'Hello, I'm: RUTH'

I was greeted by the tiny plastic nametag when I looked up as my waitress turned over the ceramic mug in front of me and filled it with something comparable to liquid black tar. She looked like a kindly sort, this Ruth, a woman in her late thirties with over-dyed brown hair pulled back into a bun, a pair of large white teardrop-shaped glasses that hung from a chain around her neck, and equally as large dangling chandelier earrings that were gaudy no matter the decade. Our eyes met as I looked over her face and she smiled at me, placing the carafe back on its warmer. It was the smile of a kindly woman, the smile of a mother trying to raise a family on a waitress's pay in this day in age.

It looked like a slow morning so far in the little diner. The only other customers were an older couple sitting in a booth near the entrance and a middle-aged travelling businessman who sat at the far end of the counter alternating between his fork and a cigarette in his one hand while the other paged and trailed over a newspaper above his plate, his briefcase wide open on the seat beside him. I had chosen a seat at the counter as well, a couple chairs to the side of the register. Ruth handed me a laminated menu and removed a pen and pad of paper from the white apron on her baby blue dress that hit just at her knees – just like the dresses in all the old-time movies. "What'll it be, sweetie? We've got a couple specials this morning—"

I kindly cut the woman off as I knew my order before she placed the menu in front of me. It was the same order I made for breakfast in every restaurant since I ended up here. "Actually, I already have something in mind. Just a couple of eggs and some toast, if you'd please," I smiled, handing the sticky menu back to her.

"Straight and to the point. I like that." Ruth winked at me as she placed the menu back where it was moments before. "We've got a plate that's got a couple'a eggs and toast, and it comes with some sausage and bacon. Can I interest you in that?"

"Sure, why not."

"You want 'em fried? The eggs?"

"Please."

"Sure thing, Sweetie." Ruth winks at me again before walking off the give my order to the cook. I take the opportunity of her absence to sip my coffee, which tasted pretty close to the black tar it resembled. Certainly not the worst coffee I've had since I've been here, though; that award belongs to a little roadside shack six months back and a few hundred miles west of here who also holds the award for the only place, so far, that made me pray for the modern standards of food preparation I'm accustomed to.

"Hey, Buddy!" A male voice sounded from behind me as a hand clasped my shoulder hard.

I spin around on the metal stool, startled, my own hand instantly flying to my pocket where, at a later point in my life, I kept my weapon.

"Didn't mean to startle ya," the businessman laughs in a voice that booms through the entire tiny restaurant. "I'm just headin' out. Wanted to know if you'd like today's paper. I'm done with it. No use to me on the road."

I nod, thanking the man for the paper as he makes his way out of the restaurant. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to the kindness and hospitality that seems to come naturally to everyone this day in age. Regardless, I stare down at the paper now in my hands.

Reagan this.

Vietnam that.

Beatles. Doors. Elvis.

Same news. Different people. I fold the paper back up and place it on the counter beside me, taking one quick glance at the date. I can't help but smile. 'Just think," I tell myself, 'two more years and you get to witness the moon landing.'

My thoughts are interrupted by the large and steaming plate of food Ruth sets in front of me. "Thank you." I nod to her as I begin work on my meal.

She lingers a little. They always do. I'm pretty sure I even know the question she has for me on the tip of her tongue.

"You're not from these parts, are you?"

Right on the money. "Not really. Down on my luck and decided to hit the road. Felt a calling somewhere out this way, you know?" But that's not what she means.

I take a stab at a sausage link.

It's the wardrobe that's decades ahead of its time. Blue jeans from a company whose CEO probably isn't born yet. A t-shirt in a color and style no designer is anywhere near considering to be in fashion. And a haircut that's too long for a proper young man but too short and a few years too soon to consider qualifying for hippie status. And not to mention the dialect of different time periods isn't exactly on my side.

She laughs. "Not sure what's calling you, but there ain't much out this way besides this diner, Sweetie."

As if on cue a couple strolls inside and sits at one of the booths. Ruth gives me another one of her winks as she grabs some menus and the carafe of liquid tar and scuttles off toward the table.

I take the opportunity of the few precious moments without a nosy waitress to glance at the old couple that was sitting near the entrance but who were now on their way out the door, crossing in front of the diner's windows along the sidewalk. I wasn't planning on stopping in here this morning, but when I saw them through the window from across the street I changed my mind. They've never seen me before in their combined millennia of years, but I would recognize that wirey old man with a floor-length beard and his grey hair, grey-eyed, wife who held herself with the poise of royalty anywhere.

I finally made it to my destination.