It’s nearly 11 o’clock at night.  Bob and I pay for our food, push aside our plates and make our way to the exit of Gene’s, a brightly lit restaurant on the outskirts of Moncton, New Brunswick.  We are the only customers there at present.

A man watches us intently from behind the counter.  I smile, and he locks eyes.  We traveled all the way up from northern Maine today, hauling our trailer of wool that we’re taking to the mill on Prince Edward Island.  This day has been filled with a series of wonderful encounters, and I have a feeling the universe, and this man’s sharp stare, are inviting us to experience just one more before we retire for the night.  

“Thank you for being open,” I say.  “We didn’t expect to find food anywhere at this hour.”

“We are open from 5 in the morning until 2am, every day,” he tells me with pride in his voice.  

He looks to be about my dad’s age, only the years don’t appear to have been as kind to him.  He pulls his lips into a smile, but his eyes don’t follow.  Dad’s eyes always smile when he does.  

“Are you Gene?”

He nods.  “You must be very tired,” I say. 

“I will go home at 11:30,” he informs me with his head held high.  “I will be back at 6:30 tomorrow morning. That is how it is, seven days a week.”

The years may not have been as kind to him, but the self-respect attributed to those ghastly hours leave no doubt that he is from my father’s era, the generation that takes its first measure of a person’s character by the number of hours he or she labors in a day. 

“What do you do?” He asks me, testing my mettle.  

“We have a family farm in New York state,” Bob explains.  “And a farm-to-table cafe and espresso bar.”

“And what time to you get up in the morning?” He wants to know.

 I am a child of this culture.  I know how to play the social standing game, even if I can’t abide the rules. 

“Three a.m. on the days the cafe is open.  Four a.m. on the regular days.”

He nods, satisfied.  “So you know how to work hard,” he tells us.  We are worthy of his late night conversation.  

“I’m not sure working hard is always the smartest thing to do,” I tiptoe around my conflict with his most strongly-held virtue.  

He stiffens.  “If you want to make it in this business, it is what you do.  If you can’t put in the hours, you will fail.  No one will run your business for you.”

I can’t resist asking just one question of him.  Leaning forward across the counter, I hold his gaze intently.  “Was it worth it?”  I really want to know.

His eyes pop a little.  “Was what worth it?”

“All those hours, every day, all your life.  Was it worth it?”

He straightens his shoulders.  “I once went seven years straight without a single day off,” he proclaims.  “And it cost me a wife and my children.  But I built this.” He spreads his arm out to the restaurant.  A waitress behind me wipes down a table; a sportscast rings out from the bar in the next room.  “This restaurant does 5 million dollars in business every year.  It has a 2 milion dollar payroll.”

“Was it worth losing your wife and kids?”

“They have benefitted greatly from all this.  Now, each of my children drives a new car, lives in a new house, and receives $600 per week from their trust fund.”

Bob and I have little to say to that, except to congratulate him on his hard work, and admire his stamina.  I ask him how he will spend his evening.  Finally, he gives me a genuine smile.  “I have a new dog, Isabella” he tells me.  “She is the love of my life.  I will go home and play with her before I go to bed.”

We thank him for his hospitality, and leave him standing behind his counter with his accomplishments.  We reach the truck, and Bob kneels on the ground in front of it.  He takes advantage of the city lights to make sure it isn’t leaking any fluids, then puts the key in my door.  The lock sticks, so he has to jiggle it around for a while before it catches.  I climb in, then reach across and open his door from inside, since it no longer opens from the outside.  Then we just sit there in the parking lot, thinking about our day. 

We woke up in a budget campground in northern Maine, our tent pitched in a scraggly patch of grass with RVs jammed in on all sides of us.  Most of them were empty, their owners having gone home to Bangor for the week, with plans to return to their patches of heaven on the weekend.  But the camper across from us last night was occupied by one man.  

In the early morning, as we were lighting our camp stove and breaking down our tent, he came out to greet us.  

