Red Apple Restaurant: Pontiac, IL Sunday, February 3, 2002 4:37 a.m.
.
I pull into the parking lot that is midnight black save the one flickering
tower of a light that spits off white onto a giant apple. Stepping into
the pre dawn cold of central Illinois in January is done with a deep
breath when you leave a warm vehicle, and I take mine, stepping
out into the night. This lot is rather large, spattered with a half dozen
cars, I'm figuring four employees and a couple early morning drunks,
maybe a farmer or two as I approach the door. Not too crowded,
should be an interesting moment.
.
I get the same look from people in this town whether I'm walking
into their restaurants, stores, banks, or homes. They know
I'm not from their planet, and I always give a (well practiced) nod
to assure them that I mean no harm. Part of it is my attire,
which usually consists of black boots, some jeans, a t-shirt,
and a long black trench that still really hasnt been accepted
by the midwestern small town crowd. A black hat usually
rests upon my head backwards when I'm among them
(hiding my antennae). Its an interesting relationship,
the one I have with "peoples", they fear what they
dont understand, and I wear their smile to ease their minds.
.
Inside now, let me give you a quick layout of this joint.
Think of a old style diner that they TRIED to convert
into a bigger place of business. Immediately inside the door
to the left there is a push button cash register, the kind that whirrs
and clicks as your sales are added up (I love that sound).
Directly across from the register is your diner type area.
Long white stretch of table going to the wall, stools a
bit too close together for comfort dotting the spaces
on the floor. Directly ahead of me you have a small divider
that separates the diner from the 20 or so tables in the room
(for families of course) and a dozen booths (for couples).
The tables are simple, as you would expect in a restaurant
thats open 24 hours in a small town, but the booths don't
raise much architectural excitement either, red with a simple
tongue of a table separating the seats.
.
Eyes scanning the room now, and as I see everyone in the place
turn to acknowledge my entrance, I give my practiced nod
and smile. We have two groups of (rather quiet) drunks with
their tables pushed together discussing nascar, an elderly
couple in a booth obviously up for an early breakfast,
and what looks to be the cooks of the restaurant
(I base this on their white smocks) and a couple truckers
(or farmers) sitting at the diner. The waitress on duty,
a chatty gal of about 50 with VERY dyed short orange hair
starts to approach to see where I will be sitting.
.
(Think fast, here she comes). I feel that getting a table
or a booth would be odd since I am alone, but a quick
scan of the diner shows that there are no decent gaps
between customers....(think fast damnit, here she comes)
I move toward a stool at the far end of the diner
and end up sitting next to one of the cooks, because
the trucker gave me a not-so-polite look as I passed
his personal space.
.
"Coffee, black"
Red : "You need a menu, hon?"
"No ma'am, I just need a western omelet to go"
Red: "Sure thing sweetie"
.
She pours the coffee and brings me an ashtray as soon
as she sees my cigarette light up, a sure sign of a woman
whos seen a million faces do this before. She doesnt
seem real comfortable around me and goes back
to chit chatting with the big trucker on my right about
why hes up so early and how the wife is. This is a place
of regulars, where they know your order before you
sit down and the employees know more about you
than your spouse on most occasions. I am not a regular.
.
Everyone there has lost their interest in staring now,
and as I snuff my cigarette, Red tells the cook next
to me to get to work on my omelette. He chuckles
a bit (I've been here 10 minutes, and he was sitting
next to me when I ordered, but apparently visitors
to their planet must wait until the cook is ready to
do his job) and he gets up, leaving behind his
turkish accent and a scent of *sniff* yea, thats
bad cologne trying to cover up bad weed.
With is departure into the kitchen, my body
has a little space, and my mind relaxes. .
Im trying to think of the last time I was in a restaurant
at five in the morning sober, and honestly, I dont
ever think I have before. This is strong coffee, my
heart is picking up speed and I realize I'm enjoying
the company of these mutants, even though
theyre ignoring me completely now. The drunken
nascar fans (whom look like poster children for inbreeding)
stumble up to the register and give Red a little trouble
about the bill. She knows them by name and quickly
goes into whos wife shes gonna call if Mr. Williams
doesnt pay the bill for himself and his, ahem, "date."
He quickly pays and exits, a few whirrs and clicks
later, and Red is left without a tip.
.
Back she comes, and she notices my cup is empty
and I'm leaning my face on my hand a bit.
Red "Tired or bored, hun?"
"Just tired, been a long night."
Red "Refill? It should only be another minute or so"
"Ill take one to go"
.
Our conversation is interrupted by the entrance
of a tall blonde, about 32 or so. My god, the
stereotype of a dropout waitress has never been
so perfectly put before my eyes. Her hair long
and dirty blonde, with tall bangs, and I'm talking
80's tall, scuplted by aqua net, no doubt.
She has a pretty face, but not model pretty,
and her eyes catch mine for a moment.
She walks past and starts bitching to Red
about all the cops surrounding this car
in a field east of town. Her and red slip
back into small talk, and reverting back
to the moment I caught her eyes, I
think I know her story without her saying
a word. It could have various intros but
where it ends with her working in a
restaurant at five a.m. on a sunday
to keep a roof over her head.
Shes a professional waitress,
kind of like a hooker without the balls
to take her clothes off. She knows
that shes never going to get a better
job (mostly because she has no ambition)
so shes perfected selling her smile
for a dollar.
.
Red brings my food out of the back,
and its a ridiculous price for a western omelet,
six bucks plus a buck for the coffee.
I make no mention of it, and walk over to
my favorite register. I give Red my bill
(which she just gave me....odd) and a
twenty dollar bill. Total is $7.42. I tell
Red to give me a ten back and we'll
call it even, (she was quick with strong coffee)
and I roll out the door, into what is
now pre-dawn Pontiac, teasing blue
over the eastern skyline.
.
end.

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