It Was My Last Shift at the Diner

It was my last shift at the diner. What am I doing? Where am I now? I have no choice but to sit here and ponder if I traded my time for money for absolutely no purpose, rhyme, or reason. For drugs? For pleasure? Just to live in a constant state of need. Walking out the front door and hearing that bell attached chime one last time rung a thought into my head: I’ve interacted with all of these people throughout their daily lives. Through sorrow, pain, hurt, and happiness, I kept a smile through it all. Not worried about my emotion or feelings, but theirs. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to live a normal life like them. To have an equal start at the starting line right along with them. I want what they have. I’m experiencing this so deeply; I just tell myself this gives me strength and an insight they will never have. I will have that edge. Just wait, I tell myself. 

As I’m walking out, I come across a long-time customer that I’ve grown close with. John. Oh, John. Little did he know, he’s gotten me through the days I didn’t think I’d be there. He didn’t realize this was my last day. He never holds me up, but he invited me in for a sit down and coffee. After sitting down at the bar top, he asked me why I was still here. “Not for long,” I said. He expressed a face of concern then put his head down. This was the type of person that had an intuition like no other. He knew I was hurting. But more importantly, he knew I was leaving. For good. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, pretending not to notice watching him process his despair and unpacking of his emotions of the situation. Contempt filled his face. John appeared very sad. Almost as if we were communicating telepathically, I knew everything he was thinking and feeling. With courage, I just went ahead and asked him, “Why do you feel the same way as I? You are so strong, experienced, and have your life completely figured out and to appear have achieved complete peace.”

He sat for a moment. “I’m hurting, just like you.” He said.

All along he was relying on me for the same reason I were to him. I’d become his only person to talk to. His companion, his best friend, if you will. Both of us, two men relying on each other. A case of pure agony and despair lied amongst us and filled the air. It was worn on the two of us like a trench coat.

We spoke for hours, sharing stories, some from the diner, others from the depths of our pasts. John spoke of his wife, who had passed years ago, leaving him alone in a world that felt too big without her. I shared my struggles, the darkness of my days behind the counter, the nights I spent questioning my existence. It was a cathartic release, an unburdening of soul to soul. 

It was late when I finally left the diner. The night was crisp, the kind of cold that makes you feel alive. I walked, not knowing where I was going, just needing to move, to feel the earth under my feet. I remember the first time I saw that mural. So many good, rejoicing feelings bursting off of it. It was a sunny day in spring, and I was just strolling through the park. There it was, hidden by branches, this explosion of color. I thought, "I've got to come back here."

 

 

 

Years flew by, and here I was again, this time with my kid, just learning to walk. We sat by the mural, watching ducks, her laughter the sound that filled me with such emotion of appreciation and savoring of the moment. "Remember this," I told myself. I’m sentimental, but this is different. Is this what the joy we're all searching for is? I had to table that thought as we ran off as she was excited to go to the ice cream stand. Then, when Lily was ten, we came back. Her mom was no longer here. She had her sketchbook, completely absorbed in drawing the mural. "Isn't it beautiful, Mom would like this right?" she asked, and I couldn't help but agree with a smile as instant tears filled my eyes. We shared this moment, as I was still filled with joy, as we’d come so far together.

Now, today, fall's arrived, and Lily brought her little girl, Mia, to the park. We’re here once again. The mural's still there, a bit faded, but the joy in Mia's eyes as she pointed at it was just as detailed and beautiful as ever. "What's this?" she asked. I smiled, thinking of all those times. "This is where we had some of our best days," I said. We sat in the same spot, watching her play. This moment, it all felt like home. It all was worth it. Sitting there, I thought about John, about the countless faces I'd served at the diner, each with their story, their pain, their fleeting moments of joy. Life, I realized, isn't about the money or the drugs, nor the pleasure or the need. It's about these moments, these connections, these echoes of human experience that resonate long after we've moved on.

 

 

 

I watched Mia chase after a leaf, her laughter mingling with the rustling of the trees. I thought of the mural, of how it had witnessed so much of our lives, how it held within its colors the stories of our joy, our grief, our growth. Maybe, I pondered, life is like this mural - a beautiful, ever-evolving tapestry where every brushstroke tells a story. Perhaps my time at the diner wasn't wasted. Maybe, just maybe, it was one of the many brushstrokes in the mural of my life, adding depth, color, and meaning to the picture I was now a part of.

 

As we left the park, I felt lighter, not just from leaving the past behind, but from understanding that even the darkest moments can contribute to the beauty of the whole. I looked at Lily, then at Mia, and felt a surge of love, a connection that transcended the mundane, a thread in the fabric of our shared humanity. 

 

I knew then, that whatever comes next, I would carry this mural in my heart, a reminder of where I've been, who I've become, and the endless possibilities of what lies ahead.