There once was a time when you could find me most any Saturday morning, still enjoying my Friday night, posted up at the end of the counter at Honey’s. I would see the Durham diner from the interstate on the way home. It’s red neon glow would beckon to my red eyes and cheery disposition. Grilled cheese sandwiches would suddenly seem the solution to problems I never fully acknowledged; though it was always the company of strangers in the early dawn that kept me coming back again and again.
Sometimes I’d have a notepad with me and sometimes I’d write a few things down. Here’s the direct transcript from one I came across recently from a night when I stayed until 7:30 in the morning to meet an old friend who finally made it to town. I got to know the wait staff well after a while.
The lights are still a glow and Honey’s tonight.
Numerous brand for your smoking pleasure.
Tables are full. The Beatles are crying for help.
Rebecca bursts through the kitchen doors.
Tamara is finished folding napkins.
Exhaling a shift in whole, focused on the door.
A regular in neon green enters, Dave’s Tow-A-Way, Durham.
Looks like he’s thrown some dick around here before.
Lavon.
Sweet Lavon.
The cook takes off his apron and pumps $5 worth of Quarters into the machine.
Marlboro Reds.
Twenty quarters worth.
Then he kicks em off to Dave in the neon green.
“Can you fix me a mellow yellow?”
“Yep”
“You look so tired.”
Another cup for the stack. Again.
Just like the day before.
I’m thinking of ordering a Sunday.
Someday.
Now it’s “Monday, Monday. Go Away.”
Early Saturday morning.
Air force birds walk in.
Lavon?
Might I have a fudge sundae?
This cig machine has been good for Honey’s.
The night manager sneaks off into a bench near Mother Superior, with her gold knobs and all.
Heavy eyeliner.
Tears seem like they’ve dried earlier.
She sees a sharp response in the mirror most mornings.
Then there’s Mary.
Leaning over close, butterfly on her wrist.
“Toast? Tea? Biscuits?”
Tattoos . . .
No related posts.
