Pick-up trucks fill the parking lot of the diner every morning. Inside, tables are populated with labor-hardened men, dressed in jeans or coveralls, filling up on biscuits and gravy washed down with never-ending cups of coffee.

Nearly every morning Harry Winkle and Arnold Tobin sit at the big round table in the middle of the diner, along with four of their compatriots. The conversation is lively, spirited and usually focused on the same subject: What is wrong with the world and who should be blamed?

Tommy Jones is the elder statesman of the group. He is 82 years old and still goes by “Tommy.”

“Big John” Hudson is only five foot four inches tall, and has gone by the moniker of “Big John” since junior high. He works at the wire plant with Sal Saratore. Their shift starts at 7 o’clock, which usually gives them just enough time to inhale a full order of biscuits and gravy, suck down a couple cups of coffee and offer up a couple comments about what they would do should they ever be handed the reins to the world.

Mort Ellingson rounds out the table. He usually arrives first every morning and mistakenly thinks he is well read.

“Price of gas!” Big John burst into the diner and slapped his ball cap down on the table with a flurry of disgust much like a conductor momentarily raising the baton before emphatically throwing it into the first frenetic downbeat that brings the instrumental voices to feverish life. “Filled my truck up this morning. I could have made a mortgage payment with what it cost.”

Up to this point, the conversation had been groggy and muddled. Not enough coffee had been consumed. John’s opening comment stirred the pot and triggered the caffeine.

“Politicians. Can’t trust ‘em.” Sal was quick to offer up first blame. Of course, Sal never votes because he has yet to meet a politician he would vote for.

“Oil companies. Been greedy since the days of Rockefeller.” Tommy was close behind with his blame of choice.

“I read they can make cars run on water, but Jimmy Buffet won’t let ‘em do it.” Mort believes everything he reads on the internet — and gets Jimmy and Warren confused.

“Mandatory retirement.” Sal and Tommy had already used the easiest targets, politicians and big business.

Harry went to the bullpen and brought out his clutch grievance.

“All those retirees in Florida, nothing to do but drive their big old cars, they’re the ones guzzling up all the gas. Put ‘em back to work. Get ‘em off the streets.”

“Neighbor’s cat is in heat. Makes a god-awful screeching sound all night long. Can’t decide if I should shoot the cat or the neighbor.”

The group had used up all the good targets of blame. Arnold instinctively found a new topic of complaint.

“Leash laws. Tie up the dogs and the cats are free to sit on fences, howling for company.” Big John jumped right in.

“Veterinarians.” Sal was close behind.

It is important that the blame gets spread evenly equally, and without the confusing limitations of reasoning or logic.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.