Sizz

Man, I hope the diner near my house never goes away.

You know the type—they call them greasy spoons. Stools at the counter. Tables and chairs scattered haphazardly. Tile on the floor, the smell of burgers grilling in the air. You know what I’m talking about. Those places have the best flavor.

I usually go alone, around 2 PM, when nobody else is around. I bring something to read. But what do I actually do there? Nothing, most of the time. I mean, I bring a book, but sometimes it feels like just decor, like it’s there to give me the illusion of something to do. Mostly, I just sit, sip my Coke Zero, pick at my fries, and listen to whatever’s playing on the loudspeaker.

That’s my haunt. I know you have a haunt. Everyone has a place. And if you don’t—oh my God, get yourself a place.

Sometimes, I talk to the cook. His name is Frank. I don’t know much about Frank, but he’s always there. I don’t think he’s ever taken a day off. That man lives there.

And then there’s Yuko, the waitress. Older lady. She treats me like a son, always giving me advice—how to dress, how to keep warm. She has flecks of gray in her black hair. Sometimes she tells me about her life, about her apartment, about how she likes to keep flowers. Yuko is the best. I always tip her 25%.

There are regulars too—guys I only see every so often. The only reason we know each other is because we keep bumping into each other at the same spot. Our spot. Our little greasy spoon.

I don’t know much about them, except that we talk about the Canucks. I don’t give a damn about the Canucks. Haven’t since that Stanley Cup riot soured me on hockey for good. But I humor them—we talk about their playoff chances, all that. They give me grief because I like boxing, but come on—hockey is way more dangerous. You’re colliding with people at high speeds. On ice. On skates. And they still fight in hockey. It’s no different from boxing, at least in terms of safety. But hey, it’s a thing we talk about. One of the ways we connect.

That, and the stock market. But I don’t tell them anything about what I actually do with that. Just a bad idea, I’ve found. We stick to the ups and downs, nothing too deep.

It’s my spot. I hope it never closes. It better not.

Frank, I know you’re getting up there in years. One day, you’re either going to have to close it down or sell the joint. But thank you—for keeping my spot alive, for serving my burgers and fries with my Coke Zero.

And Yuko—thank you for the smiles. My mom away from my mom.

Everyone’s got a spot. I know you do.

Photo credit: Jacqueline Posas

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