New content every morning!

Skeleton Crew

SAVE US, the signs read. BREAKFAST BOGO FREE.

On Fridays the local diner bloats like a decaying whale—overstaffed with servers to accommodate an absent crowd. I go because I like booth seating, and also rescuing floundering businesses. One Friday I drive up in my rust-yellow buggy and it’s netherworldly cold, so I have to roll the window down to clean the sideview mirror. Dave, my usual server, pops up out of nowhere, closer than he appears. ‘Hey.’ Dave leans his arms right onto the sill and sticks his head in, like he’s inhaling his first breath of fresh air.

‘Dave,’ I say, ‘one of these days I’m gonna roll right over your foot.’ He laughs, I laugh, then he gives my door a smack and steps away. Arm over the passenger seat, I reverse into my usual spot, crane my neck, focus, try not to crush Dave—

He’s eating a handful of grass. Straight from the ground, roots and all.

I climb out, stare at him.

He’s not doing much, just got his hands in his pockets, whistling.

We walk toward glass doors shiny enough to kill a bird. ‘Diner gonna shut down, you think?’

He gives me a shrug, an eh. He’s not a talker, Dave. He saunters off ahead of me, to my corner seat, at the ready with a menu. ‘The usual,’ I tell him. He winks at me. Dave’s the kinda guy who can pull that off. It’s something about his mystique and, I confess, his can-do service nature.

When Dave comes back, it’s with a bowl of grey gruel, a couple wiry beard hairs under the pat of butter.

‘Any suggestions for us?’ Dave asks, holding up a questionnaire.

‘Food was a little raw,’ I say.

I don’t visit the diner most days, but I drive by once in a while, if only to see what’s what. Wednesday the diner shuts down, which I assume has to do with cutting costs. An automatic lawnmower rolls around beneath the back patio. Sometimes I hear gargling, like something’s gotten caught in the blades.

The next Friday I pull up to the restaurant and Dave’s standing akimbo in my parking spot. He’s got a billion-watt smile, snaggly teeth like a big city skyline. I roll down my window and this time, given sub-zero temperatures, I’m a little annoyed. ‘Dave,’ I say, ‘we talked about this.’ Behind his legs there’s something metal and white. He sidesteps. There, a sign:

Reserved

Customer

It’s me, I’m Customer, the only one, and I can’t help but be flattered. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ He waves me off, it was nothing, just managerial direction, you know? ‘Dave,’ I say. ‘You should be the Manager.’ Dave turns bright red, starts babbling things like, he’s got a lot to learn, he owes the real Manager big time.

But he spends the rest of the visit tossing small freebies my way—a personal touch, he calls it. Instead of one bowl of gruel, I get two; instead of black coffee, a latte.

I wait until Dave heads into the kitchen before grabbing a handful of questionnaires.

RESTAURANT SURVEY QUESTIONNAIRE

Thank you for taking the time to provide your recommendations. Your answers help us understand what kind of customers we attract. Please write your thoughts below:

Dave works hard.
Dave could work anywhere else, if he wanted.
There’s no one like Dave.
Dave is the unique selling point of your diner.
Dave deserves to be the Manager.

Dave greets me outside again. He’s looking snazzier than usual, hair cut close to his scalp, sharp creases in his beige slacks. ‘Looking good, Dave,’ I say. He’s holding a bowl between two hands, like manna, an offering.

‘Classy, right?’ he says. There’s a bit of dirt at the corner of his mouth. Whenever he speaks, more of it falls onto his collar. ‘The Manager says he wants to talk. Bet I’m getting a promotion.’

‘That’s awesome.’

This time when I go inside, Dave doesn’t follow. It’s mostly quiet. Empty. Another bowl of grey gruel waits for me on the table. I notice things I didn’t before: the black-and-white tiles; an old cash register, in disrepair; the pictures of all the Managers from decades past to now.

Outside the window, a downpour starts. Can’t see much. Mostly dark figures amid dark figures; the bones of the parking structure, picked clean of cars.

I get to eating.

I almost forget Dave’s outside, sopping wet, nice clothes sagging off his body.

I spring from my seat, no umbrella, fling the door open—and there, Dave slumped to the ground, fist to his chest, vomiting up pieces of questionnaires.

When I slap him on his back, the words ‘thank you’ splat onto the asphalt.

‘I don’t get out much these days. It’s a lot of work, managing the diner. Entire place needs renovations. You see the patio? Holes everywhere. And you can’t imagine the gap between the total income and the net income. The expenses, the costs, the liabilities. The operating expenses, the non-operating expenses. It’s crazy. Absurd.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ I ask. ‘And where’s Dave?’

‘Oh, Dave’s moved on. But we’re always looking for backfills! Interested?’

ABOUT THE ARTIST

C.K. Liu is a Berlin-based writer with work published in Wasafiri, ergot., and Crow & Cross Keys, among others. Find her on Bluesky @ckliu.com, Instagram @ckliu_, or her website https://ckliu.com/.