Mohawk

opposite philosophy, or rather it had embraced him. Until recently, his days were arranged like dominoes spaced far enough apart to fall independently, victims of repetition, not necessity, the end result an unbroken black line, definitely headed somewhere or other.
    Today would be the last of life as he knew it. Tomorrow, the men from Blackstone Construction would knock out the wall between the grill and what briefly had been a bookstore. Before that it was a beauty salon, and before that a men’s clothing store. In the twenty-five years since Harry bought the grill, eight or ten businesses had come and gone next door, each more ill-fated than its predecessor. They all opened with a flurry, the traditional quarter page ad in the
Mohawk Republican
, free balloons for the kids, a door prize. For a few months the owner would mind the store and speak of business picking up with the warm weather. Then, in July, he’d hold a clearance sale of some sort and the curious would wander in off the street to rearrange the merchandise in the bins before wanderingback out again. That it was an unlucky spot wasn’t news to anybody, least of all Harry Saunders, who had commiserated with each of the legion of failed merchants over coffee they ended up unable to afford.
    Given all this, Harry is a little unnerved to consider that he’s agreed to buy the place and expand the grill. Seduced. He has been seduced. The word has a nasty sound. He says it out loud—“Seduced!”—and echoing off the walls of the empty diner, it sounds even worse. He says it several times more and is still saying it when his first customer, a truck driver named Herb with long red sideburns, comes in off the street. “Say what, Harry?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Talking to yourself already?”
    Herb takes his black. Still agitated, Harry slops some coffee over the side of the cup and onto the saucer. Herb is a good customer and not overly particular. He’ll gladly slurp the saucer.
    “Most married guys end up talking to theirselves sooner or later,” Herb observes, engrossed in the menu. He knows it by heart, but studies it intently every morning before ordering.
    “How would you know?” Harry says. He breaks two eggs onto the grill where they sputter happily. They’ll be ready by the time Herb decides it’s eggs he wants for breakfast. Harry takes a platter down from the tall stack and warms it on the edge of the grill. Herb almost always ends up ordering bacon or sausage since ham is a dime extra. Harry spatulas some home fries onto the platter along with toast.
    “Couple eggs, sunny side,” Herb says from behind the menu. “Sausage, I guess”
    When Harry sets the platter in front of him, Herbdigs in. “Women are okay,” the truck driver concedes. “Some of them.”
    Two more customers wander in and Harry takes their orders. Pretty soon, the counter is full. Since Harry’s competition over at the Fulmont Diner had a stroke, business has been brisk. Rumor has it that the Fulmont will be reopening soon, but the cook/owner hasn’t fully recovered the use of his right side, and the sight of his lopsided smile is certain to disconcert customers who expect balance in a short-order cook.
    “I might even get married again someday,” Herb speculates, scratching one long sideburn dreamily with an eggy forefinger. “Who knows?”
    “I didn’t know you ever were married.”
    “Just twice. Not lately.”
    “What happened?”
    “Don’t know. Something.”
    Herb pays and leaves. Harry’s morning waitress arrives and they stay busy straight through the lunch hour. The wash-up boy sets to work at ten-thirty but can’t keep up with the dirty dishes. The sight of people waiting for tables and counter space doesn’t cheer Harry, who envisions a vast expanse of empty seats and stools once the wall gets knocked down and all the bad luck next door begins to seep in.
    Around two-thirty Dallas Younger comes in looking red-faced. “That old lady of yours sure is touchy,” he observes.
    “You walk in on her again?”
    In addition to buying the place next door, Harry has renovated the upstairs, which he and Mrs. Saunders now use for living quarters. That was months ago, and everybody has got the hang of it except out-of-townersand Dallas Younger, who still expects to find a poker game in progress instead of looking three doors down the street, where it has moved.
    Dallas studies the picture calendar hanging from a magnet on the milk machine. “It’s