“Good morning, neighbors!  I’m Gary!  I see you guys are making some coffee!” He smiled over his own mug.  “I just made a full pot.  Why dontcha come over and have some?”

Bob looked up, wide-eyed.  He was grinding his beans fresh, and his heart was set on his own French press.  But I was game.  I shrugged, left him behind with the grinder and followed Gary back to his pad.  He opened the door and climbed up, inviting me to follow.

A little black dog hopped down from a seat and came to greet me.  I could tell from her wiggle that she was still a pup, in spite of her good manners.  She sat in front of me, graciously accepting my pets while Gary filled my cup.  

“That’s Daisy,” Gary said, “We’re roommates.”  With pride, he offered me a tour of his castle.  “I bought this used,” he told me.  “I just love it.”   That’s a good thing, since he has to live in it year round.  

In addition to loving his camper, he also really loves his coffee pot.  And he really loves this side of the campground, which is the quiet side. His relatives own the campground, so they’re letting him have the space for free until he figures out where to go next. The front end, closer to the lake, is the party side, he tells me.   It can get pretty noisy.

Gary’s about my age, and from the number of times he refers back to his miraculous Mr. Coffee and his willingness to share his caffeinated elixir with Bob and me, I got the sense he’s a little lonely.  I wasn’t surprised.  I can’t think of many potential partners who’d want to live year-round in a camper in northern Maine. 

“I noticed the Veteran plates on your car,” I mentioned. 

“Iraq.  2003.” 

“How was it, coming back to civilian life?”

“Hard.  Real hard.”  He shrugged.  “Whattdya gonna do?  The meds help.  And Daisy.  She’s a great dog.  She goes everywhere wit’ me.”

He asked me about our trailer of wool, and I told him where we were headed.  “I LOVE wool,” he effused.  “That’s an amazing sweater you got on. D’you make it?”  I nodded.  “Wool’s the BEST.  My mom once bought me a wool blanket made by an Abenaki lady.  I still have it.  Man, that must be great.  You got this sheep farm, and this week its just you and your guy and the open road.  You guys get to see some amazing places, I’ll bet.  What a great life!  I’d love ta have a farm!”

But Gary won’t ever have a farm.  

He gets a camper, meds, Mr. Coffee and Daisy.

Meanwhile, Bob and I get friggen everything, including one amazing day that was about to unfold.

Bob and I broke camp and took two mugs of fresh-roasted coffee down to the lakeside.  We perched on some rocks.   As I sipped my drink, I started to cry for Gary, gob-smacked by what he has given up and what has been taken from him in his life; that he won’t have the greatest joys and riches that I enjoy in mine:  a loving partner and children.  I’m thankful he has Daisy.  I’m thankful for the taste of his coffee that reminded me just how much privilege I enjoy.

It was Gary’s vivacity and good wishes that inspired our extraordinary day.  Thinking of him, we lost track of time as we headed north, pulling over to chat with folks at visitor centers, taking local recommendations for detours, cooking ourselves a seafood picnic lunch, brewing more good coffee to enjoy as we drove, taking in the world, dismissing the GPS in favor of scenic back roads.  At dusk we pulled into Fundy National Park and decided to take a hike through the boreal forest, kissing beside a waterfall, kissing beside the truck.  These diversions are what brought us to Moncton at this late hour.  

Bob and I sit quietly now in the beat-up farm truck, staring at the side of Gene’s restaurant.  A recreational number-cruncher, my tired eyes fixate on Gene’s HVAC system while I absently balance his gross receipts against projected food costs, insurance, labor, energy bills, taxes and upkeep.  I figure he clears an easy one and a quarter million per year.  Gene might feel it’s all worth it.  I don’t.

And I think how this day has shown Bob and me two extraordinary men:  One who threw away family to grow his business, and one who never even got a chance to have a family or a business.  Both are blessed with dogs to love them, Isabella and Daisy.  Isabella might have more toys and fancier food.  But I think Daisy is the luckier dog.