I kind of trailed
off there two weeks ago—down the long trail, looking back, the
trail back, the last two weeks, a lot has happened, and I haven't
been able to finish that last sentence. That sentence is a lost
cause, but maybe I can finish the thought. I guess what I was getting
at is that it's the most amazing thing I've ever experienced, that
there could be a perfect (interior-wise) 1940s diner in my home town,
hidden from me for 38 years! I mean, it had the dining car
manufacturer company plate over the inside door, it had the old
Formica-top counter with boomerang designs and smooth white crescents
worn in from decades of forearms resting on it. There it was, all
along, and I never saw it, simply because I didn't go in the door. So
what is so great about this discovery—it's not that I'm going to
move back to Sandusky, because that would surely be the cosmic force
to make the place close—no, what's great is that now I have reason
to have hope, here in Portland, Maine, a place with a real drought of
breakfast spots—at least in my experience here this far—I have
hope that I might uncover the hidden secret greatest place
ever—behind the facade of something I've passed by a million times
even.
But it won't be
here, at the New Crystal, another downtown, uninspired, overpriced,
cafeteria-style, no-personality place—a place that only exists
because it can, because so many people work nearby, have few choices,
and don't like to walk more than two blocks. There's a guy in a booth
next to me who's just chain-smoking at an alarming rate—I guess not
that amazing—the cigarette just never goes out. I didn't
actually notice if he lights one cigarette off the last one. Which,
if you think about it, is an incredible practice, but he's had
cigarettes going the entire time I've been here—like a half hour.
He's an old 90 pound bald tan grizzled guy who laughs like his lungs
are full of water, and his general appearance is really that of a
human cigarette. I mean, this guy has actually turned into a
cigarette!
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