My Diner

The Shoebox Diner was always one of those places you could never forget. I remember going there with my family all of the time when I was little; sitting on the spinning bar stools, coated in a deep red velvet. Placed in the corner, there was an old jukebox that played real vinyl records. I used to scout my house for quarters whenever I had the chance, just to fill that old jukebox. I would play You must have been a Beautiful Baby by Bobby Darin over and over; I was convinced he’d written that song about me.

                Sometimes I would make a stop there on the way home from school, and order a milkshake while I did my homework. Ernie Fletcher, who owned the diner, kept my milkshakes secret from parents because that was just the kind of guy he was.

                You could walk in there and always be greeted with warmth from Ernie, even if it was two in the morning and he had to wake up to serve you. He had waiters and waitresses on second shift of course, but every now and then he would turn on the bell, so it would wake him up to serve late night customers. It was a twenty four hour restaurant, and he was going to do whatever it took to keep it that way.

                I remember one time, when I had just gotten brand new roller-skates; I decided to ride around the block in them. I raced around the sidewalks of the city, dodging people, and subway grates on my way. It was tricky, but I had it all figured out. At least I thought I did.  Coming straight at me was a woman walking her dog, and she’d taken up the spot that I used to dodge the grate. I remember feeling my heart pound as I got closer, knowing I was going to fall.  “AHHHHH!” the woman screamed as I neared her. She pulled her dog out of the way. But this only made things worse.

                The dog’s leash wrapped around my legs and forced me to the ground, giving me no option but to put my hands out. There was a second where the world froze, and it was just me and the pavement, getting to know each other.  Then there was the second after that. “Owwwwweeeeeeeee!” I screamed at the top of my nine year old lungs. I didn’t want to look, because I was pretty sure that my hands had been sliced off by the force my arms slamming against the concrete.

                Pretty soon, I felt arms hook around my shoulders and carry me inside the diner that this whole thing had happened outside. It was Ernie. I didn’t start crying until I saw him. “It…it hurts really…bad.” I mumbled through my sobs.

                “I know, I know, your mom and dad will be here in just a second. I just got off of the phone with them.” For some reason, this made me wale harder. I still hadn’t looked at my hands; I had only looked at Ernie. “I’ll be right back kiddo; I’m going to go make sure my boys are still working. They’ll use any commotion as an excuse to stop” I decided to take a look around. I’d never been in this room before.

                It was an office, Ernie’s office to be exact. A mountain of papers surrounded each corner of his dark, business-like desk. A gigantic rolling chair sat behind his desk. It was one of those chairs you could just imagine sinking into, and forgetting about everything that had ever bothered you. I thought that maybe I would like to sit in that chair. So, I slowly clambered up off of the bench seat I’d been crying on, and made my way to the chair. The only problem was that there was another door that led to another place I’d never seen. It was right next to the chair. It was a fine door, too. Tall, and dark and enticing, the door stood there waiting to be opened. It had one of those little windows at the top, so I could maybe get a glimpse of the other side without opening it. The only problem was that I was too short to even see out of the window. So I decided to pull he big chair over and stand on it, in this way I could see through the window!

                Next thing I knew Ernie was back, with my parents. “Honey, no don’t-“my mother started urgently.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just my apartment. You feel better kiddo?” Ernie asked disregarding the fact that I was standing on his chair completely. I realized that the stinging in my hands had completely stopped, and looking down I noticed that they were only a little scratched up.

Ernie was the kind of guy that cared about the lives of others more than his own. If I was trying to look into his apartment, he didn't mind. If I dropped by when I was supposed to be doing something else, he'd shrug and make me a burger.

We used to spend every single Thanksgiving at the diner, and we were not the only ones. It seemed like our whole community showed up for it, and Ernie would smile and laugh at the applause he got every time he put the turkey in the fryer.

I don’t think he ever had his own family. I had never asked him about what his life was like before the diner, or if he had any brothers or sisters. Now I wish that I had.

Ernie Fletcher had a heart attack, and sadly did not live through it. It happened just last year, and I didn't go to his funeral.

I watched the diner collapse without him. It went out of business, and was bought out by some 80'stheme chain called “The Alley-way Cafe". Tonight it opens, and I'm walking there now. I haven't been there since he died.

I walk in and find myself in a black and white checkerboard everywhere I look. Michael Jackson is blaring from the boom box that has replaced my jukebox. Above it is a fake bullet- hole, trying to be decorative but really just looking out of place.

It isn't right. It's so foreign and strange, and it reminds me of Ernie so little that I feel like I need to find something familiar to hold on to. I walk toward Ernie's office and slip inside, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. I'm lucky, and find that no one is there.

Next I open the other door, the one to his apartment. The jukebox sits there waiting for me, and I walk over to it, pressing the number I'd pressed so many times before, inserting a quarter. “Goodbye diner." I say. I think of Ernie and smile. He was the diner.