I slid onto the red vinyl seat of a stool at the diner just in time to hear the woman behind the counter say, “Because he couldn’t get his dick out of the chicken.” Her voice, roughened by cigarettes, imparted a menacing edge to the comment, as if the content weren’t startling enough.
The man one stool over stage-whispered, “If I were you, I’d pass on the chicken today.” Elbows on the counter, hands steepled around a grayed china mug, his shoulders shook with barely constrained laughter. The woman slapped a menu on the counter in front of me.
She turned to swat the man next to me over the head with a second menu, soon worn loose from its plastic pocket by rhythmic whacks. “Dave … you … jackass …,” two swats here for emphasis, “there’s … nothing … wrong … with … the … chicken.”
“Honey, here’s the thing,” she said, looking at me sideways. “Why did the pervert cross the road? Because he couldn’t get his dick out of the chicken. That damn fool down there says he doesn’t get it.” She pointed to a man seated in front of the grill. “What’s to get – it’s a joke.” She looked over the top of her glasses at me, pencil sharp and small, pad at the ready. “What’ll you have?”
“Coffee. Black, please,” I said, “eggs, bacon, some hash browns. With butter. And jelly. Over easy. Bacon crisp, almost burnt.”
“There is nothing wrong with the chicken,” she said.
“I’m sure the chicken’s fine,” I said, “but I had my heart set on breakfast.”
I’m hardly a regular; I’d patronized this diner only once, months before. Coffeehouses have been my choice the past several years, but I was raised with diners. Not trendy restaurants striving for retro, but joints where stools rule and tables, if there are any, sit empty.
My grandfather and I patronized a diner in Cincinnati nearly burrowed into a steep hill. Grandfather and I were counter customers, good for breakfast or a plate lunch. Sometimes meatloaf, Swiss steak or chili. Sometimes malts, made right in front of me, whirled in the green Hamilton Beach industrial until it poured smooth.
Today, I gravitate toward diners not for the food, but for solitude in the company of other detached souls. I’ve never been on a date at a diner and I plan to keep it that way. I rarely see couples. For that matter, I rarely see women. The men tolerate me well enough. Alone, aloof, somewhat companionable, I straddle the stool and read my paper.
My diner diaspora covers the country. When I travelled regularly to New York City, I took comfort in a 10-seat hole-in-the-wall complete with a resident cat to mouse the place. I felt safer knowing he watched my feet. In San Diego, I would escape to a boardwalk diner when too much forced togetherness with my fellow workers rankled my live-alone self.
Visits to my winter bird parents in Florida sent me running for the solace of an old-fashioned diner on wheels near the beach. For the price of a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, I became an adult again, regained some sanity and was able to return to the condo and remain civil.
I’ve always loved Edward Hopper’s painting, Nighthawks at the Diner. The wrap of glass with four figures inside. The individuated loneliness each figure projects. There’s no exit, no entrance, no food on the counter, just four lost souls bathed in harsh fluorescence. Hopper began painting Nighthawks just weeks after Pearl Harbor; the diner the perfect vehicle to convey the sense of loss and despair the ever-optimistic Americans must have felt.
It’s where I sometimes live today, in self-selected solitude. Jobs change, parents die, lovers leave, friends decay, I age and work comes at me, but it’s not steady enough. Life is not easy. I lurch forward, fall and wobble, then seek center while spinning six plates in the air on sticks. I can’t stop. Not yet. I need diners now.
No coffeehouse can give you the sense of disconnectedness a good diner exudes. They’re too damn convivial and communal. Diners are for tough times. When I can balance on a stool, when the banter and the overheard jokes can float around my head for an hour or so, I don’t have to think or talk.
The little diner made it to my A-list. I’ll stop in again. With the chicken incident, near burnt bacon and just-runny-enough eggs, my anxiety is diverted. Plus, a good story is hard to come by; a bad joke in hard times even more rare.
St. Louisan Pat Eby is a writer whose work mirrors her passions – farmers, seasonal cooking, gardening, fashion, animals, art and design.
This article appears in Nov 1-30, 2009.