Nighthawks

How ironic that the brightest spot of the evening occurred at the darkest point of night, in the dimmest portion of the city, at the saddest open diner known to man.

But an enjoyable moment was a treasure, a rarity these days – something to hold close and to savor. Anything else that glimmered went reluctantly into war bonds, guilt chasing the sparse pennies out of Americans’ pockets. Prospects had been bleak since ’29 – before the stock market collapse – and the war overseas had been dragging on for far too long already.

The little diner was not something anyone would look twice at. Run down, the paint faded and peeling on the sign above the door, the tiny place was as drab as the buildings huddled oppressively around it. But unlike the other eateries and bars, the lights within remained lit well into the night hours, casting brilliant yellow glow onto the otherwise deeply shadowed pavement outside.

That was something in and of itself.

The “social” hours had ended with the chime of midnight, leaving the diner vacant – save for the toothless manager tending the counter and the lonely man hunched over the bar, nursing a strong drink and a lovesick heart.

The bartender offered no words of sympathy to the lost soul, but his mere presence was comfort enough to a man who simply didn’t want to remain alone for the rest of his life. The silence hanging between the pair was not awkward, but necessary. Had this depressed stranger needed comfort, he would have sought it elsewhere where he would have had to pay. Here, since it was after hours, the old barkeep refilled his stoic companion’s glass for free.

It only took a moment for the entire atmosphere of the diner to change, as though a candle had been lit in the middle of a dark room, the light of which slowly grew to fill every corner of darkness with warmth. The change was not immediately apparent, but both customer and manager felt something creep over them mere moments before the bell above the diner entrance chimed shrilly, breaking the somber stillness, announcing entry.

They both looked up as the couple entered, arm in arm.

Perhaps old man and the stranger stared at first, intrigued. It was quite possible that they had never seen anything quite like these two people before; it was equally possible that they might never see anyone like them again.

The man, who had opened the door for his lady, looked to be nearing middle age. His well–tailored blue suit might have been purchased for a substantial sum years ago, but now the elbows were wearing through, as well as the cuffs. High cheekbones framed deeply–set, intelligent eyes; a wrinkled fedora rested easily atop his short haircut.

The lady who had come in with him wore an ankle–length dress of a brilliant crimson, a type of silk or satin imitation – something intended to impress the eyes and not the wallet. She certainly wasn’t the most attractive girl they had ever met, but with the flush in her cheeks, and the light in her dark eyes, she exhibited such an inner charm that the two men already inside the diner were captivated with her. It was not in any way a sexual attraction, or even romantic – she simply was unique and they couldn’t look away. She walked with confidence on the arm of her companion and her laughter was heartfelt, capturing the old man and his companion.

She had donned the cheap red dress for the evening, simply because it was all she could afford. Although none of the gentlemen present knew it, she had spent every penny she could spare to purchase the garb, all for this one night. Her glowing admiration of her companion was apparent, and she had dressed so just to please him.

Their faces were haggard, worn prematurely, but Hoover’s “depression” and the war to follow had affected them all that way. But here was a pair that had not let the weariness, the utter hardness of life, conquer them, if only for one evening.

The newcomers came up to the bar, so caught up in one another that they were oblivious to the stares they were receiving. But as they seated themselves and the man cleared his throat, the barkeep came alive and quickly hurried over to serve them.

A coffee and an ice cream soda, and make it a double, thank you very much. The man reached for his wallet, but the bartender was smiling, shaking his head.

It’s on me.

The stranger seated a few stools away continued to watch the couple, albeit more discreetly. Their presence somehow conjured up memories in him, yesteryears of both joy and sorrow. As he watched, he relived. And despite the pangs of regret he felt, the presence of the woman and her man comforted him in some strange way, somehow gave him hope. He couldn’t explain the change that came over him, and didn’t try; instead, he took a mouthful of his brandy, smiling sadly as he continued to watch over the rim of his glass.

Shy smiles and quiet conversation. The man took his coffee black and let the girl sip from his mug, but she wouldn’t let him have any of her ice cream.

The barkeep absently wiped his rag over the same stretch of bartop again and again, lost in thought, smiling with his eyes. The stranger merely pondered.

The man had the appearance of being a gruff fellow, a tough someone who wasn’t afraid to stand up and defend his name. However, the lady he was with brought out his inner softness, the romantic in him. At one point, their hands touched atop the bar – accidentally, it seemed – and although he seemed slightly uncomfortable with it, the man left his hand there, his fingertips barely brushing hers. Embarrassed, but in a pleasant way, the girl held up her other hand to examine her nails – to cast her eyes anywhere but upon her companion’s face. Her cheeks had reddened again, nearly matching the color of her dress.

They stayed long after the man had finished his coffee. The girl had abandoned her soda after drinking three quarters of it, but had grown more interested in her companion as the minutes had gone by. The stranger and the barkeep kept to themselves, but neither could help but send furtive glances and wonder what had ever happened to their days of sweet love.

But they were bettered – the both of them. All of them.

For the old barkeep, the brightest point of the evening was remembrance, and although he had initially regretted remaining late, he now found that he didn’t mind the extra hours. For the stranger, he found his high in the peace he made with himself and the future he resolved to look for.

For the couple, it was simply one night – one night that would begin many more. One night that they would perhaps remember together as they sat in a diner one late evening in years to come. They had reaped aplenty from a night that had held no promise, and in so doing had unintentionally brought hope to two men they had never met before and would never see again.

When they finally departed the tiny diner, the man left a tip atop the bar for the old man behind the counter – all he could afford to leave. Then, he and his lady disappeared down the street, losing themselves in the darkness.

And although they left the diner in the shadows with their departure, they most certainly would bring light to wherever it was that they were headed.

END

A/N: Anyone who has ever viewed this painting knows that it is one of the most depressing, bleakest works by Edward Hopper, and that none of the characters portrayed show any signs of life or happiness. It accurately depicts American morale during the great depression. As the assignment for my class was to write a brief narrative describing the painting in the way that I saw it, I took the liberty of putting a positive spin into my writing, and this was the result. This is simply the way that I want to look at it, and (just for the record) my professor was intrigued by the viewpoint.

Hopefully, no Hopper fans want to hang me now.

Thanks for the read –
“Ken”