1 Day in the Life of Ricks Diner

2:01 p.m.

Finally, the last day of classes of the fall semester.

The television is set to ESPN and oldies music buzzes in the background. The place is empty, chilly and silent except for the off-key singing of the cashier--"What-cha want, baby?"--he dips his hands into the pickle stash. He's the one who calls everyone by name as they place their orders: "Sorry, Joe. Here you go Joe," "Food points, Lucas? It's gonna be $8.25, Lucas."

Lucas sits with two other guys; all three in glasses and two in Duke sweatshirts. They discuss the basketball game.

The cashier sets a plate on the counter. "Lucas, you're ready, buddy."

Two more boys come in and sit down at a nearby table, their copies of The Chronicle in hand.

"I can't believe they changed their jerseys."

"Huh?"

"The away jerseys--they're not black."

4:30 p.m.

A kid in a Navy uniform appears through the doors from the Edens patio. He's sharp, with his black jacket and pants, buzzed hair. A few minutes later, a girl joins him. She's petite, with a Burberry scarf, boots, a peacoat and a shoulder bag with her initials on it. Her face is rosy--perhaps from the cold, or perhaps just blush. They both lean into the table. He looks at her sweetly and begins to eat the food on his plate.

"You want a bite?" he asks in a shy, smooth voice.

"No, I ate..." she says. They chat for awhile in low voices. Then, she gets up and returns with crackers and a few napkins. They prepare for some kind of contest.

"You tell me when you're ready," the boy says, as he holds his watch out in front of him. He counts off, and she begins to eat the crackers. "5,4,3,2,1, ohhh, boooo...!" he says. Apparently she has not finished the crackers in time. "Very close, very close." He reaches over the table, and wipes the crumbs off her face.

Soon, they stand and he waits as she slips on her gloves and buttons her coat. They walk out together--he's slightly behind her, as if he's debating whether to put a hand on her back or not. He doesn't. He straightens up, opens the door, and they disappear into the gray afternoon.

5:50 p.m.

"I Heard It Through The Grapevine" plays in the background, competing with the sounds of the machinery humming in the kitchen and the sizzling of current orders.

A tall boy with faded jeans, a sporty windbreaker and a blue Duke cap slowly walks in. He places his order and then walks to the opposite side of the room and slumps into his chair. He absentmindedly gazes at the TV.

While he waits for his food, he remains relatively motionless, save for a few instances of stretching out his feet or leaning his head against his hands on the table. As soon as his name is called he moves as if time is suddenly of the essence. As if this were an inconvenient pause in his life and he is now able to resume the Duke code of always having something to do.

He murmurs a "thank you," throws his coat on and instantly disappears.

6:35 p.m.

Two boys, one in a striped wool sweater and jeans, the other in cords and a plain sweater walk up to the counter to place their orders. They debate how hungry they are, and when one mentions that he has a pack of cookies they can eat while they wait for their food, the other quickly insists, "cookies are better after you eat dinner."

The debate then turns to a test they have just taken.

"I'm pretty sure it was either A or B."

"Well, my gut told me to go with A."

They express relief that only one week of school remains.

"Are you going out tonight?" striped sweater boy asks.

"I've got to study for a bit," cords boy responds.

"Yeah, I'm a bit stressed because I didn't do anything all day today. Tomorrow I'm gonna drill myself--gonna kill myself."

"Not literally, but figuratively, right?" Cords boy stands up and puts his coat on. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow."

He leaves. Striped sweater boy sits alone for about 10 more minutes, gets his belongings together and quietly leaves the diner.

7:38 p.m.

"Does Duhon ever miss?" queries a dark-haired boy in a Duke University Marching Band hat to his friend. "Those floaters! From anywhere! He can bend his body anywhere and sink the shots!"

7:48 p.m.

A girl in a brown quilted coat talks on a cell phone. "I just went to a sorority recruitment meeting. [pause] I'll get through it. It's just gonna be hard."

8:12 p.m.

The band kid and his friend now have opened a pocket Bible and take turns reading from the Gospel of St. Matthew.

9:14 p.m.

"Chris is going to have to be better this year. That floater in the lane is worthless."

10:36 p.m.

Two boys and a girl sit at a booth along the back wall for over an hour. All three eat ravenously, quickly, then begin chatting, constantly laughing. They discuss topics of campus interest, like how they hate the fraternity and sorority scene.

"I can't imagine being in a sorority," she says. "Making friends that way seems fake."

"Yeah, same with a frat. I'm glad I didn't do it," the short guy adds.

