Chapter 2 - The Shortage at Booth 4
Henry reached into the deep pocket of his soaked wool overcoat and pulled out his cracked leather wallet. He laid it flat on the Formica table, unsnapped the metal clasp, and tipped it upside down.
A few coins tumbled out, sliding across the table with a metallic clatter. Two quarters. Three dimes. A handful of nickels and pennies.
Then Henry pulled out the paper money. One crumpled five-dollar bill. One creased one-dollar bill.
He pushed the currency around with a trembling thumb, counting aloud in a whisper that only Jake could hear. "Five... six... and seventy-eight cents. Six dollars and seventy-eight cents."
Henry stopped. He stared at the small pile of money, his shoulders sinking lower into the cushions of the booth. He looked up at Jake, his eyes swimming with a quiet, devastating humiliation.
"Jake... I am so sorry, son," Henry whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "I thought I had another two-dollar bill tucked behind my transit pass. I... I seem to be short by a dollar seventy-two. Can I... can I just take the coffee tonight? I don't need the meatloaf."
Jake looked down at the money, then at Henry’s sunken cheeks and the dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. He knew the old man hadn't eaten anything substantial all day; Jake had seen him skip lunch the day before when he sat on the park bench across the street reading a tattered newspaper.
A dollar seventy-two. It wasn't a fortune, but in Jake’s pocket, it represented the exact cost of a bus token he needed to get to school the next morning.
Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled a two-dollar bill from his own tip pocket—money he had earned carrying heavy crates of soda bottles earlier that evening—and slipped it smoothly onto Henry’s table, right beside the old man's coins.
"You're not skipping dinner, Mr. Brooks," Jake said, keeping his tone casual and bright. "Looks like you actually overpaid. You left a two-dollar bill sitting right here on the table from your last visit. That covers the meatloaf, the coffee, and leaves you enough for a piece of pie if you want it."
Henry stared at the crisp two-dollar bill. He knew perfectly well he hadn't left any money behind. He looked up into Jake’s honest, steady brown eyes, and a single, heavy tear broke free from his pale lashes, tracking a clean path through the soot on his cheek.
"Son... you shouldn't do that," Henry murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You work too hard for your money. I can't take your tips."
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"Consider it an investment in the diner's best customer," Jake smiled, tapping his order pad. "Now, I'm putting the meatloaf in. And I'm throwing in a slice of apple pie on the house."
Jake turned on his heel and walked toward the kitchen pass-through, completely unaware that his manager, Vance, had been watching the entire exchange from the shadows of the dry-storage hallway.
