“Can I Sit With You?”
The bell above the door of May’s Diner gave a tired little jingle as Harold Bennett stepped inside.
It was just after noon.
Outside, the Arizona sun was bright enough to bleach the pavement, but inside the diner, the blinds were half closed and the air conditioner hummed steadily overhead. The smell of bacon, coffee, and grilled onions hung in the air.
Nobody noticed Harold at first.
He stood just inside the doorway, one hand gripping the handle of his cane and the other pressed against the wall for balance.
He was seventy-two years old.
His gray hair had grown too long. His flannel shirt was buttoned incorrectly, with one side hanging lower than the other. His khaki pants were loose around the waist, held up by an old leather belt that had already reached its final hole.
And then there was his leg.
His left leg had been injured years ago, and arthritis had made the problem worse. Every step was slow and painful. His limp wasn't dramatic. It didn't announce itself.
It simply made every movement look like work.
But his eyes were what people noticed if they looked long enough.
They moved constantly.
Door.
Window.
Counter.
Door again.
As if Harold expected someone to come through the entrance at any moment and drag him back outside.
He stayed there for nearly a minute.
Nobody asked if he needed help.
May's Diner wasn't cruel.
That almost made it worse.
Cruelty was easy to recognize.
Indifference was harder.
Harold finally took a breath and looked around.
The lunch crowd had thinned.
A pair of truckers occupied the first booth.
Two local businessmen were finishing coffee at another table.
A woman sat alone with a paperback.
There was a family in the corner, their youngest child dropping french fries onto the floor.
Harold looked at the first table.
Two men sat there.
They were perhaps fifty-five, both wearing baseball caps. Their plates were nearly empty.
Harold slowly approached.
He stopped several feet away.
"Excuse me."
One of the men looked up.
Harold swallowed.
"Would it be all right if I sat with you?"
The two men exchanged a glance.
The second man didn't even look at Harold.
The first smiled awkwardly.
"Sorry, pal. We're just finishing up."
Harold looked at their nearly full coffee cups.
He knew they weren't leaving.
But he nodded.
"Of course."
He walked away.
The woman with the paperback looked like a better possibility.
Harold approached her.
"Ma'am?"
She looked up.
"Could I maybe sit here?"
Her purse occupied the chair opposite her.
She moved it slightly.
"Oh, I'm actually waiting for someone."
Harold smiled.
"I understand."
He walked away.
Third table.
Fourth.
Fifth.
Every time, the answer was different.
Every time, the meaning was the same.
No.
Nobody shouted at him.
Nobody insulted him.
Nobody told him to leave.
They simply didn't want to become involved.
Harold was old.
He was alone.
He looked frightened.
And people were very good at avoiding frightened people.
By the sixth table, Harold was breathing harder.
His left knee buckled.
He caught himself against the edge of a chair.
A salt shaker rattled.
The man at the table looked at him.
"Sorry, buddy. We're full."
There were three people at the table.
There were four chairs.
Harold nodded.
"Yes. Of course."
He walked away.
Seven tables.
Seven refusals.
Harold stood in the center of the diner.
For a moment, he didn't know what to do.
He could leave.
He could walk back to the highway.
He could keep going until he found somewhere else.
But his leg hurt.
His stomach hurt.
And somewhere deep inside him was the knowledge that if he walked out that door without eating, he might not have the courage to come back.
Then he saw the last table.
It was tucked against the back wall.
One man sat there alone.
He was perhaps forty-five.
Broad shoulders.
Dark blond hair tied behind his head.
A rough jaw.
Strong hands.
He wore a plain black shirt underneath a worn leather vest.
The patch on the back was visible even from across the room.
HELL'S ANGELS.
ARIZONA.
Harold stopped.
He stared at the patch.
Every lesson he had learned during seventy-two years of life told him not to approach that man.
But every other table had said no.
Harold walked toward him.
Step.
Pause.
Step.
Pause.
The biker never looked up.
His name was Cole Mercer.
Cole had been riding with the club for twenty-three years.
He had seen enough violence to know that real danger rarely announced itself.
He had buried friends.
He had spent nights in hospital rooms beside dying men.
He had watched people lie.
He had watched people tell the truth.
And he had learned that fear had a language of its own.
He had been listening to Harold for several minutes.
Not the words.
The footsteps.
The hesitation.
The way the old man's cane touched the floor.
The pauses between each refusal.
Cole had heard everything.
Harold stopped beside the table.
His voice was almost a whisper.
"Can I sit with you?"
Cole slowly looked up.
For three seconds, he studied the old man.
Then he stood.
He reached across the table and pulled the empty chair back.
But he didn't simply pull it back.
He turned it slightly so Harold wouldn't have to twist his bad leg.
"Sit."
One word.
Harold lowered himself into the chair.
His shoulders dropped.
Only slightly.
But Cole noticed.
The waitress approached nervously.
"What can I get you, sir?"
Harold opened the menu.
His hands shook.
"Just toast."
Cole looked at the waitress.