Nearly every member of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club had arrived at Sarah’s Diner, placed their order, and consumed most of their first cup of morning coffee. However, one seat remained empty.

Usually, it was Big John Hudson that strolled in late, tossed his ball cap down on the table, and churned up the level of morning debate over the meaning of life, the universe, and everything — in a way that could never resemble a Douglas Adams novel. This morning, it was the elder statesman of the group, Tommy Jones, who was tardy.

Tommy Jones was never late for breakfast — in fact, he was always the first to arrive. At a youthful 82 years of age, he still awoke every morning at 5:30, showered, shaved, and grabbed a quick squirt of Old Spice cologne before dressing for the walk to Sarah’s Diner. Over the years, his morning routine had synced with the moment the blue and red sign in the diner window shifted from “Closed” to “Open.” This particular morning, Tommy was not the first to arrive — or even the second. Everyone else had taken their place around the table, except for Tommy Jones.

The breakfast conversation rumbled along without Tommy’s usual tone of moderation and logical reasoning. Jimmy said something about something that had irritated him in the last 24 hours.

Harry said something to the contrary — just because it was fun to disagree with Jimmy. Arnold Tobin said something that didn’t take either side because it was election season and he was considering running for office — again. Big John complained that he could never get a second date — even on internet sites featuring women from someplace in Russia. Mort ordered two small stacks of pancakes — the first one because he was on a diet and the second one because the first one wouldn’t fill him up. But, Tommy wasn’t there to control the chaos.

None of the gentlemen around the table (yes, the term is being used loosely) voiced concern over Tommy’s absence. Every one of them knew something was out of place — they weren’t accustomed to just blurting out ridiculousness without hearing Tommy’s wise and paternal voice pointing out the error of their logic. But, if Tommy was late, everyone figured he probably had a good reason for it (rule #7 of the Guy Code — look it up).

However, Sarah kept checking across the street at the light in the window of Tommy’s little apartment above the hardware store. The third time she looked, she was relieved to see Tommy finally making his way to the diner — but aghast at how he was doing it. Tommy Jones was a man of habit and routine. For a decade, ever since his beloved Helen passed away, he has filled his life with exactness and predictability.

Every morning, the moment Sarah turned on the “open” sign, Tommy exited his door in the middle of the block, turned to his left and walked to the corner at Second Street, crossed at the crosswalk, then walked back the half block to the diner. Sometimes, just to keep things interesting, Tommy would turn to his right and cross over at Third Street. This morning he was jay-walking.

Not only was he jay-walking — he had a skip in his step.

Tommy sauntered through the door of the diner, let slip a slight grin, and said, “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” in a tone that indicated neither being sorry nor a strong regard towards the others as being gentlemen. “I was on a date.”

Sarah dropped her coffee pot.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.