a short short

a short writing exercise about a local diner that sucks ass:

Watson’s: Where People Go to Die

I pulled up the restaurant about two in the afternoon and found ample parking right out front, which I should have taken as a bad sign. I was supposed to meet my friend there, which I am always queasy about. Meeting people at restaurant is always a chore because I never know if they are there or not when I arrive. Do I tell the hostess I’m waiting, do I walk around the restaurant like an idiot looking for people? Having to walk through a pharmacy/restaurant like Watson’s is even stranger.

“Sir, are you going to buy that Preparation H?”

“Uh, no. I’m just waiting for a friend.”

I was fortunate enough that the aforementioned scenario did not befall me. Jen was sitting at one of Watson’s patio tables just outside the door. She was engrossed in Star Magazine and had already set herself up with a glass of water.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you want to sit inside?”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care,” I said.

“Is it nice inside?”

“It can be. You want to take a look before making your decision?”

Jen walked into the restaurant, took off her shades and inspected the shabby chic interior. She deemed the place suitable and wound her way over to a booth by the kitchen. Meanwhile, I carried her glass of water into the restaurant. An elderly woman with popcorn hair looked at me strangely. I guess she supposed I was a disheveled young man with enough nerve to bring in my own glass of water.

The original booth Jen had picked out was large enough to seat a small circus, so she chose a smaller one by the front window. I put the water down on the table, slid into the booth and came face to face with a reflection of myself against the mirrored wall. Rather disgusted by the image I turned away and focused my attention to the table, which was missing a menu for me to peruse. I looked around the restaurant, assessing the diversity of the patrons. What I found were three tables scattered around the restaurant, filled with the senior citizen set. It was too late for breakfast and too early for the early bird special that started at four. I wasn’t sure why they were there or where they found the energy to stay out of the house so long, but there they were. One man wore a fisherman’s cap and came in with a woman wearing shorts with a Hawaiian floral pattern. Outside, a man looking like Robert Duvall’s grandfather was sipping coffee. Other than those few and most likely loyal patrons, the place was empty. I can’t blame the place. It was two in the afternoon on a Monday. How much business could there be?

A waitress came by and gave me a menu and asked if we wanted anything to drink. I said no. Jen said that the water more than quenched her thirst and needed no further beverage at that time. The waitress left the table and busied herself somewhere off in the distance.

“Oh, I got a breakfast menu,” Jen said.

“Yeah, I did too,” I replied. It’s ‘cause they serve breakfast all day. They cater to our needs like that.”

“ I see.”

There was a brief pause in conversation at which point Jen decided to stretch her arms. It was an action that also included stretching and rubbing the skin over her eyes. In fact, most of the stretching had to do with her face skin more than her arms. After her hands left her face, they dropped to her sides; her elbows not getting the full work out they so richly deserved.

I told her, “I’ve never seen a stretch whose main goal was just to rub the eyes. It’s like your arms just gave out.”

She laughed, then stopped, then asked if I wanted to take it outside and made a fist with her right hand. No, she didn’t do that. But, she said she was a big fan of stretching and then demonstrated what a full back stretch entailed. It was pretty stretchy and impressive. Just then the waitress came by and asked us for our orders.

“Ladies first,” I said

“I’ll have a hamburger, please,” Jen told the waitress.

I told Jen that I thought ladies first meant I was going to order first. She laughed, the waitress laughed, and I felt warm inside knowing they appreciated my humor or were at least kind enough to give false, but generous laughs. I asked the waitress what shake flavors they had.

She rattled of the typical vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, before launching off into a virtual cornucopia of fruits ranging from pineapple to blueberry, to Oreo (yes, Oreo is now a fruit), to raspberry, to banana, and then back to Oreo because she ran out of flavors. She gave a long hard squint in the direction of the kitchen, Clint Eastwood style, just to show she was trying extra hard to remember everything. After all that, I would’ve felt like a jackass if I’d have just ordered vanilla, so I went with the strawberry to go along with my cheeseburger.

Jen and I continued the stretch talk, believing it was the best course of action, given the circumstances. She told me of a friend who twists her wrists when she gets excited. I said that was okay, but nothing compared to my friend’s habit of waddling in place and shaking his hands whenever he gets nervous, especially while playing games designed for 10 year olds at Dave and Buster’s. Eventually the food came. Jen ripped open her burger bun and looked at the secret sauce.

“Oh, this stuff has to go.”

“Is it like, Thousand Island?”

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming off.”

I followed suit and almost drenched my curly fries in Watson’s nasty secret sauce. The conversation between Jen and me continued as we covered a wide array of subjects including children who wear turtlenecks and my dad’s propensity to yell. My milkshake arrived shortly thereafter. It had real strawberry pieces. It was a monster of a shake and looked as thick as yogurt, custard style yogurt even. After a relentless amount of good humored and relaxing conversation it started getting stale, mostly due to my lack of witty rhetoric. Jen pulled out her celebrity magazine and started to make fun of Britney Spears’s flabby abs. Jen was being brutal. I wanted to defend the poor lass, but Jen wasn’t having any of it. When the check arrived Jen said she was going to the gym to work off the 10 pound bun of bread she just ingested. I said I was going back to my apartment to sit on my ass.

After all our celebrity gossip exhausted itself, I walked up to the pharmacy half of the establishment to pay the bill. The woman behind the register had seen better days. She wasn’t what one would call haggard, but she wasn’t far away. She was a woman who looked to be in her early 40’s with fake, silver nails and a spray tan so thick it could have been Minwax varnish. As I paid the bill I noticed a small display of Epsom Salts, which I didn’t even know were still being manufactured. Maybe, I thought, this place is an old time diner, after all. The woman handed me my change, wished me a nice day, and continued about her business.

I left the diner and took one last look back. The glow of fluorescent light tubes filled my eyes and drew me to the false, dropped ceiling so prevalent in office buildings. I wanted to think of something profound and witty to say as I exited, but nothing came to mind. I bid Jen farewell and wished her luck at the gym, a place I had only heard about. I walked to my car and drove away. It wasn’t until about 10, ass burning minutes later that I realized I really needed some Preparation H.