Sarah’s Diner was uncharacteristically quiet.

Harry, Mort, Jimmy and Tommy were already seated at the big, round, simulated oak table that occupied the center of the room and acted as the assembly point for the morning meeting of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club. Thanks to Sarah’s diligence, each of them had a never-empty cup of morning coffee in front of them, to be used as the primary tool for putting the grogginess of sleep behind them.

Breakfast orders had been placed, bacon was sizzling on the flat top griddle and eight drooping eyes silently searched the morning elixir of life for the ambition to do more with their day. But, that wouldn’t come for another three or four refills.

“I need some extra money. Who can I sue?” As per his usual practice, Big John Hudson burst through the front door of the diner, tossed his ball cap on the table and shattered the morning tranquility with a seemingly disjointed comment.

“Is the adult diaper business running a little slow these days?” asked Harrison Winkle, feigning concern that John’s job delivering medical supplies to the infirmed and homebound might be in peril.

“Nope,” replied John, happy to explain that aging Baby Boomers, like Harry, were the reason his business was booming (pun intended).

“Just remember,” John said with a smirk aimed towards Harry, “One of these days, I’ll be dropping off that big box of diapers on your front porch.”

Shooting for a little more emphasis, he added, “And I’ll make sure the label faces the street so everyone will know what’s in the box.”

“I’m confused,” admitted Tommy Jones, trying his best to steer the breakfast conversation away from diapers. “Why are you trying to sue someone?”

“I need a little extra cash and I’m having a problem finding a way to get it. I can’t get a paper route because the mailman has that job now.”

“Postal carrier,” corrected Jimmy, as he tried to explain the politically correct way to refer to a paperboy.

“I gave up on the idea of having a car wash, because I don’t look good enough in a bikini.”

“You don’t look good AT ALL in a bikini,” Jimmy, again, corrected.

Everyone immediately dropped eye contact and returned their focus deep into their coffee cups. Each one silently wondered how Jimmy knew so much about how Big John Hudson looked in a bikini.

“I can’t rob a bank, because…,” at this point, John paused as he pondered the reasoning behind not robbing a bank.

“Because that is a very stupid idea?” suggested Mort, troubled that John had discussed (and considered) bank robbery and bikini modelling during the same breakfast conversation — and fearful that Jimmy might start offering his own ideas on how to combine the two. “Why do you need extra money?”

“I found a website where I can get a mail order bride from the Ukraine. All I need is $10,000.”

Again, the voices around the simulated oak table fell silent. Again, each pair of eyes retreated to the depths of freshly filled cups of coffee. Again, it would be up to Big John Hudson to break the silence.

“What?” he finally asked, like an errant 6-year-old that already knows the answer as to why he is in trouble for spray painting the cat.

“If I were you, I’d sue Al Gore for inventing the internet in the first place,” advised Harry.

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.