Porky's Diner, 3 AM by Liane Graham, Group 1

We’d been in Yaakov’s dilapidated, rust-green hand-me-down Chevy for over
four hours by the time we found a place to eat. Like a brightly lit oasis on the I-95,
Porky’s Diner’s mascot – a neon pink pig with a top hat – called to us: Come in, we’re
open, it’s warm in here and our coffee is probably old and burnt.
We sat down in a booth by the window and looked around. Yaakov nodded at
the counter, where a nun and a putrid smelling and obviously drunk man sat side by
side. “You think they’re Jeweeesh?” he said, chortling.
Dana laughed a little too hard and knocked the ketchup over.
“It’s okay,” I said, returning the ketchup bottle to its rightful position by the
napkin dispenser. “That bottle’s probably older than you anyway.” The waitress
came over to take our order. She was hunched over as if she’d been clearing tables
for so long that she’d forgotten how to stand upright.
“What’s in the tuna?” asked Yaakov.
“Oh, the usual,” she said. “Mayo, breadcrumbs, some grated cheese. I’ll let you
in on a little secret, though: the best part is the toast. We don’t fry it in butter, see,”
she said with what appeared to be sincere excitement. “Here at Porky’s, we fry our
toast in bacon grease. That’s how we got the name.” She looked proud.
Dana looked nauseated. “Can you give us another minute?” she asked. Our
waitress limped away, mumbling something about picky eaters.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Obviously, anything with toast is out. Eggs, too – they make it right with the
chazir,” said Yaakov.
I hesitated before speaking. “Um, I guess we could get hamburgers?” Yaakov
and Dana looked at me as if I’d suggested donning white hoods and setting fire
to our shul. “I know,” I continued. “But it’s just meat, and, I mean, we could get it
without cheese. That’s kind of okay, right?”
“Will’s got a point,” said Dana. I was surprised. I didn’t take Dana for a rule
breaker. Yaakov looked unconvinced, so she went on. “Look, nothing in this place
even remotely resembles kosher, but some things are more treif than others.”
With varying degrees of discomfort, we agreed that hamburgers seemed to
be the safest choice.
Our waitress returned. “What’ll it be?”
My palms were sweating like those of a 16 year old trying to buy beer with a
fake ID for the first time. “Three hamburgers, please? And no fries.”
Dana looked at me. “Bacon grease,” I mouthed.
When the burgers came, I picked mine up with both hands, poised to eat it.
Out of nowhere, I heard a thunder clap. I looked out the window, but I saw no rain
or lightning. What I saw was a mass of people; generations of rabbis shaking folios
of the Talmud above their heads, screaming silently as they came toward Porky’s
Diner. The thunder continued to protest. I’ve heard of people having crises of faith
and all, but this was ridiculous. It was more like a tantrum of faith.
I trembled. “Do you hear that, guys?”
“Hear what,” asked Dana, her mouth full of hamburger.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Nevermind.”
I took a bite.