This diner is a beehive. Waitresses in stiff yellow dresses and black aprons rush past me balancing trays of steaming food on their palms while holding pots of strong coffee. Families talk loudly in the booths, cheerful Sunday morning talk. It all blends together into a monotonous buzzing that surrounds me, and the fluorescent light bulbs above my head are humming too. A large woman stands behind the bar, her wide hips resting against a metal countertop used for chopping up onions and peppers for omelets. Her head is adorned with a hairnet that fits tightly on her fleshy forehead.
The queen bee. With her hands folded across her chest and her eyes like stone, she watches.
I turn back to my coffee. It reflects my face like obsidian stone because I don’t trust the milk that sits in the silver pitcher to my right. I’d rather look at it than drink it, anyway, because I like the way the sunlight gleams off the ceramic mug, and because it’s morning, and this morning is breakfast and fresh coffee and a newspaper opened up onto a clean tabletop in Warsaw, Indiana. And it is my pen in my hand, to do the crossword puzzle until I inevitably give up and to circle ads in the Help Wanted section, just for kicks.
“Shot girl wanted, no exp. necessary. Models needed for figure drawing, established professional artist, $10/hr. Sec. work, great pay, 40 hrs/wk.” I’ve noticed it’s the same jobs listed in every town and city in America. Typing letters and pouring liquor and smiling pretty. I imagine myself with my hair wrapped up in a tight little bun, legs crossed, and answering phones. “I’m sorry, he’s in an important meeting right now. I’m going to have to put you on hold.”
A waitress hurries past, stopping just long enough to slide a plateful of home fries onto the cheap paper placemat in front of me. They’re lukewarm, but I’m hungry and I could care less. The onions are soft and yellow, and when I shake the hot sauce onto them I like how it falls, in neat little droplets. Like rain.
My father once said the only thing he loves more than a pint in a pub is breakfast in a diner. “I’ve had breakfasts all over this country,” he said. “And there is just something about a diner in the morning, you know? One with big windows full of morning sun, and lookin’ out onto a highway and a field of brown summertime grass. The light pourin’ in bright and drapin’ warm over your shoulders and spillin’ over onto the floor. And you open the menu and shake your head because it’s goin’ to be tough. There’s so much to choose from and you’re tryna decide what you want but you could eat anything, you know, you’re so hungry. Especially when you’re on the road, ‘cause you’ve been drivin’ all night and all you’ve seen are the signs at the side of the road and that asphalt and the blackness beyond ‘em. Then the sun comes up and turns the sky all kinds of colors, turns the sky flame-red if it’s gunna be a hot one. When you park the car in the lot all this dust flies up, it’s not like the city where everything’s paved and smooth.
“The diner’s full of talk and laughin’, babies babblin’ secret poetry into their mothers’ arms and old men shufflin’ around slowly. ‘Cause those guys don’t give a damn you know, they’re old wise sages. And you can tell who else in the diner has been on the road, ‘cause they’re smilin’ sleepily at the waitresses and slurpin’ up their coffee and glad they’re outta that car. And the waitress smiles back at them, and she smiles at you when she takes your order and the cook grunts while he flips eggs on the fryer and man, it’s just the place to be. And you feel all right after that long night, that long, lonely, lonely night driving.
“And I’ll tell you, I’ve had some of the best breakfasts of my life and some of the worst breakfasts of my life. All when I was travelin’. Mary, I’ll tell you. Pensacola, Florida. Best ham and cheese omelet anyone ever set right in front of me, I’m tellin’ you. The cheese was melted just right, you know? And it tasted like my mama’s ham, which she always baked with some pineapple on it. And there was her ham, all chopped up in my eggs. Haha—man! But in a little town called Saratoga, Wyoming now; never order pancakes in Saratoga, Wyoming. ‘Em suckers came out dry as coal, had to pour half a bottle of syrup on ‘em to get ‘em down. Little shack of a place on the edge of a valley. Great view, but man. No, never order pancakes in Saratoga, Wyoming if you know what’s good for you.”
I pay the check at the register up front, my fingers jittery from the coffee. I look back and think about taking the classifieds I left open at the table, covered in ink and grease stains and spilled sugar. But a soft breeze blows in from the open doorway and I head out, grinning. There’ll be music on the radio of my car and tomorrow morning there’ll be breakfast in another diner, somewhere, anywhere. I want to get going.
Jumping into the driver’s seat I roll down the window and rev the engine. I know it’ll be a hot one because the sunrise made the sky burn candy-apple red. The road glimmers before me in the light and it gradually narrows to a pinpoint within the vastness of the horizon.
