A few other patrons shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A middle-aged couple in the next booth pointedly turned their backs, trying to absorb themselves in their menus.
The waitress, a young woman named Brenda, hovered near the kitchen door, wringing her hands, clearly unsure of how to intervene.
Chad saw the manager, a young man named Mr. Henderson, who looked barely older than the students themselves, emerge from the back office.
“Hey, manager,” Chad called out, waving him over. “We’ve got a situation here.”
Mr. Henderson scurried over, his tie slightly askew, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was a man who hated confrontation, and his diner was now the stage for a particularly nasty one.
“What seems to be the problem, folks?” he asked, his eyes darting between the imperious students and the stone-faced old man.
“The problem,” Chad said, gesturing dramatically at Raymond, “is this guy. He’s been here for ages. He’s making my friends uncomfortable, and he refuses to give up our table.”
“He was staring at me,” Jessica added, lowering her phone for a moment to look doe-eyed and victimized. “It was creepy.”
The accusation was a lie, a casual and venomous fabrication designed to get a result.
And it worked.
Mr. Henderson’s professional, if flimsy, resolve crumbled. He turned to Raymond, his expression pleading.
“Sir,” he began, his voice soft and apologetic, “I’m so sorry, but these fine young people are regular customers. Would you mind terribly if I moved you to one of the counter seats?”
Raymond looked at the manager, then at the smug faces of the students.
He had not survived the Chosin Reservoir, had not carried his wounded sergeant two miles through waist-deep snow, to be shuffled around a diner by a boy who had not learned to properly knot a tie.