Till

Till grew up in a roadside diner, on the chrome side of the counter, raised on bacon and eggs and other people’s conversations. The school of the street he attended sitting down: the whole neighborhood eventually passes the back booth, and a waiter who refills cups without hurrying hears more truths than a confessional. At twelve he knew everybody’s debts, affairs and alibis for three blocks around. He poured more coffee. People thought he was cute.

His patter is easy, almost lazy — one wisecrack at the exact moment nobody expects it anymore, served with the check. His pranks have the same patience: the day’s specials board sometimes lists dishes that don’t exist, just to see who orders with confidence. From the register he watches the entire street in the window’s reflection, and the OPEN sign blinks for everyone but him: he already knows who’s coming in.

The yellow pencil behind his ear isn’t an accessory, it’s a method. Everything he sees ends up written down — the faces, the habits, the mistakes, his own first. He rereads his notebooks the way others count their satchel, and that’s why he learns faster than anyone: every shift is a lesson, and he never pays for the same one twice.

What keeps him standing: the diner’s rhythm — coffee brewing, chrome shining, the night settling onto the stools. And one certainty in pencil, underlined twice: someday the board will carry his name at the very top, not on the menu — over the door. Meanwhile he sharpens his pencil, refills the cups, and writes. The neighborhood would do well to proofread itself before he does.