The horizon has begun to straddle terminal dusk behind me when a second star bursts into view ahead, so bright that I pull over and wait for my vision to clear. It clears after the sun has set and leaves only a confusion of neon lights, a rogue LED flashing sickly in the encroaching high-definition dark. By then I’ve checked my phone and confirmed that this is likely my destination.
‘For the sake of brevity, this entry will refer to ‘The American ‘American Diner’ Diner’ as ‘TAADD’ except for when it counts. When it counts is now, because it is important to understand that, by embedding ‘American Diner’ into ‘The American Diner’ ‘The American ‘American Diner’ Diner’ is doubling down on a stereotype so well-trodden that the finished product borders upon absurdity that turns the stomach.
‘TAADD’s’ outer is plated in chrome and polished to such a shine that the 50’s era curving structure reflects with the blasphemous irreverence of a carnival mirror. To approach ‘TAADD’ is to be confronted with battalion of strutting selves, some short and stubby, others spindly and looming like a beetle-sick pine.
Inside one can expect to be ignored entirely or set upon by servers so weathered and wry that their nonchalance becomes cutting. Cutting, too, are the cracks in the plastic booths which open and close like tiny mouths as one shifts their weight, nipping at exposed flesh and confirming a millennium’s filth in the cushions. The food is mainly grease and salt, the coffee, hot tar. The smoking section may well be on fire and everything has been tooth-picked to the surface beneath it. ‘TAADD’ is the diner experience as it’s meant to be- the only option available.’
My evening arrival spares me the existential confrontation by warped reflections but my attempts to enter ‘TAADD’ are fruitless for the better part of an hour as the reflected scrawl of a dozen neon signs weaves mirages where a door should be. Hector is eventually hungry enough that he opts to use his blindness to our advantage and, with his slow tugging as guide, we eventually arrive on the other side of this rainbow maze.
A sign past the door says ‘Please Wait to Be Seated’ on one side and ‘Please Seat Yourself’ on the other and is positioned such that it’s difficult to know which is the current intended takeaway. I let Hector cross onto the carpet first, like a bumbling mine canary, and his trespass goes without comment. We slide into a booth near the front and are awarded with laminate menus.
All of the items up for grab are listed without description and personalized in such a way as to be entirely mysterious. ‘Ezekiel’s Smoked Salad.’ ‘Liza Plate (sm).’ ‘Inverted Pancakes (Choose Maria or Penelope style. Combination: add 1.99)’
A coffee appears in front of me, delivered in so casual a rush that it slops over the side. Napkins do not seem to survive contact with the liquid- they dissolve into pulp without absorbing it. I notice that Hector has somehow received a small cup of plain slaw. It doesn’t seem possible that someone could have delivered it without taking my order first. I push it away from him until I can confirm that this is a safe place and not a monkey’s paw sort of hell.
The pie list is expansive but most options have been struck-through to indicate their being sold out. I crane my neck to see if I can spy a pie counter or even just catch the eye of a server but the whole of the restaurant seems to look away as soon as I pay it attention. I’m not sure I’ve seen anybody’s face since I’ve been here.
The décor is the standard taken to the extreme. There is a wall of license plates and a smattering of signed photographs that suggest a handful of celebrities may have come through. A broken jukebox machine stands in one corner, a broken fortuneteller in another. A collection of era-gone-by promotional materials are racist enough to illicit discomfort. Everyone seems to be hungover or sad.
Do I like American diners?
I order something that turns out to be a variation of hashbrowns and they are about as ‘okay’ as fried potatoes can be. We escape ‘TAADD’ with no harm but with the nagging sense of having been complicit in a sort of corrupted nostalgia. How is it that diners have remained so anchored in their ways as to be unaffected by the passage of time? What does it mean to have them spread like toothpicks, tacking the country they serve to the earth beneath it?
I doubt diners are the problem, assume, instead, that the Wayside has delivered a ‘smoke-a-pack’ punishment for a transgression I had no real part in. For me, a diner has always been a familiar place in a strange state- as much a home as I seem to have anymore. That said, staying at home has never been my strong suit.
-traveler
