "couple" and you know what, it dawned on me that there was not one thing wrong with the diner, it was the price of the food that had Maureen's cheap date. Yup, I noticed right off that the entire order he had been contemplating would have come to $20 easy. But Mickey D's was about $5, and if that doesn't entice a cheap man, I don't know what would. Yeah, he was married, he was too old for her, and he was cheap! But more than cheap, I found out he was, IS, a Low-Class Diner People. Once we were at Mickey D's counter, he took meaty handfuls of mustard and ketchup packets and even had the girl give him extra non-dairy containers for his second cup of coffee. All went into those big bulgy pockets of his trench coat. Then, as we passed the soda machine, there was an island with more napkins, packets of every condiment imaginable and lots of non-dairy creamers. He put the tray on the table and took his empty soda cup to be filled (yes, coffee and soda, caffeine freak for sure), and as he got the top on the soda, he helped himself to a large handful of straws! I wanted to laugh and mention it to Maureen, but she was busy with a salt packet on her fries, probably the last salt packet because Frank had taken a box of those AND pepper and emptied it into his large coat pockets as well.
Maureen had left us for the ladies' room, and Frank noticed jelly packets still on the table from the morning. He emptied—I kid you not—the entire metal mesh container full of them into his already bulging pockets. This had got me attention, and never one to hold me tongue, I asked him, "Frank, I can't help but notice you arr fillin' oop on all dese packets an' tings. Why is dat?"
"They taste better than you buy in the store, and I am a diner kind of guy; I like diner food, and when I'm home, it makes me feel like I am having diner fare."
I was gobsmacked I was. What does one say in response to that? YOU'RE CRAZY? I noticed we were short on napkins, so I told him I would get a few from the dispenser on the counter, but he told me he'd get them; he was sneaking another Coke at the Coke dispenser, haha. OK. He brought back one napkin for me and had a fistful he was stuffing in the breast pocket of his coat! AND the stolen Coke? I will be pretty sure you can get refills, but I thought it wasn't worth me telling him that; he'd probably find a way to empty the entire soda dispenser. It was amusing watching him covertly fill his cup again, looking around like he was stealing from Fort Knox. I tell ya, I don't know where Maureen finds them.
When she and I were alone, this time on the tubes back to the paper, I asked her what she saw in him.
"He's funny, he's nice to me . . ."
"AND? Because Maureen, he certainly is no sugar daddy; he's cheap." I quipped since she seemed to be reaching for good things to say and couldn't think of any more than she had. Where does he take you for dinner?"
"OH, we go to . . . to the umm Galley Diner and the Rox Diner, and the Lunch Box diner, and Mass Avenue Diner . . ." And then it dawned on her. "He takes me to diners." She said, looking a little flummoxed.
"And when he does, does he stuff his pockets full of jellies and jams, ketchup and mustard, sugar packets and non-dairy creamers?"
She stopped in her tracks and looked at me, her eyes wide in realisation. She nodded, looking sort of greenish, "And salt and pepper."
"An' ye never noticed dis until now? You know Maureen, I don't want to rain on your sunny day, but . . . and I say dis to ya wit da best intentions, BUT Frank be a packet hoarder an' diner man who I believe be a married man as well. Let me tell ya why, single men don't take da girl day hope to date to a diner unless it be late at night and dere be nuthin' open. Plus, I don't see wot YOU see in a hoarder of diner condiments and such."
She said nothing. We walked in silence to the door of our employment, and then once inside, she said to me as we waited for the lift, "You are right. Oh my God, dat would explain all da cracker packets! I've turned a blind eye because I wasn't tinkin'. Dere be a term for those who steal packets an' such from diners. It be low-end diner people. What it really is is thievery." And she sighed, her sorrow heavy.
"Well, he not only steals it, he told me he buys it too."
"Oh my God, those are called diner people elite, but when they do both, they have an addiction going." She said seriously. "Those are called 'skitsophrenic' diner people. Dey arr da worst kind! Dey dunt know but anything diner related an' it's all about dose packets!" Then she thought a minute and said under her breath, "One ting, we never did go to da L Street Diner, and we were by dere a enuff tymes. I wonder why."
REALLY? 'Skitsophrenic' diner people? Oh my God, what is she like?
I parted ways with her as soon as I returned to our floor, and then Ms. Jaio accused me of smelling like a stinky french fry. Maureen returned to her cubicle sometime later, but I saw her on the phone having a heated conversation. It wasn't the packet stealing that had her. It was the married part. And as it turned out, I was right. He is married, and here is the insult: he is married to a diner waitress from the L Street diner, which explains the avoidance of THAT diner! Yup, he is. Old habits never die. I told Maureen she'd be better off without him in the long run, and he was too old for her. Really, I mean, there is Patrick, well, there is. She thought I'd run back and tell Patrick she was seeing a corporate exec, and he'd get all upset. But Frank is no corporate exec. He's the run-of-the-mill guy who never gets promoted. That may be why he steals from diners, but no, according to Maureen, he be a 'skitsophrenic' diner people or person. I dunno what Maureen was thinking, really. One look at the guy, and, well, he's not Patrick!
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
