It was a rainy day in western New
Jersey. I stopped for lunch in Phillipsburg, an area of the state where it
seems obligatory to have at least three diners per town. I parked and scuttled
between raindrops into the Key City Diner, opened in 1955, noticing a large hearse
parked a few spots away. I was seated in a booth in an extension to the original
train car design. As I perused the menu, a table of three men, dressed in
suits, were conversing with a man and his wife. From the tone and topics of the
conversation, it was easy to deduce that there were all long-term locals to the
area. The two engaged in the most conversation was the oldest of the three men
and the husband at the next table. They sat with their backs to one another,
glancing over their right shoulder as they spoke, telling stories as they
finished their lunch.
One of the conversations that drew a
lot of comment was the location, in Phillipsburg, of the best place to get hot dogs.
The husband said he liked Jimmy’s. To which the youngest of the three men said,
“I went once to pick up dogs for him (pointing at the older man) …. I’ll never
go again. I needed a shower after I left it was so dirty.”
I soon realized that the hearse belonged
to the three men in suits, who had just finished a funeral. They had reminiscences
to entertain the locals in the diner. Someone brought up a different mortician
whose name I did not catch, who was still living, somewhere near ninety-years old.
The younger man said that he had worked for him early in his career and
everyday he “put his lunch in the freezer with the bodies.”
After the couple left, two older women
came in for a late lunch. One of the women, who did not look well, took the vacant
seat at the table with the three morticians. She confessed that there was a cemetery
in town that, when she visited, she always said, “Merry Christmas. I miss you
all so much.” The younger man said for her not to worry, he did the same thing
all the time.
