'An 85-Year
The fork trembled in his hand. It was an old hand, a map of faded blue veins and liver spots. The skin thin as parchment. The tremor wasn't from age alone. It was the deep gnawing quake of hunger.
Arthur sat in the corner booth of the diner. The red vinyl cracked beneath him and he stared at the glass of water in front of him. It was his third. For 2 hours it had been his only companion. The condensation tracing clean paths down the smudged glass.
He was 85 years old. A ghost haunting the edges of the world. Visible only to those who took the time to truly look. Maya, the waitress on the morning shift, looked. She saw him every Tuesday and Thursday.
He'd arrive at 10:00 sharp and leave at noon. He always took the same booth. The one with the view of the dusty parking lot. He never ordered food. Just water.
Sometimes if he was feeling bold, he'd ask for a lemon wedge. His clothes were clean but threadbare. His posture a permanent question mark. His shoulders stooped by the weight of decades.
Maya knew the look. It was pride wrestling with desperation. And desperation was winning. She'd seen the faded tattoo on his forearm once when his sleeve slid up. A bulldog in a helmet. USMC.
Today the gnawing in his gut was a physical presence. A hot coil tightening below his ribs. He hadn't eaten a real meal in 3 days. The can of soup his son had left on the counter before leaving for the weekend had been thin and watery. More salt than substance.
It was gone now. The pension check had been cashed. The fridge was bare. And the silence in his small cold house was louder than any shouting.
A low rumble started outside. A sound that vibrated through the soles of Maya's worn sneakers. It grew from a distant growl to a ground-shaking thunder that rattled the diner's front window. Arthur's head lifted slowly. His pale blue eyes blinking against the sudden glare.
One by one they pulled in. Harleys. Big, loud, chrome-drenched machines that looked like they chew up the asphalt and spit it out. They parked in a neat, intimidating line, taking up a quarter of the lot. The men who dismounted were just as intimidating. They were walls of leather and denim.
Their vests adorned with patches that Maya didn't need to read to understand. Hells Angels. The bell on the diner door chimed, a ridiculously cheerful sound against the heavy thud of their boots. Five of them. They moved with a practiced economy, their presence sucking the air out of the small room.