As they disdain the greek scene, they spend another 10 minutes talking about all the groups, all three comfortable with all the names and quick to make a joke about one group or another. On this party night, many of these greeks are out, and these three populate a different sector of the social scene at Duke. And while they talk happily, really enjoying themselves, they also cannot help but betray a hint of longing about that which they are not a part of.

But inevitably, the talk turns to basketball.

"Duhon, yeah the way he hits that floater in the lane, that shot is money," the tall guy says.

12:00 a.m.

Midnight. A girl with keys hanging from her neck TIP-style shuffles through the door and up to the counter. She's accessorized her long wool coat with sweatpants and a full-size pillow enveloped by tan bedsheets. After ordering, the girl walks to a table facing the television, studies the TBS movie for 30 seconds and buries her face into the pillow nose first.

"Margaret," the counter guy calls.

Margaret takes her pillow in one hand and her eggs and biscuit plate in the other and shuffles back out the door.

12:40 a.m.

"I don't understand how she could get married when she was pregnant. She'd be all fat in her wedding pictures," a girl in a knit hat tells her dining companion.

"You find out you're pregnant in, like, four weeks," replies the foreign graduate student.

"How do you even know?" she asks him.

"You don't get your period, so you know."

"But a wedding takes, like, eight months to plan."

"Maybe they did it real quick or something."

"Obviously."

"I don't know, maybe it's not true. But I heard it from several people. And they're not people who gossip." They pause to consider the implications of this.

The grad student continues, "Have you seen their wedding pictures?

There's this huge blow-up. I think they're still very much in love and they have a very active sex life."

1:45 a.m.

A girl with glasses and a baby face walks in with perfect posture. She glances a moment too long at a table of three students sitting eating fries, chicken fingers and free Student Appreciation Week sodas and places her order. One of the men she glanced at coming in grabs her from behind, engulfing the girl (who's shorter by at least half a foot) in his arms and massive hooded sweatshirt. She smiles tentatively and he throws a hand up in the air and gyrates slightly, barely moving but clearly dancing to the oldies in the background: "I got sun-shine, on a clou-dy day..." She laughs.

1:50 a.m.

The carnage of dinner sits on the table. Three men talk and two girls chew their straws.

"You a li'r. I seen you like a--I seen you try to play like a brother..." He's almost laughing. Almost. "I was so mad that kid wasn't being on my team. It's like I don't care if you can't shoot, but if I give you the ball, if you know you can't shoot, don't shoot."

His friend squeaks a reply, "It wadn't that bad..."

"No. He come up there, stop, take a look and it din't even hit da rim." And he jumps up to demonstrate the bad shooting. "He tried to shoot a three pointer from the block!"

The third guy, a skinny kid with an earwarmer and a Fat-Albert hoodie, jumps in. "He di-id. He di-id."

"It did not touch any rim. That's why I was like, 'Yo... are you feelin' okay?'"

A moment of silence for the end of the Laker's game and then sudden dispersal as though someone in the huddle had just yelled, "Break!" To the trash cans and then the elevator.

2:24 a.m.

The bars closed 24 minutes ago and suddenly Rick's is flooded. The room rings with stiletto heals clicking against the ground and chairs being shuffled all over the place. Yells as people rediscover their friends after a long night. The line grows. A man in a tuxedo with a nearly empty bottle of vodka waves the plastic container in the air.

The place is packed with girls. One wears a flowing red skirt and men's pennyloafers four sizes too big. Another a formal dress hidden under a yellow rain slicker. Sensible heels and a shearling coat with a red shirt that shows four inches of stomach. A Middle Eastern beauty trips on her 3-inch heels and falls, slurring her words as she yells, "Yo, anyone wanna donate me some food points?" A girl in a black shirt and black pants that look painted on falls over, taking a chair and table with her. Another one in too-big leisure loafers. She runs up to a girl with big eyes, mascaraed and lined to look larger. The girl in loafers whispers in the mascara girl's ear. "I can't believe you did that!!!" she yells back. Beaded tops and fringe and Coach purses. Black sex kitten boots, red pointed heels, J.Crew flip flops, men's everyday shoes stolen off their dates' feet. Purple, white, gold. Lots of silver. Not just on the clothing, but on the girls' eyes. Earrings like chandelier glass so long that they hit shoulders as the girls turn.

Diamond studs. Hand-crafted Moroccan bronze earings that stretch out earlobes with their weight.

2:35-3:45 a.m.

People pick up the wrong food and don't notice. The counter people give up trying to yell names over the sounds of drunken storytelling from Parizade and houses off East.

"Ashley! Ashley! I love you!"

