Atypical Tuesday

"When did you last bathe?" Sitting outside a small diner, an overdressed man fanned his open newspaper more for emphasis than to drive away any stench.
His dining companion paid him no mind. Stained trousers that might once have been forest green and an aged, patched cardigan were his perpetual uniform. Any odor was imagined. The disheveled man cared little for his companion's opinion on the matter or that perfectly pressed navy suit and the attention it drew.
Straightening his newspaper, but not yet looking over it, the overdressed man continued, "I heard they set up a new Smithtown on 54th and 10th. Free beds, food..." he slowly lowered the paper, "showers."
"You hear a lot of things," the disheveled man responded with disinterest, drawing a bottle from an unseen pocket. It was the start of a typical Tuesday morning.
Perhaps not entirely typical today. The new scenery was certainly a change of pace. The two companions hadn't solicited this restaurant before. A corner lot that some might call quaint, the diner was just the right size to be run by a staff of two or three. With a residence on the second story, it was likely a family operation. The disheveled man was a bit surprised his companion picked such a place. Tuesday mornings were customarily reserved for the latest chic eateries found in those modern high-rises that formed the backdrop and cast long morning shadows over this old shop.
A middle-aged man in a checkered shirt and white apron approached their table, handing the overdressed man a menu, and asking for his drink order. From the name Sal embroider on his apron, matching the banner over the door, he was obviously the owner. From his profound apology, he had just realized there was a customer sitting outside. The disheveled man did not hold this against him. It was almost December, after all, and the weather had already turned. Nor was he surprised when Sal completely overlooked him.
"Coffee, black." The overdressed man didn't bother to order for his companion, despite knowing he would not be served. Typical.
As Sal headed for the warmth of indoors and his more reasonable customers, the overdressed man ripped a small section from the newspaper and signaled toward the open door. The long-time restaurateur dutifully returned. Looking confused, he accepted the scrap, and to his surprise, a whispered message.
"Thank you, sir," he replied with hesitation.
"Now, go and take care of that right away. I heard they'll be making an announcement-" he turned his wrist to expose a gold timepiece, "within the hour."
As Sal rushed back inside, the disheveled man took a swig and asked, "Is he one of yours?"
"He will be."
"You know he's barely scraping by. With the way this neighborhood has gone..." The disheveled man realized the reason they were here. It was a typical Tuesday morning after all, "Despite that, you've convinced him to gamble it all away?"
"We called that an investment," The overdressed man put on his best judgmental mask. "Isn't it a bit early to be drinking?"
"It's already past 10 am. You should feel blessed I'm staying up this late," The disheveled man could never seem to muster a possible mocking tone. It always came out flat, so he gave it up. "I'm being serious. I know how this goes. He'll get lucky. You'll make sure of it. But to get that big payout will require even more 'investment'-".
"He plays the game," the overdressed man interrupted. "He moves up in the world, out of this simple life and onto wealth unimagined."
"And when he loses-" Cut off again, this time by Sal excitedly racing out of the diner. The disheveled man sighed.
The restaurateur skillfully brandished coffee and cup as he danced his way to their table. Droplets of hot water flew from the pot and quietly hissed as they hit the frozen sidewalk. "Thank you, sir! Thank you! Is there anything I can do for you?"
"You can hand me a menu," The overdressed man paused and smiled. He took only a moment to review the short list before handing it back. "I'll take the porterhouse and potatoes."
Sal retrieved the menu and happily recorded his customer's order without question, despite it not being an option on the list he had originally presented. The disheveled man took another swig, unnoticed.
As before, Sal was not a step from warmth when he was called back. This time he did not hesitate. Taking the overdressed man's advice and second note in hand, he rushed into the diner.
When he and his companion were once again alone, the overdressed man seized the debate, "You need to try harder. How is it that you get any attention?"
"They find me when it's time." The disheveled man was not fond of this stage in their conversation. He had never found it comfortable talking about himself, especially when it involved getting unsought advice from someone as self-important as Mr. suit and shoulders across the table. This time he had come prepared with a distraction. Taking a slow swig from his bottle, he poked the newspaper with it before abruptly switching topics. "Did you hear about the Council?"
Caught off guard, the overdressed man searched his sacred text for answers. "The paper mentions nothing of a council. The city board elections aren't until next year."
"No, not the city council, the Council," the disheveled man lowered his voice while pointing up, then caught himself in embarrassment.
Realization dawned on the overdressed man's face. "Do you mean the old world gods are meeting without us?" Wall Street, new world god of chance and overconfidence, let his paper droop.
"Unless you received an invite. I surely didn't," The Bottle, new world god of the hopeless and forgotten, took another long swig.
"I wouldn't worry about it," The Bottle said flatly. "I'm sure whatever they are discussing pertains to their own world."
Wall Street shifted nervously in his seat, glancing at the half-folded paper then back at his companion. Before he could answer, Sal backed out of the diner, plate in hand.
"Sir, I can't thank you enough. Your meal is on me," The restaurateur set down the oversized steak and potatoes but failed, initially, to notice his customer's change in expression.
"If there's anything else...?" He waited at the table for a moment, then again at the door, but eventually returned to the diner with a quizzical look.
Wall Street didn't touch his food. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare at the cloudless sky. Then suddenly, "How about that moon maiden?"
"What about her?" The Bottle's interest had shifted to a couple arguing across the street and he took a minute to recover. "Oh, the Axe of the Moon? She's there as a guest of her other half. The two of them and their sister all in one place..." he looked wistful, "what a sight that must be."
Wall Street snapped his fingers "The blonde woman who keeps appearing on all the signs and-" he flipped open the newspaper to the entertainment section and pointed at a large film ad. "Here!"
"I don't think she's one of us," The Bottle replied cautiously, "and thankfully I haven't seen her around recently."
"You don't think they are talking about us, do you?" As Wall Street query trailed into staccato, a breeze blew at his paper, leaving behind only the financial section. Numbers unnaturally changed on the printed page, most of them spiraling downward.
In a way, The Bottle enjoyed this; watching Wall Street's uncertainty. The consequences; not so much.
A pair of men in overcoats entered the diner, paying no attention to the two dining companions. Bankers, The Bottle suspected based on their stern expressions and matching suitcases. Several minutes later the bankers exited just as they had entered. A frantic Sal trailed close behind.
"I had the money. I swear. This man can tell you." Sal pointed at the table where Wall Street sat and looked confused. "He was just there."
The two bankers looked over at Wall Street, then turned back to their client. "Mr. Di Santo, when you called earlier to transfer the entirety of your savings into a known volatile stock we cautioned you against it. Now that the stock is worthless and you have no way to pay your overdue loan, we have come to collect. As we said inside, you will close your doors today and be out tomorrow."
Sal fell into Wall Street's apparently vacant chair. The new world god, having lost the notice of his would-be follower, jumped up to avoid the restaurateur collapsing into his lap.
The Bottle took another swig and set his drink in the center of the table with a clink.
Sal looked up and noticed the disheveled man for the first time. "I'm sorry, sir. We're closing." The words he'd spoken countless times to late-staying customers pushed him over the edge. He covered his face and wept.
"I'm here for you," The Bottle got up and rested his hand on Sal's shoulder, nodding toward his drink. "No more worries."
Wall Street stood aside meekly as another gust stole the remnants of his newspaper. "Is he one of yours?"
"Unfortunately, yes, thanks to you," The Bottle replied flatly, hand still on Sal's shoulder. "Same time next week?"