It was freshly Christmas Eve, about two hours into the newly born day. In my memory, it was snowing, but a piece of me now doubts that. Perhaps it just would’ve been more dramatic had it been snowing. For our purposes, it was a snowy Christmas Eve in Groton, Connecticut. At two AM, I stumbled into the diner, attempting to curb the worst of a rapidly forming hangover that was the result of a particularly nasty shift change, one that would allow me to work Christmas in the place of someone with a family.
I stood admiring the Christmas tree in the lobby for a quick moment before the overworked hostess ushered me to my booth, dropping me off with a menu and assurances that someone would indeed be on their way to “take care of me.” I nodded, unable to form any semblance of coherent thought, let alone words with which I could acknowledge the hostess’ promises. At this point, I had become a regular at this diner–I needed no menu. so with this time granted to me, I began to observe my fellow patrons, wondering what sort of people would patronize this diner at two o’clock in the morning of Christmas Eve.
The motley collection included a pack of party-goers who I assumed had just come from some nearby club which should have let out, a pair of bouncers and a pair of dancers (one of whom I knew vaguely) from the strip joint next door were nestled into a corner booth, and dead ahead of me were a pair of leather-clad bikers. My eyes slid across a “1%er” patch on one of the gentleman’s vests as I suddenly made eye contact with the fellow. I very quickly fixed my eyes on the too-familiar menu placed before me, as the general rule of thumb with 1%ers involves “not fucking with them.” Therefore I made it my utmost priority not to put myself in a situation that could be deemed as “fucking with” this pair.
The hostess’s assurances were not without merit as suddenly a waitress appeared before me asking for my preferences of drink, which was coffee and water, and my choice of food, which this morning was to be country fried steak with fried eggs over easy. She retreated off to relay my order to the kitchen. I picked up my cell phone and began to scroll mindlessly; I started to let my eyes wander again, not looking directly at the bikers this time. As my head began to ache, I found myself scowling in the direction of a group of visibly exhausted youths, somehow energized by the spirit of the evening. I gently reminded myself that I, too, was just as guilty of being rowdy in this very diner. As I gazed vacantly, I noticed that the gentleman with whom I had made eye contact before began to shout jeers in Spanish at the group of youths at the table. But that had nothing to do with me.
My coffee was delivered.
Another jeer.
I added cream and sugar.
The biker stood.
I took a sip.
He walked over to loom over one of the kids.
I set my coffee down.
He swung his fist.
All hell broke loose.
The previously relaxed atmosphere of the diner was gone, and sheer havoc erupted as the kid the biker swung on pulled himself free, sending tables flying. The dancers screamed, and one of the bouncers tackled the biker as his compatriot joined the fray. Within the haze of my hangover, I was unable to quite understand the events occurring in front of me as I was still formulating the question, “Are they fighting?”
My haze was suddenly interrupted by one of the kids being thrown onto the table of my booth. However, I managed to grab my coffee out of the way in time to prevent the still-hot beverage from being spilled, as it was my lifeline amidst the cacophony of violence that surrounded mef. So thorough was my shock that I didn’t notice the fellow clad in leather rapidly approaching my booth. But soon, he was upon us both.
A flurry of blows was traded next. I’m uncertain if any of them were thrown by me, as in my memory, I don’t recall any sensation of pain. Just as quickly as the kid had been thrown onto my table, a bouncer arrived in time to pull the biker out of the booth. Sensing his chance, the kid reached blindly for some projectile he could hurl towards the biker. What he found with his outstretched hand was my lovingly preserved cup of coffee. My beloved elixir suddenly sailed through the air just to shatter on the wall above the dancers’ heads. The kid hurled himself back into the fray.
At this point, I realized that I was no longer safe from the scrum that swallowed up the open section of the diner, and in that spirit, I suddenly recalled that people who wear the patch of a 1%er are often armed. With that knowledge at the forefront of my attention and the hangover now a distant memory, I relocated myself to the far side of a row of booths so that if things were to get worse, I’d have a source of cover.
Suddenly, shouting. This shouting should be familiar to anyone who has found themselves on the receiving end of a scolding by their mother. The manager had, upon hearing the sounds of violence, rushed to the front of house and began to shout, “Not in my restaurant!” and other far more creative sentiments to that end. And, just like any child scolded out of a fistfight, the melee ceased as suddenly as it began. The initial assailant sprinted out of the establishment and his partner fled after him but not before quietly apologizing on the behalf of the other. The majority of us made our way back to whatever tables or booths which were not overturned. The already careworn kids were now silent, the initial victim held a Ziploc of ice to his eye. I noticed that the visible eye was bloodshot and wore heavy bags. I then sat down and my meal was delivered.
I frowned at my plate; the eggs were scrambled. I had asked for fried. I decided against complaining after all that had occurred. I ate what I could, gave the police my statement, paid for “Country Fried Steak, Fried Eggs, Coffee,” and, avoiding the tree on my way out, left.
Writer | Crawford Dawson ’26 | acooper26@amherst.edu
Editor | Izzy Baird ’27 | ibaird27@amherst.edu