| Subject: Our Respective Gardens--an essay |
Author:
paris
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Date Posted: 09:54:01 02/05/01 Mon
Author Host/IP: NoHost/165.29.41.2
SPELLCHECKER
By: Steven Harvey
I CAN’T REMEMBER IF I have ever been to this particular link in the Waffle House chain—my mother reminds me that I haven’t.
I think I would be likely to remember it’s odd architectural design: the large picture window facing the busy road, orange upholstered chairs pushed up against that wall, its brown tile, clean in a middle-class sort of way.
The constant cacophony of sound: tinkling cutlery, clinking glasses, food sizzling on the grill, and jovial voices of regular patrons would deem likely to get on one’s nerves, but not mine. I like the rambunctious ambience.
I am remembering the Waffle Hut in Rogers; its clientele a mixture of lowlifes, degenerates, drunks, and other undesirables; which, if I thought about it at length, says something awfully odd about my consistency to dine at the place.
This place seems to be more comfortable and the employees more friendly.
In lieu of making this sound like a restaurant review, I shall try my best to describe my surroundings, since descriptions have never been my strong suit while writing my stories.
I look out the cold, ridiculously clean window to a short, squat, redbrick building on which is affixed a triangular sign that proclaims it as SPRINT TAX. If I look further, across the highway, I can see Blockbuster, and some of the stock of the Tractor Supply Co., put outside to attract potential buyers.
A steady stream of cars float effortlessly down 6th Street, my view partially blocked by the full parking lot.
Ungodly music from the 50s wafts ghost-like from the round speaker above my head, most likely it was a reminiscent customer’s quarter that revved the jukebox from its quiet mechanical stupor.
The music truly driving me mad, picturing a blond-haired, tiny-wasted teenybopper snapping bubble gum in a poodle skirt and wool sweater, I escaped to the counter to pay my check to the old waitress, Mabel. She was evidently a victim of Cigarette Sucking Syndrome, which had creased the skin around her lips to resemble a paper bag. Looking up at the back wall above her head while she got my change ($.32), I noticed a faux wood sign that declared, SORRY WE CAN NOT CASH CHECKS. Mabel the waitress looked up and handed me the change, deadpan, I pointed up, over her head to the faux wooden sign. She turned and looked in the direction of my finger, I said, “Cannot is one word.” She turned back around and looked at me as though I were a nut that had just escaped from the mental ward in Little Rock. Bringing the corners of my mouth down into a “Whatever” expression, I shrugged my shoulders and walked out into the nibbling wind and our waiting car.
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