I have seen fear at the scuzzy diner
Why am I afraid of scuzzy diners with freaks loitering in them? It is unwarranted. I always have a good time at such places. Take today for instance. I met a person at this snack shop diner in the scuzzy neighborhood. I was early. I sat at a booth by myself. A junkie couple and their seemingly straight daughter (cousin?) loitered by the door. He had dirty blue ink done on his hands. His 'wife' had that junkie sand blasted look on her face. But the girl they were with seemed straight. I was confused, then frightened.
After they left my fear did not abate. For I noticed strange and twisted souls slumped on the counter. A man, alone in the booth behind me frowned in a tabloid. Through the window I witnessed shambling oddly shaped urchins. Then the junkie guy was seen again in the window. I was terrified he might re-enter, but he staggered around the corner. Off to god knows where.
The menu was frightening. It felt ancient and indigestible. The owner was frightening. A long, lean old man the color of cold veal. The waitresses were frightening. Uniformed women without mercy. All the people in the booths were frightening. Local indigents perhaps carrying communicable illness.
Then the person I was to meet arrived. He was long and gangly and strung out from too much time in front of a computer. The waitresses all talked to him. They wanted to know why don't he come for breakfast anymore? He replied that now he drinks coffee and freaks out at home in the mornings. Our waitress arrived smiling. She was round and robust and my fear turned to wonder at her rude ruddy health. Cigarette teeth notwithstanding.
The guy I was with talked a lot. He nattered on and I leaned back in the booth and took it all in. The fear was still there, yes, the owner still scared me, but something else began to assemble itself. Outside a train passed over the street, cops on the corner shook somebody down, two round young girls sauntered by. Inside a woman who resembled my insane aunt kept looking at me. I smiled at her. She exhaled her smoke and grimaced back. Other people looked at me as I was looking at them. The place really crams in the booths, everybody was checking out their booth buddies. It dawned on me. This was where freaks go to check each other out. See what the freak community is up to.
I sighed, the guy I was with ordered the potted meat special. I ordered the chicken salad sandwich, fries, cup soup and coffee special. The waitress refilled my coffee, water. She had her act together. I watched the owner watching the kitchen, manning the cash register and checking the entrance for whatever might crawl in next. I stopped fearing him. It became totally clear why he had skin the color of aged pork. He had the most stressful job in the city. Then I noticed he was wearing one of those boat shaped paper hats. Fear him? I loved him.
The sun popped out momentarily. I know, it sounds made up, but it was a blustery late March day and the sun finally climbed out of the clouds and lit up the cops loitering on the corner. They looked like they were taking their time collaring this one. I could not see who the perps were, they were hidden out of window view.
The food came and it was great. Chicken salad on white toast, greasy barley soup, fat soaked french fries. Afterwards we were bold enough to order dessert, which proved to be a bit of a reach as the peach pie was a gelatinous mess that made me a little afraid again.
By the time the check came I was so filled with good vibrations I paid for lunch. Which, in terms of picking up the bill, a diner check is definitely the one to pick up. Yes, I must admit the potted meat special with canned corn in a clotting gravy might be an entrée to avoid. But the scuzzy diner was really a trip worth making. I must remember not to be afraid of it. I will not worry if the man in the John Deere cap keeps staring at me, or if the old lady sees me and shouts, "That's the one," or if the owner entreats me while I pay the check in a language not heard since the late 1600's.
The scuzzy diner always takes you there, and the special always comes with cup soup.
After they left my fear did not abate. For I noticed strange and twisted souls slumped on the counter. A man, alone in the booth behind me frowned in a tabloid. Through the window I witnessed shambling oddly shaped urchins. Then the junkie guy was seen again in the window. I was terrified he might re-enter, but he staggered around the corner. Off to god knows where.
The menu was frightening. It felt ancient and indigestible. The owner was frightening. A long, lean old man the color of cold veal. The waitresses were frightening. Uniformed women without mercy. All the people in the booths were frightening. Local indigents perhaps carrying communicable illness.
Then the person I was to meet arrived. He was long and gangly and strung out from too much time in front of a computer. The waitresses all talked to him. They wanted to know why don't he come for breakfast anymore? He replied that now he drinks coffee and freaks out at home in the mornings. Our waitress arrived smiling. She was round and robust and my fear turned to wonder at her rude ruddy health. Cigarette teeth notwithstanding.
The guy I was with talked a lot. He nattered on and I leaned back in the booth and took it all in. The fear was still there, yes, the owner still scared me, but something else began to assemble itself. Outside a train passed over the street, cops on the corner shook somebody down, two round young girls sauntered by. Inside a woman who resembled my insane aunt kept looking at me. I smiled at her. She exhaled her smoke and grimaced back. Other people looked at me as I was looking at them. The place really crams in the booths, everybody was checking out their booth buddies. It dawned on me. This was where freaks go to check each other out. See what the freak community is up to.
I sighed, the guy I was with ordered the potted meat special. I ordered the chicken salad sandwich, fries, cup soup and coffee special. The waitress refilled my coffee, water. She had her act together. I watched the owner watching the kitchen, manning the cash register and checking the entrance for whatever might crawl in next. I stopped fearing him. It became totally clear why he had skin the color of aged pork. He had the most stressful job in the city. Then I noticed he was wearing one of those boat shaped paper hats. Fear him? I loved him.
The sun popped out momentarily. I know, it sounds made up, but it was a blustery late March day and the sun finally climbed out of the clouds and lit up the cops loitering on the corner. They looked like they were taking their time collaring this one. I could not see who the perps were, they were hidden out of window view.
The food came and it was great. Chicken salad on white toast, greasy barley soup, fat soaked french fries. Afterwards we were bold enough to order dessert, which proved to be a bit of a reach as the peach pie was a gelatinous mess that made me a little afraid again.
By the time the check came I was so filled with good vibrations I paid for lunch. Which, in terms of picking up the bill, a diner check is definitely the one to pick up. Yes, I must admit the potted meat special with canned corn in a clotting gravy might be an entrée to avoid. But the scuzzy diner was really a trip worth making. I must remember not to be afraid of it. I will not worry if the man in the John Deere cap keeps staring at me, or if the old lady sees me and shouts, "That's the one," or if the owner entreats me while I pay the check in a language not heard since the late 1600's.
The scuzzy diner always takes you there, and the special always comes with cup soup.
posted by RSS Spirit Combine | 7:43 PM
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