i. I have been staring at Edward Hopper’s masterpiece Nighthawks for hours now.
ii. The four characters are at their most banal and at their most enigmatic. However, I still found myself staring at it and trying to unearth every hidden symbol and meaning in this masterpiece. One thing I saw, something I did not notice the first time I looked at the fabricated versions of the painting, is that the glass window of the diner was not there. But the glass window is ever-present; the frames are there and there is a curve in the glass. But I think Hopper intended for us, the audience, to be the people outside of the diner, looking at the customers inside. We are not part of their world, but rather, a mere spectator to their soundless and obscure show of mediocrity. Hopper invites us to look, to be voyeurs. And we did. In my case, I stared at it for hours. The brightness inside the diner contrasts the night outside. It is the only establishment open during that time. Its neighboring buildings are gone for the night. Its bright fluorescent lights wash streets and envelopes the people inside. Inside the diner are four people: the diner owner, wearing his immaculate white uniform; the couple, a man and a lady, sitting next to each other close enough for a someone to see a couple and; a mysterious man with his back on the window. The expressions on the faces of the people are obscure, almost blank, making it easy to create stories starring these four strangers.
iii. Mr. Smith was having an idle night. It was already 9PM and his only customer that night was a man he only saw for the first time that evening. He was alone and he was cheap. He ordered nothing, but a cup of black coffee and nothing else. Not even a pastry. He watched the man as he took sips without detaching his eyes from the newspaper from yesterday that he was reading. Mr. Smith liked doing that, people-watching. He had watched a lot of people come in and come out of his diner. He could tell which were his devoted, old-time customers and which were the new ones, the people who would probably not stay, anyway. Those who spend an evening in the diner out of whim and did not return. He knew this new guy was going to be the latter. Still, he took his time person-watching. The man was wearing reading glasses with golden metal rims. It covered half of his face, while the newspaper covered the remaining half. He kept his hat inside the diner, but Mr. Smith did not mind. He wore a white shirt under the black coat. And he had on a blue, striped necktie. He noticed the glint of a wedding band on his finger. New and still shiny, Mr. Smith figured that the guy was a newlywed. He moved silently as if afraid to disturb the idyllic night. The only sound coming from him was the rustling of the newspaper and the occasional sips and gulps of coffee
The door rang open and two of his old time customers walked in. He smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Attenborough, but only Mrs. Attenborough returned the smile, albeit a faint one. He knew right ahead that the two was having a bad night. Mr. Smith had the Attenboroughs as customers since they were a young couple, new to the city. Now, they’re much older and own a much bigger house, a much grander car, and a much larger family with four kids. They still frequent at the diner and for that, Mr. Smith was grateful. Often, they shared new things about their work or their family and Mr. Smith would listen and laugh and console. Some nights, however, the couple went to the diner without even sharing a word to the old caretaker. They would smile, sit down, and talk in whispers. That night was one of those nights.
Mrs. Attenborough had her luscious red hair down that evening. She usually had her hair tied up in a bun, but tonight was an exception. She wore a fiery red dress that only challenges the crimson of her hair. Mr. Attenborough had on a bespoke dark navy suit partnered with a powder blue shirt and a black necktie. His hat was silky gray that was almost white when the fluorescent light hit on it. From inside his suit, Mr. Attenborough fished a carton of cigarettes, tapped it upside down until a stick slid out, and he pressed it between his fingers. He slipped the carton to his inside pocket thereafter.
“Coffee, please,” Mr. Attenborough said.
Mr. Smith pulled two white mugs from under the counter and placed it in front of the two. He poured the steaming coffee on each. The two did not touch them.
“Fine night you having, Mr. Attenborough?” Mr. Smith started the friendly chat.
“Could be better,” Mr. Attenborough’s answer cut coldly.
“How ‘bout you, how are you tonight, Mrs. Attenborough?”
When Mrs. Attenborough did not answer, her husband called her out: “Amelia.”
“Hmm?” Mrs. Attenborough said under her breath.
“Mr. Smith was talking to you.”
“Oh,” she said. She looked at the old man behind the counter and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Smith. How are you today?”
“Oh, I’m swell, Mrs. Attenborough. How ‘bout you? You do not seem like yourself tonight.”
“I haven’t been myself for quite some time now, Mr. Smith, and I think that’s just unfortunate, don’t you think?”
“It truly is. Say, where did your self go?”
She sighed and stared at her fingers on the light above head. “I wish I knew where she went, Mr. Smith. It would have made this whole predicament easier.” To which Mr. Attenborough cleared his throat conveniently, as if signaling her to stop. Mrs. Attenborough did stop.
Mr. Smith wiped the counters for a while after that. It was clear that none of his three customers were not in the mood to talk. It was a silent night to which the only sounds present were Mrs. Attenborough’s sighs and the turning pages of the man’s newspapers. Mr. Smith glanced at the three. In between them was the gorgeous, wooden countertop with a distance that felt impassable. In his night diner, Mr. Smith saw, separate islands floating freely on the vast ocean. Each a world of its own.
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