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The true measure of your life consists of your birth and your death; everything in between is filler

— Thomason’s Guide to Yard Sticks: History, Usage, and Practical Examples

And he asks how much time does thirty-six inches contain? 

And in what measurement: is an inch an hour? How many centuries fit on the head of a pin passing through the eye of a needle?

What about metric?

Grave questions indeed for one on the trajectory towards “The End.”

The man thinking these thoughts is Silas Driscoll. Some call him “The Measure Man,” some call him droll, his mother called him “her little stinker”.

Regardless, Silas pushes back from the diner’s Formica table, his back against the red Linoleum diner booth. 

Late afternoon. Silas (and the diner) lost somewhere in the dream of a warm August afternoon.

The diner is empty, lacking. 

The waitress (whose nametag reads “Helen”) shows no interest in all but her crossword puzzle. Gazing fixedly at the folded over newspaper on which said crossword puzzle is printed, she idly twists a long strand of her raven brunette hair around her index finger. 

She stops twisting. 

Her eyes widen.

With practiced hand, takes a pencil (yellow Ticonderoga #2 HB Soft) from the back of her messy bun. Lays the newspaper flat on the counter and writes her letters neatly in the boxes. 

Satisfied, she checks the solved crossword puzzle on the other side of the page, and makes corrections as necessary, both to her answers as well as the puzzle master’s solutions.

Red nail polish. 

Matching lipstick. 

A smirk of the smile. 

A woman whose mother called her “not a little stinker.”

Sometimes she holds the yellow Ticonderoga #2 HB Soft with her teeth. 

Sometimes she taps the pencil on the counter near the Bear Claws, like a burnt-out drummer of a has-been rock band on the casino tour circuit who still gets paid, but not (necessarily) laid. 

Taking this all in, The Measure Man contemplates whether she owns a tape measure; perhaps from her father? She’s practiced with a pencil for sure; yet, she fails to use her ear as a pencil holder. A practice most Measurers like him do. Perhaps it’s against the rules in the Crossword Puzzle Solver’s world.

He sighs, remembers his poem The Sordid Inch, then casts off his thoughts of her and her measurements as the fantasy of the man who knows the number of steps in a mile (around two thousand for the curious).

Ah, but the diner! Least I forget! 

For where else does a lazy writer put his characters but in a diner? A diner is an already-filled-in tabula rasa! A playground of the stomach, as it were, where the characters seek the innermost conflicts of their soles (especially fillet of, lightly breaded and gently pan-fried with sides of collared greens and black-eyed peas and all-you-can-drink Iced Tea)!

The device, nay motif!, that a diner represents! Especially a deserted diner that still manages to stay in business. A stage for the characters and their foibles to play out their lives (and maybe the writer’s, too, who spends too much time in diners wolfing down hamburgers (the menu terms “The Big Stinker”) alongside an order of Kurly Cheese Stick Fryers with Ranch, all the while getting fat and running up his cholesterol, and not getting paid nor even laid!).

In any event, time moves on for our protagonist Silas. 

He catches Helen’s attention. She rolls her languid yet eager eyes.

In slow-motion as only found in a diner in the afternoon in August, she comes to his table.

Yes?

May I get an order of Kurly Cheese Stick Fryers?

She purses her so-red lips: Ranch or Marinara?

He smiles (like there’s any question!). Like there’s any question. Bring on the Ragu.

She gasps before answering.

M-A-R-I-N-A-R-A. That was 25 down in yesterday’s crossword. She smiles back to answer his smile as only the atmosphere of the diner evokes. I like you cultured guys.

Taken by surprise, he asks her if she has a tape measure.

Yes.

Whimsical fortunes! 

She blinks at him. Waiting.

He swallows. Would you like to go bowling Saturday. And maybe measure some stuff?

Yes. I have a big deluxe book of crosswords at my place. Maybe we could…

Yes! He’s happy! Swell! (Which is typical-diner speak.)

But, no tape measure on the first date. 

He nods. Kinda crestfallen, but recovers. Makes arrangements with her for Saturday.

And after he settles his bill, he departs, noting the number of steps from the table to the diner’s glass door (around 20 steps == around 50 feet).

He walks the streets with a certain springyness. 

And later, he will dream of her hills like white Ticonderoga HB #2 Softs. 

H-E-M-I-N-G-W-A-Y(sic)