Skeletons in the Closet

Chapter 20

I've always had a thing for diners. And really, it comes from the most fleeting of memories.

I didn't know my dad. Mom said he got caught up with the wrong people when I was around three and got the short end of the stick in a job gone wrong. When I'd thought about it, the fleeting times the man I'd never met would pop into my mind, I never really held it against my dad for being involved with who he was. Many times in life, the decisions we make don't come in black and white, but varying shades that are up for interpretation. I don't know what drove him to do the things he did. I just know how it turned out for him. And for my mom.

Mom was never eager to talk about dad. I don't know if it was because he was gone and she was moving forward or if she'd always had an apprehension for sharing his story because she didn't want her only daughter to fall down the wrong path, too.

But in one of those fleeting stories, mom mentioned dad's love for diners. Mom didn't feel the same; she always said that the food was cheap for a reason and she stayed away from them whenever possible. But dad, she said, loved diners. He loved finding a diamond in the rough, the one with the secretly good coffee or the killer pie. He felt like a great diner was truly Americana, a staple of what this country was when you got away from the the sights and sounds of the hustle and bustle.

So ever since I'd been old enough to come to them on my own, I'd been trying to find those diners that were the best kept secret. When I went off to college, I frequented this place called the Arbor so much that not only did the staff know me by name, they often told me to go back to my dorm or to a party, to behave like a normal college student for a minute. I'd just laugh, sip my coffee and continue on either reading or doing my homework. The Arbor was my quiet place, where I could go to cram or to unwind after stressing out all week over an assignment. I could sit, watch the patrons, think about what their lives were like and create stories for them. I could create a whole little world in that diner. It was a haven for me.

Naturally, after I'd graduated and moved out on my own, I gravitated towards the closest diner to my apartment: the Old Maid. It was one of those novelty diners, the building shaped like an old sailing barge. Inside was your standard diner fare, except since it was nautically-themed, there was of course everything related to sailing all over the place: oars, flotation devices, rope everywhere. You name it, it was probably on the walls somewhere. The windows were those round portholes you see on older ships. It was top to bottom cheesy and I absolutely loved it. The goofiness of the place didn't do justice to the food or the ambiance of the place. Yeah, it was cheesy as all hell, but the staff looked like they were straight out of the sixties and the food had a rustic charm to it. It wasn't always the most appetizing to look at, but it warmed you up and kept your belly full.

I spent way more time there than I should have and the staff, with my usual waitress Ivy and the owner Amber, letting me know every time I walked through the door. A mildly embarrassed smile was usually enough to disarm them and send them back to their tasks.

This ritual was one of the few that stayed with me after college. I hadn't frequented nearly as much as I would have liked once I joined the workforce, but I did still stop in when time afforded. A quiet, hot meal would take the stresses of life off my shoulders for just a little while. The Old Maid felt like home.

I strolled in late morning and took my usual seat off to the right of the door near the back, though it had been two months or so since I'd been in so it felt odd to call it "my usual seat". I set down my backpack, took out my laptop and my notebook and made myself a makeshift desk. That was the best thing about making friends with the folks who worked here: I could set up shop without being hassled. I ordered a cup of coffee and fired up the laptop.