Put Five Rings on It

The very first time he walked in, back in 2011, I had just framed the door in silver tinsel and hung a huge holly wreath with a giant crimson bow that took up most of the diner’s front window. His cheeks matched that bow, and his runny nose was nearly as red. As he sat at the counter, breathing hard in and out, I also noticed ice crystals in his auburn goatee. Canada had sent New York an early Christmas gift, an arctic blast, the day after Thanksgiving. The actual temperature was five degrees, the wind chill below zero. He pulled off his gloves and blew into his hands, shivering. A guy had to be really devoted to his exercise routine to be out running in weather like that.

I poured Running Man a hot cup of coffee as he unzipped his jacket. Coffee was free at Don’s Diner. Don was my great-grandfather and my dad, also my grandfather and brother, but they didn’t have anything to do with the eatery. Dad and I ran the place by ourselves, which meant neither of us had a life outside of cooking and serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner to hungry people who liked simple food cooked to perfection. My great-grandfather first opened the place on May fifth, 1955. He’d retired after forty years, but still showed up once in a while to play in the kitchen for old time’s sake. Mostly, at age ninety-four, he stayed in Florida, “soaking up the sun and chasing old ladies.” Great Gramps liked chasing women. So did Grampa, in his seventies, Dad, at almost sixty, and my older brother, closer to forty than thirty. That’s probably why all four were divorced, one once, two three times, one four. Grampa held the record. He was an attorney.

“What can I get you?” I asked, as Running Man unwound a New York Jets scarf, and then pulled off a neon orange cap. The hair underneath was in the same color family as the hat, just a duller shade one couldn’t see from space. Waves and swoops were plastered to his head with perspiration, despite the chill. He must have been running a long time.

“Am I too early for lunch?” His green eyes held hope.

He was young and cute. I was young-ish and…whatever. I glanced at the clock over the window between the counter and the kitchen with something close to annoyance. It was 10:57 A.M. I hedged a bit. “Naw. We can do that.”

“How about a cheeseburger with the works aaaannnndddd…”

He was even cuter when thinking. Two long, slender fingers each circled with a thin silver band tapped his chin.

“A side of mac and cheese?”

“Instead of fries?” I wasn’t big on substitutions.

“No. Fries, too. Two entrees. Is that…okay?”

I had to wonder if I was coming off like The Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. “Sure. One to go?”

“Nope.” He unzipped the next layer, a blue fuzzy, fleecy vest. “I’ll eat them both here.”

The body revealed when he took off the vest and was left with nothing covering him but a long sleeved gray waffle weave thermal T-shirt belied his order. It clung to a beautifully developed chest and pumped biceps, showing both off, and went in at the waist. His nipples indicated he was still chilled and I could even tell where his belly button was on his flat gut. Slight pit stains under both arms were sexy as fuck when accompanied by the woodsy smell of outdoors and the pleasant aroma of his deodorant.

Shoot. Had he said something while I was staring at him, I wondered. Did he add something else? Dessert? Extra bacon? A drink order? Son of a bitch. I had no idea. “More coffee?” He hadn’t touched what I’d poured, but I thought he might mention another beverage again if I asked.

“No thanks. Something cold. What do you have handy?”

“Bottled waters, Coke, root beer, ginger ale, milk…”

“Milk. Milk please.”

“You got it.”

I brought his milk first, and then the rest of his order. Our diner was rather small—and rather empty that day. People weren’t going out unless they had to, and most of them were probably getting coffee at a drive-thru. Even when at its fullest, I often felt as if I wanted to ask for the names of people I didn’t know. We had quite a few regulars, but when it came to strangers, I was always tempted to introduce myself, even if they weren’t hot when they were really cold, like this guy.

He took a huge bite of his burger the moment I set it down. “You Don?” he asked, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel carrying nuts.

“Naw.” I looked at him sitting there, letting medium rare burger grease drip down his chin. Never had impoliteness and gluttony been so sexy. “There are five in the family, but I’m Marty.” I held out my hand. He had to set down his hamburger to shake it. Ketchup got on my palm. “As hard as it is to believe, my parents somehow settled on the name Martin in 1982, when everyone else was naming their kids Michael or Christopher.”

“You’re twenty-nine?”

That wasn’t what Running Man was supposed to say. He was supposed to say his name. “I will be,” I said. “March fifth.”

“Cool. My birthday’s the fifth, too…of July. You don’t look thirty.”

“Thanks.” I wiped my hand on a paper napkin. “I guess. ‘Cause…I’m not.”

“No. Sorry. I’m kind of obsessed with turning thirty, is all. I have five years. July fifth, 2016 that’ll be it. I’ll be twenty-six this coming summer, and I see thirty as, like, the cutoff age in my mind. My last chance.” He never stopped eating the whole time he was talking. It was no longer cute. He was spitting little tiny bits of hamburger bun and macaroni and cheese all over my counter. Maybe he was counting thirty as the cutoff age for talking with his mouth full.