Sometimes you just have nothing to say.

Usually, Big John Hudson would burst through the anodized aluminum door of the diner, slap his ball cap down on the big round table with an exaggerated flourish, and spew forth a series of words that make little (or no) sense — all intended to nudge awake the groggy members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club and get the morning conversation rolling.

This morning, John had nothing to say.

He removed his cap, scratched his disheveled mop of hair, and quietly sat down while turning his coffee cup upright and nodding a silent request toward Sarah and her ever-present coffee pot.

Sarah filled Big John’s cup and moved around the big oak table, refilling the cups of Arnold, Jimmy, Tommy, Mort, and Sal. She didn’t refill Harry’s cup because he was attempting to replace his morning caffeine jolt with the boot to the head that comes from chugging unsweetened grapefruit juice. It was not a very good substitute.

Caffeine withdrawal was giving Harry a headache, and everyone else was enjoying watching his face wrinkle with every tart mouthful. It was probably a good thing that John had nothing to say because Harry couldn’t get his lips unpuckered enough to communicate

a response.

Mort didn’t respond to Big John’s uncharacteristic quiet because he was busy calculating his meal — how many calories, how much protein, how much good (and bad) from how many food groups. Mort has been serious about his health for about a year and it shows. He has lost a considerable amount of weight and has kept it off — and enjoys scoffing at commercials with Dan Marino bragging about losing “a measly” 22 pounds. He also scoffs at Harry’s repeated attempts with fad diets — blending drinks made from kelp, kale, and canola oil and then cleansing away the nasty taste with a big New York strip steak (medium rare with a loaded baked potato and a Caesar salad — followed by carrot cake with cream cheese frosting for desert).

Tommy Jones, the senior member of the Congregation, had just finished his bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and pushed back his chair. A freshly filled cup of coffee occupied his left hand while his right hand dabbed a napkin at the corners of his mouth. Full and contented, Tommy stretched out his legs, swung his right arm over the back of his chair, and took a sip of his coffee. Tommy’s role, within the Circular Congregation, was to bring reason and logic to the usual chaos of conversation. Since there was no conversation going on (chaotic, or otherwise), Tommy had nothing to offer.

It was mid-summer — meaning Jimmy was half-way between “springing forward” or “falling backward”, due to the coming and going of Daylight Saving Time — leaving him little to grouse about. Sure, he could have tossed out a complaint or two about people driving too slow in the left-hand lane, or why offering cheese as a snack should be a criminal offense (he’s lactose intolerable), but disdain for DST is his go-to grievance.

The proper location of the dividing line between the Eastern and Central time zones is his second favorite gripe. He might have been able to work up a half-hearted rant about out-of-state drivers on I-94 and the need to close the Pure Michigan border to fumbling Illinois people— but, Jimmy just wasn’t feeling it.

Quite a while back, Arnold Tobin had considered running a Presidential write-in campaign, based on his message of not doing anything. Arnold believes (as do most of us) that every time politicians change something, they screw that up — along with a half-dozen other things. Arnold reasoned that doing nothing was actually an improvement over making things worse.

However, since the presumptive nominees have turned into a travelling Vaudeville act, he has had very little to say on the subject. It was possible that Arnold was quietly formulating plans for a third-party run — or was just in a state of shock.

And so went breakfast. The diner echoed with the sounds of chewing, slurping, mumbled grunts, and an occasional snort and sniffle from adding a little too much pepper to the sausage gravy.

Sometimes you just have nothing to say.

 

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.