At 10:36 pm on a Thursday night somewhere in Upstate New York, Jesus Christ himself walked through the door of an all night diner. The diner, which for the past few years had gone by the name of Jeff’s (named after the owner himself), had been owned by quite a few other parties, all of which had named the place with the same lack of ambition and creative thinking as Mr. Jeff had done. Mr. Christ walking through the door at such an hour, noticed nothing but that dirtiesh neon sign bearing Jeff’s name atop the palace o’ dining, as well as a basic congregation of teenagers who were eating breakfast and smoking enough to color the whole inside of the eatery a cool mesh of pea soup meets gray alley cat.
After sitting down in a booth, he looked around for a member of the waitstaff that he hoped resided at Jeff’s. As the night staff was cut by a few people, it took a moment for the waitress, by the name of Pam, to make her way over to Mr. Christ. But she did eventually get to him and when she did he ordered a short stack of pancakes, two scrambled eggs and had a small glass of cranberry juice, as well as a cup of java. Mr. Christ sat there for a moment, before deciding that it was too hot in the joint, getting out of his prospective booth to take off his coat, then slouching back down in the seat with it in his hand. He scrunched it next to him and bored with the general ambience, turned towards the flipping-style jukebox that was at his table. He then made a quick look around the place seeing that all the tables had jukeboxes just like his.
The four teenagers sitting in the booth next to him were loud and boisterous. He on the other hand wanted only to sit and eat. Naively, he wanted also to do so in a quiet or semi-quiet atmosphere, and he thought that a diner in the middle of nowhere would have filled those requirements. So he turned toward them, with one arm over the side of the booth they were sitting in, almost knocking one in the head in the process. They all quieted their laughter, focusing their attention on him quickly, waiting on his next word.
“You guys are being a little loud there, don’t ya think?” He told them, as he cleared his throat and eyed each one of them individually, as if to read their minds through their faces. All four of them were taking glances at him and then each other, back and forth, until one spoke back to him.
“We come here every Thursday mister, and this is the first time we have ever seen you---who the fuck are you to tell us what to do?” And as he finished, his friend beside him jumped in, feeling more comfortable now talking because his more courageous friend had already broken the ice. Mr. Christ peered at him, before the kid spoke, but it didn’t phase him. “Yeah, you fuckin’ hippy, why don’t you go across the street to the supermarket and buy yourself some soap! Leave us be, why don’t ya?” And with that all four of them started laughing again, and simultaneously, Christ got up in his seat and looked around at the rest of the diner. He didn’t want to make a scene, and draw attention to himself, because then he would have to find another place to go and it was already 10:30pm. The Econolodge that he was staying at was right down the road. It was such a convenient distance that he didn’t feel like going anywhere else, and besides, he’d heard that Jeff’s pancakes were the best---especially the blueberry ones. Jeff, used real blueberries, after all.
“Do you talk to your parents with that mouth?” Christ asked one of the two boys that had cursed at him. They simply ignored him. They had all gone back to their own little world, laughing and stuffing their faces---with visions of girls and rock bands in their heads. The waitress approached Christ’s table and he pushed back a few locks of his stereotypically white-anglo-uber-european-blue-eyed-so-far-from-africa-it’s-sick locks of straight blond hair. She held her order pad in her hand and made eye-contact with him. “What can I get for you?” She spoke habitually and without optimism. “I heard the blueberry pancakes are out of this world, is that true?” Christ spoke. “Um, sure…yeah, outta this world. Is that what you want?” she replied. Christ nodded, his silver lining torn and crushed from the clouds now looming over his head. He sighed in deeply. “No way we can get these little fuckers to shut the hell up?” She remarked without batting an eye, “They come here every Thursday. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you. You still want those pancakes you’re just gonna have to deal with em’.” And she waited a moment to see if he was going to change his order or leave, and when he did nothing, she turned around walking straight to the back of the kitchen.
Christ slumped down in his seat, not able to hear himself think over the roar of the teens’ laughter. Regardless of the convenient distance and the possibility of a great blueberry pancake experience, he wished he had gone someplace else.