Omigod! I can't believe she just did that--Is it a bad thing--I'm kinda pissed she just stammered off--I'm so pissed the cops came--You couldn't even hear noise from down the street--I feel like they just knew a bunch of black people were going to be there--

Another group of people walks in, kicked out of their party room by the police. Standing in line for food, one of the boys delivers a small monologue to the group, "I will take all of the blame. The 72 beers were mine. I am an alcoholic. I drink compulsively. It was just an intervention. That's why everyone was in the room."

One of the girls, a leggy redhead with freckles turns to a friend and giggles, "We got arrested, sort of..."

--I can actually see your breasts --I ain't trying to hate 'im--Your roommate act like he don't know who I am... Let him know--I appreciate letting him know who's who--Trying is not good enough. I have one semester left. We're running out of time--Where's the Everclear?--I won't get drunk--Shut the hell up! You shut up!--

A girl in a blue sports jersey takes the handle of Everclear and pours it into the tiny black condiment containers intended for ketchup, lining them up in rows. Around the corner booth table, arms grab the makeshift shot glasses, which soon become empty.

A girl walks in the patio door and bellyflops onto her face. No one who came in with her notices.

As the place clears out a little, the group that got arrested straightens out their story.

"Everybody's been consoling me that I'm not fucked. So everyone remember the story."

"Yeah, really."

"No one was drinking."

"We don't know who's drinking."

"I didn't, honestly. I did not know."

"Who turned you in?"

"I know who it was."

"That cop is smart."

"You know, last year I told every cop that tried to write me up that I was from Wake Forest and didn't get in trouble."

"Dude, that's so shady."

4:00 a.m.

Trash covers the booths and the floors and the counters. Every table has plates and discarded food piled high. Tomato slices covered in mayonnaise. Chips ground into the floors and mixed together with dirt and rainwater and alcohol. Cheese fries and omelets are stacked one upon another with styrofoam plates dividing half-eaten chicken salad sandwiches from onion rings ordered but untouched.

A couple sits at a table speaking French.

5:30 a.m.

A couple sits in the corner booth with textbooks and laptops while workers clean the dining room, sweeping, wiping, taking out trash cans, scrubbing, restocking. The brooms glide under the tables and the students' feet. Trash magically disappears from the tables, then the floor, then the room.

7:00 a.m.

Rick's is empty. The diner is cleaned and smells slightly of bleach. The light starts to come up outside.

7:40 a.m.

Two early risers walk in with polished ponytails wearing expensive looking sweats and and free Duke T-shirts. Girls who last Friday night probably looked like they'd walked off the set of "Sex and the City" now could pass as Neutrogena kids.

8:33 a.m.

A guy comes in and orders two boxes of cereal, orange juice and milk. In a strong southern drawl he asks, "You care if I change the channel?"

He sits down, munches on his Cheerios and watches Toby Keith sing "Beer for my Horses" on Country Music Television.

9:27 a.m.

Two girls come in from the drizzly cold outside.

"So she basically had everything done?" says the one wearing sunglasses.

"She was called the human Barbie. Yeah, she's pretty... now," says the other. She turns to her friend, "Do you want to share an apple with me?"

She does.

10:32 a.m.

An engineer walks into the diner holding a circuit board with wires dangling down in colored loops.

"Whatcha got there, Buddy?" asks one of the men behind the counter, cordially but taunting. "What's that for? A computer?"

The engineer, startled, looks down at his tucked-in shirt. "Oh... Uh... Yeah," he says. "It's for class."

11:20 a.m.

A guy wanders around the restaurant holding a plate with a mostly devoured breakfast. He walks up to the three or four tables with people sitting and waiting for food or eating.

"Does anyone want my sausage?" he inquires as two sausages roll across the remains of eggs on the black Styrofoam. He finds no takers.

12:30 p.m.

A steady stream of people comes through the doors; they walk up to the counter, ordering chicken tenders with extra sauce, grapefruits without sugar, hash browns, French fries, the daily special, omelets, waffles, club sandwiches.

The men behind the counter call out the names and the student patrons sit in silence waiting for food or in small groups talking quietly over lunch.

12:48 p.m.

Mike...

12:50 p.m.

Tim...

12:53 p.m.

David...

12:54 p.m.

Greg...

Alicia...

12:56 p.m.

Richard...

1:00 p.m.

Greg...

Jared...

Leva...

The details in this story are the product of 24-consecutive hours of observation by a team of nine reporters. Because of the observational nature of the story, the specifics were not fact-checked. Emily Almas, Corinne Cerny, Ian Crouch, Paul Crowley, Karen Hauptman, Aaron Levine and Liana Wyler contributed to this story.