"Hey, you got a problem here," he announces from the door of the men's room, but no one seems to notice, except the Woman With The Tomato Sandwich.
"You guys are going to need a plumber. Faucet won't turn off." He peers around the corner at the waitresses, but can't see that they are giving each other looks. "Real problem, here..." he mutters, and shuffles for a moment, before retreating into the room, the door closing behind him.
The Woman With The Tomato Sandwich recognises the type. You see them sometimes walking along the street, something about their movement tells you, even before you see them laughing at private jokes and chatting to themselves.
She bites into her sandwich, hungry but hungover. She tried a hamburger in the diner next door, but it wasn't what she was hoping for. The meat was smooth and pink inside, and the bun sweet and soft. Where was the sauce, the beetroot and salad? The thing lying limply on her plate was a mistake. One bite had made that churningly clear. She reminded herself that hamburgers were invented here, that they must know what they are doing, but it didn't help.
She asked for her check, and when it arrived, laid out some coins next to it. It was hard not to look at the plate, but it was essential not to, and so she waited for someone to collect her money so she could go. But no one came, and it took a long time sitting next to the burger before she realised that she had to pay at the door. A waiter passed occasionally and she could tell that he was wondering why she wasn't eating but he probably didn't care, just so long as he got his tip. It was the burger, with its red-raw mouth, that seemed disappointed in her.
But even Americans can't destroy a tomato sandwich. The bread may be white and glutinous, the butter margarine, and the tomato tasteless, but it is sharp and filling and her gullet tentatively allows it passage. She drinks her water and ignores her coffee and starts to believe she might survive.
"Water's gonna go all over, you know." He is back. He shakes his head with disbelief at the waitresses, then shrugs and turns back to the tap. As the door begins to close, she can see him struggle with the tap, but it won't budge.
From the table behind her she can hear a conversation. A man and a woman, apparently academics, perhaps post-grads from Columbia, discussing literature. Or rather he is discussing; she is agreeing. Her voice is soft, pliant. His is louder and has a confident tone. Gertrude Stein is his territory.
But the Big Man sitting at the table in front of the Woman With The Crusts From Her Tomato Sandwich also thinks this diner is his territory. He is eating a huge New York cut that is larger than his plate. He is wearing a sweat-shirt that says "Yankees". His eyes shift frequently and suspiciously from the slab of meat, to around the diner, expecting challenge. He is angry, but it's not clear at what. Perhaps the Yankees just lost.
Beyond him sits the Greek Man. He has a crucifix hanging from his neck and it flamboyantly adorns the hairs of his chest. He makes the sign of the cross in quick repetition as his food is delivered, interspersing the gesture by kissing his hand. He smiles at the Woman Who Is Looking At Him and begins to eat.
Then the Woman With The Cold Cup Of Coffee sighs. The Waitress collects the crusts of bread and looks like she's wondering what's wrong with the coffee. The Woman asks for another iced water and her eyes return to the New York cut. Its owner gouges it with his blunt knife, ripping into the flesh. She can see it being masticated, and watches it turn into a brown fibrous mass between his teeth. He stares at her, appraisingly. She doesn't want to be appraised by him, so she looks at the table.
"You got a problem, buddy?" She looks up, but the Man With The Angry Eyes isn't looking at her, he's looking beyond her to the Man From The University. "You got something you wanna say?"
The Greek Man frowns, raises his head. His nostrils should be quivering; a stag under threat.
The Sports Fan has his gaze fixed across the room. He holds the stare for a moment longer, then starts back on his steak, cutting brutally. The steak is enormous and solid and the Woman Who Couldn't Eat Her Hamburger is transfixed by it. Without warning, the Meat Eater looks up again.
"`Cause if you got a problem, we can just go outside." He speaks reasonably. He scans the room, perhaps expecting a reaction, perhaps support.
"Whaddya think you're looking at?" he demands of the Man Who Reads Gertrude Stein. Behind him, the Greek raises himself slightly, poised for intervention.
"Well?"
"Je ne parle pas d'anglais."
"Whaddya say?"
"Je suis francais." But the Woman Being Served Ice Water knows he isn't. She heard him, he's American. The Waitress walks off, unconcerned.
"You telling me you don't talk American? What the fuck?" The Carnivore half-stands clumsily, dislodging the table. His steak slides across the formica.
"Look buddy, you're in the United States of America, right? I mean, you gotta show some respect."
"Excusez moi, je ne comprends pas."
"What the fuck...?" he says, more quietly, sitting again. "That guy's gotta learn some manners. You didn't see what he was doing, right?" he asks of no one in particular.
The Woman Who Is Visiting The U.S.A. watches. Behind her she can hear chairs moving. The People From The University are standing, putting on their coats. The Man With The Steak is eating it again, but his eyes are on the Frenchman. The Greek gets up, and with a reassuring glance at the Woman, walks past the steak, past the ice water and speaks to the Man Adjusting His Scarf.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine, no problem," in English now. In American.
The Greek nods as they leave, and goes back towards his table, slowing as he passes the Man Who Has Abandoned His Steak.
"Hey."
The Greek pauses.
"Look, I'm sorry if I was outta line there. But, you know, this is America and people gotta show some respect."
The Greek looks at him and then starts to move off again, but the Other Man grabs at him.
"No, I mean, he was a visitor to this country, and he was outta line. You didn't see what he was doing. He was outta line."
The Man With The Crucifix takes his seat and smiles, proud to have defused the situation. The Woman Who Had The Tomato Sandwich, The Ice Water And Not The Coffee gestures to her Waitress for the check. She tries not to look at the Man Who Is Now Eating His Steak Again. She doesn't look, because she is a visitor to this country and has to show some respect.
The bathroom door opens. "Jesus, I don't know if you people care, but I care and we've got a real problem in here. Look." He props open the door with his foot, revealing the water surging out of the tap into the sink. "Stuck! See?" He twists at the tap again, then twists the other way. The water stops abruptly.
"Oh," he says. "I was turning it the wrong way. It's okay now, everybody. It's okay."
The Waitress brings the bill for the tomato sandwich and the coffee, and the Woman Who Is A Visitor takes it to the counter at the exit to pay. She doesn't wait at her table this time. She is learning the local customs.