WAR COUNCIL

by Craig Ruhl

The diner itself dated from the mid-fifties or sixties and had not seen many upgrades since then. Looking in from the sidewalk, through the foggy windows with the specials of the day written in washable paint, it looked like an everyday business that was doing a steady trade.

I pushed open the outer metal door and then through the inner wood door, passing through what served as a transition zone–in the winter to keep the warmth in and during the summer to keep the heat out. I walked in and took a stool at the far end of the counter, closest to the restrooms and payphones. Seated at the counter, and facing the kitchen with the food pass-through and shelf, I could watch as the cook moved back and forth over his grill and griddle. This seating position is not optimal for several reasons. You cannot see what is happening behind you or the people coming in the door. Besides the long counter and stools, there were several booths clad in faded red vinyl with a variety of off-color patches and repairs. Out of character for the room, a single large round table with seating for eight sat in the far corner from where I sat. There were also a few mismatched chairs along the wall behind the table.

While I waited for the cook to put together my breakfast, I glanced over towards the round table and started to take in the five men seated there. They were deep in conversation over cups of coffee and remnant dishes from recent meals. The indistinct murmur of their voices increased in volume and laughter started. Now, I wished I had sat at the other end of the counter near the table to better hear what was being said. Looking over my shoulder, I could see two of the booths occupied, one with a man and woman both sitting on one side of the booth and the other by what appeared to be three businessmen, judging by their suits and ties. As the round table discussion continued, it drew my attention back to that area. My curiosity is strong under most conditions and these people were piquing my interest.

Sitting at the counter with a steaming cup of black coffee that appeared in front of me, I thought, what could be better on a bitter bone chilling winter day. I read through the single sheet, two-sided menu, all text and no pictures—pretty much standard grill and fry food offerings. The waitress reappeared with a pad and pencil to take my order. In deference to my paranoia of first meals in new eateries, I asked for two eggs over easy, ham steak, hash browns, and wheat toast with butter on the side. I thought this was a safe, yet still hearty meal for a hungry man.

My breakfast arrived with a fresh refill of coffee, water, and a few packaged jellies for the toast. The waitress’ name was Earla, according to her name tag. I offered my thanks and then before I realized what I was doing, I blurted out, “What’s the story with the round table and those men? It looks like a friendly group of customers.”

“Honey,” Earla replied, “That table of men has been meeting there for over thirty-five years. There are about twelve to fifteen men that I know of who take part. Over time, some men have passed on or moved away and new ones have joined. We are open from five in the morning until midnight every day of the year and the guys seem to come and go as they please, but most days there are at least two or three in residence and often over eight more men will join in with extra chairs drawn up.”

“Maybe I’ll sit in next time and get to know them. They seem to have a great time.” I said. “Oh, Honey, I’m not sure you should do that. It is a reserved table and membership, if you can call it that, is by invitation only,” Earla replied with a smile. “Besides, I have heard that group referred to as the War Council. None of us understands all that goes on with that table or the agendas they talk and sometimes argue about. I know that they all are very respected and loved by the community and our other customers. They bow their heads and pray together before they eat. Instead of handshakes, they say hello and goodbye with a hug.”

With a smile, Earla went back to the service area, grabbed a pot of fresh coffee and started making the rounds offering re-fills and cheerful talk.

As I wiped the remaining egg yolk off the plate with the last piece of toast, my curiosity increased and I wanted to learn more.

War Council, prayer, hugs?

To be continued…

War Council is a work of fiction created by Craig Ruhl. In this issue, we share with our readers the prologue to this series. In future issues, we will bring you a new chapter in the continuing story. Craig’s bio appears at www.faithoneverycorner.com/ meet-our-contributors.html. War Council is copyrighted by Craig Ruhl 2020, all rights reserved.