roadside diners
it was a roadside diner that had been made out of a general store at a K-shaped interesection i had never been at before. the two-story building was moss green and they had put large plate glass windows in the bottom that looked out of place. it was late morning, late summer, a breezy bright day with crisp air and warm sunlight. i was out of my usual territory, looking for a small town with quiet shadowed streets and smooth green lawns.
i was hungry and thirsty from riding on an empty stomach, and i knew i had a few bucks in my pocket. i stood the bike next to the building off the sidewalk and put down the kickstand. i counted the money i had and walked around the corner and up the red painted concrete steps into the store.
the floor was wood, narrow pine boards worn dusty smooth. there was a counter about half the length of the room and four or five regulars there, drinking coffee and talking. it was the first time i remember ever buying food for myself from a menu.
when you ride a bike long distances you get into a rhythm, your body and your mind. not necessarily the same rhythm, sometimes your mind travels an entirely different terrain while your legs push and push and push the pedals. stopping, getting off the bike, you have to adjust, almost like a sailor whose sea-legs betray him on the dock. you have to connect up your mind to here and now as well, and it can take a couple minutes.
the woman behind the counter comes over and hands me a menu, white paper with black lettering laminated in thick clear plastic. the regulars are looking at me. they're drinking coffee out of these thick white mugs, steaming in the sunlight. there were those glass sugar containers, tall cylinders with the fluted sides and the chrome caps with the little flaps on them, sitting on the formica next to salt and pepper shakers.
i was trying to get reoriented, trying to deal with finding something good on the menu that i could afford with tip, and conscious that i was the center of attention in the quietness of the moment. she said, "what can i getcha, hon? some orange juice?" "sure, uh, no.." i was looking at the swirling steam, white in the light, coming off the mug of the guy next to me. "a coffee, please." i had never had coffee before. while she was filling the cup, the cook came out with a paper plate with a sandwich on it, a hot sandwich on a big roll. she brought the coffee back. "what's that?" i asked her, meaning the sandwich. "That? that's a fried egg sandwich, hon." "I'lll have one of those." "Over easy?" "yes, please." I had no idea what over easy meant. Street Blowjobs
while she was gone i put about a half a cup of sugar and a pint of milk in the coffee and sipped it. less than five minutes later she brought me the most delicious, most wonderful, most perfect fried egg sandwich, every bite was better then the last, the white of the eggs crisp at the edges and soft in the middle, and the runny yellow yolk oozing out everywhere. i had a nice chunk of roll left over at the end to sop up every last bit of the juicy yellow yolk on my plate.
i didn't find the town i was looking for that day, but that was a singular morning, a singular meal. one time i went back looking for the place to have another sandwich, but it was nowhere to be found, lost forever in some bermuda triangle of jersey.
i was hungry and thirsty from riding on an empty stomach, and i knew i had a few bucks in my pocket. i stood the bike next to the building off the sidewalk and put down the kickstand. i counted the money i had and walked around the corner and up the red painted concrete steps into the store.
the floor was wood, narrow pine boards worn dusty smooth. there was a counter about half the length of the room and four or five regulars there, drinking coffee and talking. it was the first time i remember ever buying food for myself from a menu.
when you ride a bike long distances you get into a rhythm, your body and your mind. not necessarily the same rhythm, sometimes your mind travels an entirely different terrain while your legs push and push and push the pedals. stopping, getting off the bike, you have to adjust, almost like a sailor whose sea-legs betray him on the dock. you have to connect up your mind to here and now as well, and it can take a couple minutes.
the woman behind the counter comes over and hands me a menu, white paper with black lettering laminated in thick clear plastic. the regulars are looking at me. they're drinking coffee out of these thick white mugs, steaming in the sunlight. there were those glass sugar containers, tall cylinders with the fluted sides and the chrome caps with the little flaps on them, sitting on the formica next to salt and pepper shakers.
i was trying to get reoriented, trying to deal with finding something good on the menu that i could afford with tip, and conscious that i was the center of attention in the quietness of the moment. she said, "what can i getcha, hon? some orange juice?" "sure, uh, no.." i was looking at the swirling steam, white in the light, coming off the mug of the guy next to me. "a coffee, please." i had never had coffee before. while she was filling the cup, the cook came out with a paper plate with a sandwich on it, a hot sandwich on a big roll. she brought the coffee back. "what's that?" i asked her, meaning the sandwich. "That? that's a fried egg sandwich, hon." "I'lll have one of those." "Over easy?" "yes, please." I had no idea what over easy meant. Street Blowjobs
while she was gone i put about a half a cup of sugar and a pint of milk in the coffee and sipped it. less than five minutes later she brought me the most delicious, most wonderful, most perfect fried egg sandwich, every bite was better then the last, the white of the eggs crisp at the edges and soft in the middle, and the runny yellow yolk oozing out everywhere. i had a nice chunk of roll left over at the end to sop up every last bit of the juicy yellow yolk on my plate.
i didn't find the town i was looking for that day, but that was a singular morning, a singular meal. one time i went back looking for the place to have another sandwich, but it was nowhere to be found, lost forever in some bermuda triangle of jersey.
posted by ember at 2:59 PM
