“Be right there.” are the first words we hear her say, though I’m not quite sure where they’re coming from.
Jenny and I seated at our table inside of the diner right along main-street in Holbrook, Arizona. The exterior, though we couldn’t see it from our seats, had been painted a pastel pink. A shade that was surprisingly pervasive throughout the town. But I hadn’t been able to tell if it was due to brighter red tones being faded from the southwestern sun, or if they intentionally chose a color that matched the sandstone surrounding us outside so perfectly.
The interior was decorated with faux wood paneling on the walls and a fabric pattern on the seat backs. When the two were combined with the beige vinyl underneath us, it made for a color palette that at one time was probably described with a word like “pinto”.
I ordered the bacon and eggs, and they were just that, standard diner fair, though the hash browns did leave some room for improvement. I had covered my plate with hot sauce though which generally does a good job of making everything acceptable to eat regardless of the flavor actually embedded during preparation. The waitress, hostess, manager came back up to us,
“I’m just going to leave this here”, she said without making eye contact. Slipping the check underneath my water glass that was already dripping in condensation, soaking the teal and white piece of carbon paper.
It stared back at me, $24.63.
At this point I should have been used to sales tax being applied to everything and making the numbers lose their rounded splendor, but the shock was still there, possibly because it didn’t seem worth it. I pulled out my card and looked at Jenny, “Do we pay here or at the counter?”
“Up there.” She pointed at the register though I could she was no more sure than I was.
Walking to the counter I got my last chance to look at those sitting around us, inside this pink building with it’s layers of veneer on the interior. The man with the varying leg lengths and shoes to correct it staring at the back of the man without capacity to chew with a closed mouth. To my left was a large table, what looked like it could seat a party of 14 and had done so recently. Empty glasses with used silverware and napkins were scattered about.
Some dishes with food scraps had remained as well, perhaps to be picked up when things died down more. Though with only three tables in the restaurant currently I wasn’t sure how much quieter things could really get.
“How was everything?” The waitress, hostess, manager said to us without looking up. Her eyes were instead focused on the rapid clicking of her register, and without skipping a beat or making eye contact she pulled the card from my hand to continue her methodic clicking of the keys.
“It was great” I said, only partially lying.
“Good, good.” She now moved to the credit card processor, typing in another set of numbers pulled from the register itself. $24.63 again.
“If you’d like to leave a tip enter it here” she said as she turned the keypad around to face me this time. I mentioned that we’d left cash on the table, this finally piqued her interest enough to look at us. “Thank you, makes it easier that way, and keeps the government out of things ‘ya know?” I smiled and nodded as if I did.
I pulled a pen from the cup nearby, like most other things in the area it was branded for Route 66. This restaurant, and what I assume are most business in the area don’t have much else to go on. What was once a means to get past this city is now the only reason to stop. Restaurants, hotels, and convenience stores alike all selling a piece of has-been Americana at the low-low price of $3.99 per sticker. It didn’t take long for me to focus back on the task at hand because, this pen, that sticker, the patch hanging from a spinning rack nearby was the same stuff we had seen regularly for the past few days. Each city with their individual claim to fame. A few towns over it was a song from the Eagles playing on repeat from a store across the street.
“Standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona and such a fine sight to see” they sing as a throwaway line in a middle verse of ‘Take it Easy’. We haven’t been in Winslow since yesterday, but there are Winslow bric-a-brac souvenirs here.
I finish my signature on the small piece of thermal paper, and a portion of my money has been left here in Holbrook.
“Have ya’ll seen the movie ‘Cars’?” the waitress, hostess, manager says with more curiosity and interest than she showed throughout our visit, or while discussing the food options.
“Yeah” Jenny and I reply, nearly in unison.
“You know Lizzie and Stanley? The old ones in that town from the movie?” She asks her cadence speeding up as she speaks for what feels like the first time off script.
“Oh yeah” we confirm again, the roles having flipped, with our matched timing that to an outsider would have felt rehearsed.
“Let me show you something” she says pulling out a three-ring binder. You know the kind, black plastic vinyl covering with a clear plastic overlay adhered on 3 sides so you could write “Chemistry, Mr. Brown” on a piece of paper and slip it inside. To those looking at it behind the register it must have seemed like a repository of financial statements and business documentation. Yet from her facial expressions it was clear that this was her way of letting us in.
“They were based off my parents, Lizzie and Stanley were. Disney came here and sat right at this table,” she said pointing to one of the booths near where we sat. “And this,” she said pointing at a photo in the binder, “this is my grandma with the animator. He brought his daughter in that day
and they ate here before heading out down Route 66 for inspiration. They came around a lot, were here for weeks, really trying to capture everything about the area.”
She watched us closely as we stood there, flipping through the pages of this handmade photo album. Occasionally I’d look up at her, she was smiling now as we looked at the hundreds of pre-production images of the film, and her family. I was unsure of what else to say, my mouth suddenly dry and without a thought crossing past. And I feel like shit for all the little complaints I’d made up to this moment.
The silence was suddenly broken by a simple “If you’re looking for something else to do, the town museum is right around the corner. It’s run by the historical society. Free entry too. They’ve got all sorts of displays in there, some really neat stuff. I think you can even go and sit in the old county judge seat as it used to be the courthouse before they built the new one up on 2nd street.”
I realized the logo pen was still sitting between my index and middle fingers twirling back and forth, we all have somewhere to be.
“Thank you” I said, “We’ll go check that out.” and we walked out the door. Leaving behind the fake wood paneling and pastel exterior paint. The dishes sitting on that large table nearby, and the man with the different sized legs who was still slurping down his egg soaked hash browns. The imported stickers and patches that desperately wanted to be a part of this piece of America.
Our waitress, hostess, manager, storyteller.