Same as he did every Wednesday, he walked in through the door to the "donut shop", which now had a "No pets/No barefeet/Keep your shirt on" sign, instead of the more friendly "Come on in! We're open!" one that he was used to. "That's not even the right way to spell doughnut!" he said to himself. "And they call this a progressive society..."

It wasn't a completely foreign place to him. There were a few constants he could rely on every week: the cute redhead behind the counter; the two noisy police officers who lived up to their stereotype (he wondered if they got free coffee); the war vet who had one leg missing; and the jukebox, that last treasure from his formative years.

Sometimes, he thought the only reason he kept coming back here was because of that jukebox. It gave him a connection to his past. It made him think of Lorianne and Donna Louise and Mary Ellen Watkins and Kimberly Sue and...what was her name? It played the only song that meant anything to him anymore. Most of all, it made him feel. Sad.

But when he walked in today, he revealed none of this. Not that anyone cared.

Many years ago, this "donut shop" was a diner. The sign on the front door never lied. It used to welcome him in, to people he wasn't friends with, and some he was friends with, and all of them felt like friends, because they acknowledged him with a "Hey, pal, how're ya doin'?" Some of them would even offer a generous handshake.

He walked up to the counter, ordering his usual, the soup-and-sandwich. The redheaded girl didn't ask him if he watched the football game last night, or anything about how he's been, not even about the weather! Just her overtly cheerful "What can I get you?" the same line she always used. He knew her name, since he overheard it a few weeks back, when she was talking with her boyfriend, but never called her by it. It would have been polite, in another time. Somebody walked in behind him.

Who used to sit by the jukebox? How could he forget! At least once for every time he'd come in, she played that tune. It drove him crazy. Actually, it was called "Crazy". She would sit there by herself, in a booth next to the jukebox, and listen to that song, and he would sit on a stool at the counter, watching her a number of feet away. There was such a somber look in her eyes, on her lips, the way her hair fell...he was committed.

"Shut the hell up! You'd never get away with that, and you know it!" barked one of the cops to the other.

After paying the redhead for his soup-and-sandwich, he headed toward the table that replaced the booth by the jukebox.

"Crazy... I'm crazy for feelin' so lonely..."

Nobody ever played that song anymore, but it was still there. He checked once. Just to see.

The girl would just sit there, where he was sitting now, by herself, lost in...love? No, it was quite the opposite, clearly. She must have been suffering the way he was now, but in the way younger people do. There were so many days he wanted to walk over, politely ask if it was alright that he sat down, buy her a Coke, and tell her how beautiful she was. What stopped him?

The glass coffeepot fell to the floor, and shattered. "No... No...! Aaaaah!" The war vet momentarily revisited his life in the trenches. He sobbed uncontrollably, and the redhead at the counter didn't know what to do, because she just swore at herself for dropping the coffeepot, and didn't feel confident enough to comfort the veteran. So she refilled his coffee cup with the other pot, and started to sweep up the mess.

"Why don't you go over and talk to her?" asked Sam. It was Sam's diner. It used to be, anyway.

"I couldn't do that! She's too...whaddayacallit? Sophisticated."

"Listen, pal, I've seen a lotta sophisticated women come in here, and she ain't one of 'em. She's hurtin', and she needs a good kid like you to talk to. Now, get over there! Go!"

"Alright, already!"

He recalled how he straightened his V-neck sweater, made sure his hair was just right with the comb he kept in his front pocket, then walked over to the booth toward the girl. His girl.

"What's a guy gotta do, to get some more coffee 'round here?" one of the policemen complained.

He burned his tongue on the soup (he wasn't thinking) and the sandwich was alright, but the whole thing was expensive! Why, there was a time when he thought that paying four quarters for a meal was --

"Crazy..."

Was he hearing right? Yes. Somebody punched that song on the jukebox! He could hear someone walking toward him. He didn't look up, but now that same someone pulled out the chair opposite him, asking, "Excuse me, but would you mind if..."

"Hey, who orders soup from a donut shop, anyway?" blurted the other police officer, two tables away.

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