READ!!!!
I wrote this. Read it and tell me what place is makes you think of!!!
The Sunday morning chatter begins to elevate as families pour into the narrow entrance of the diner. We enter the doors and get uncomfortably close to the other attendees, almost being able to hear their scattered thoughts. As the hostess guides us to our booth, I hear split seconds of a cornucopia of conversations. One woman is whispering, thinking she is being secretive, about standard weekend drama between her and her spouse. The mother of a family of four is screaming at her children with a harsh tone while another family of four stares disapprovingly at them. I take a sudden step back, seeing that waitresses and busboys are coming inches away from knocking me into two elderly men. The elderly men quietly dismiss my near intrusion and continue to sip their twentieth cup of coffee and ask about the senior citizen specials while puffing on their non-filtered cigarettes. The sting of their smoke in my eyes brings a strange comfort, as I have walked to these booths and dodged these waitresses and busboys many times before.
Me and three others have finally reached our destination. I enter the booth and scoot towards the wall, trying to create as much space as possible between the person seated next to me. I’ve always had some type of discomfort in these booths. The sitting space seems too personal at times but the person seated kiddy corner from you is at a picture perfect distance. Our waitress approaches and slides a pen out from behind her ear. The pen looks as if it’s been bitten nervously due to the stress of complicated customers. She smells of cigarettes and cheap perfume and although the smell is not overbearing, we purposely rush ourselves as we order. The waitress refills coffee cups and clears off tables as she hurries to the back of the diner to fill our orders.
My eyes wander through the rest of the restaurant, making contact with the elderly men I had almost involuntarily assaulted on my way in. My eyes then fall upon the imperfectly stacked packets of sugar. I fumble with a pack of matches and somehow I’m still a nervous wreck even though I’ve been here countless times. The two families of four have already left, and the only chatter in the diner is that of my friends and the waitresses talking over their cigarette breaks and free bowls of soup. One waitress is counting her tips, while another leans on the wall, looking as if she’s screaming on the inside to feed us to the vultures. As the Sunday afternoon crowd chatter begins to elevate, we find that we have properly paid our dues to the one place that ironically makes us feel at home due to their rudeness and brutal serving skills.
The Sunday morning chatter begins to elevate as families pour into the narrow entrance of the diner. We enter the doors and get uncomfortably close to the other attendees, almost being able to hear their scattered thoughts. As the hostess guides us to our booth, I hear split seconds of a cornucopia of conversations. One woman is whispering, thinking she is being secretive, about standard weekend drama between her and her spouse. The mother of a family of four is screaming at her children with a harsh tone while another family of four stares disapprovingly at them. I take a sudden step back, seeing that waitresses and busboys are coming inches away from knocking me into two elderly men. The elderly men quietly dismiss my near intrusion and continue to sip their twentieth cup of coffee and ask about the senior citizen specials while puffing on their non-filtered cigarettes. The sting of their smoke in my eyes brings a strange comfort, as I have walked to these booths and dodged these waitresses and busboys many times before.
Me and three others have finally reached our destination. I enter the booth and scoot towards the wall, trying to create as much space as possible between the person seated next to me. I’ve always had some type of discomfort in these booths. The sitting space seems too personal at times but the person seated kiddy corner from you is at a picture perfect distance. Our waitress approaches and slides a pen out from behind her ear. The pen looks as if it’s been bitten nervously due to the stress of complicated customers. She smells of cigarettes and cheap perfume and although the smell is not overbearing, we purposely rush ourselves as we order. The waitress refills coffee cups and clears off tables as she hurries to the back of the diner to fill our orders.
My eyes wander through the rest of the restaurant, making contact with the elderly men I had almost involuntarily assaulted on my way in. My eyes then fall upon the imperfectly stacked packets of sugar. I fumble with a pack of matches and somehow I’m still a nervous wreck even though I’ve been here countless times. The two families of four have already left, and the only chatter in the diner is that of my friends and the waitresses talking over their cigarette breaks and free bowls of soup. One waitress is counting her tips, while another leans on the wall, looking as if she’s screaming on the inside to feed us to the vultures. As the Sunday afternoon crowd chatter begins to elevate, we find that we have properly paid our dues to the one place that ironically makes us feel at home due to their rudeness and brutal serving skills.