Christmas Miracle in Small Town Diner

CHESTERTOWN, MD – Christmas miracles are not limited to 34th Street in New York City after all – so take that, Big Apple, say the people of this little town along the Chester River. The blessed event centered on an octogenarian named Bud Lesser, who had been coming into Willie’s Diner every morning for the past fifty years and ordering the same meal – a scrambled egg, hash browns and two pieces of white toast, along with two cups of black coffee.

“I could set my clock to Bud,” said Martha Thomas, a waitress at Willie’s for thirty years. “Hell, I could set my biological clock to that man.”

One of the newer waitresses, Kim Kuhn, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Lady, your biological clock stopped a long time ago.”

“What was that you said, missy?”

“Nothing. I said, it’s a miracle!”

The miracle in question happened when Bud Lesser sat down at the counter as he has done for the past 18,250 days, with a newspaper under his arm and his nose hairs protruding like radioactive corn stalks from an overhead air vent; and, as usual, Martha was ready with his scrambled eggs, hash browns and white toast and black coffee. That was when Bud looked down at his plate, then up toward Martha, and said:

“What’s this shit?”

“Your breakfast, honey.”

“Did I order this?”

Martha thought he was joking, and so laughed her three-pack-a-day laugh, and coughed with the same hint of phlegm, and turned her back on Bud to go help another customer.

“Hey, lady, I’m talking to you.”

The whole diner got quiet. The owner, Willie, who was in the middle of stirring up a pile of burnt hash browns that would suffice to feed patrons for the next six hours, stopped his work and approached his longest and best customer.

“What’s the problem, Bud? Do you want me to make you up another plate?”

“Sure do, Willie, but something different. I want to try something new.”

Witnesses claim that time stood still for a moment, as if Bud Lesser had gone off to review his life with the Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present and Future, not that an eighty-year-old man has much of a future aside from prostate exams. Jimmy Stewart may have even put in a cameo appearance over at the corner booth.

“Something new?” asked Willie in disbelief, the first requirement along the path to a miracle.

“Yeah,” coughed Bud. “What are those omelet thing-a-ma-jiggies I always see you making? What’s the deal with them?”

“They’re a choice of anything from ham or mushrooms to cheese wrapped up in a sheet of eggs.”

“I’ll try one of those, and with all that shit you just mentioned.”

Martha now came over and began writing on a pad. “Anything else, hon?”

“What’s that toast that ain’t white that everyone except me seems to order?”

“That would be wheat toast. And it’s healthier than white toast. Better for the colon.”

“Hmmm, Lord knows I need a better colon. Gimme some wheat toast, then. And dammit, while you’re at it, Martha, put some milk or whatever in my coffee.” His voice began to rise with positive excitement. He stood up and looked around the diner. “And a Merry Christmas to all!”

And that was the Miracle of Chestertown. A Hollywood producer has already been in contact with Bud Lesser about making the event into a cable Holiday movie for next year, to which Bud responded:

“What’s cable?”