duck-shaped pain

At 9 p.m., though, there aren't many choices. There's always the Big Chain Bookstore, but I went there a few days ago, and I always feel like I should buy something. That leaves two choices: Horrible Coffee (no thanks) and Denny's (uh, okay). I chose the latter.

I hadn�t been there in a long time, save for a breakfast here and there. However, I used to go there constantly in high school and my first few years of college, before I moved away. It was much cheaper and more interesting than most of the bars in town. Since they all catered to the big-belt-buckle and souped-up-Camaro crowd anyway, I don't think they missed me or any of my friends. There were some interesting people who worked there. My friend Z. and I sort of befriended one waiter there [1], a tall chubby blond guy who had the letter J tattooed on his lower left arm. Each time we saw him, he would tell us the story about how he got the tattoo. It was a typical drunken tattoo story: he met some mysterious woman one night, totally fell for her, got her first initial tattooed on his fine self as a guesture of love, passed out, never saw her again. Of course, the woman's name changed each time:

"Yeah, then Juanita looked at me and told me I was the buffest lad she'd ever..."

"Hold on a second. She was named Jessica last week."

"Dunno. She was hot. And she left me."

He, too, left eventually. Never saw him again.

Then, my friend S. lived there. S. was always sort of a loose cannon in many ways. He lived with me once, sleeping on my couch in my apartment in Denver, and I have some interesting stories from that time. Anyway, having a friend who worked at Denny's was an extremely valuable form of social status at the time. It meant you could get things for free. So when Z. and I went down there and S. was around, we never had to pay for anything.

S. told me disturbing stories about his coworkers sometimes. Most of them involved this short-yet-built dishwasher named Lou. He and Lou used to go out driving in the dirt in Lou's Jeep after work, at 3 or so in the morning. One time Lou took S. to his house. They drank a bit, and then Lou decided that the two of them needed to go bowhunting at that particular moment. Right in the middle of town. "Dude," Lou said to S. "I have certain needs that have to be filled. And right now, I need to harvest me an animal."

The wildlife in town tends to be limited to squirrels and cats, unfortunately. No eight-point bucks or even prairie dogs around. None of this mattered to Lou, though. He and S. piled into the Jeep, with Lou's trusty crossbow at his side. "Drive, man!" he screamed to S., who took off down the road more out of fear than anything. Lou leaned out of the Jeep, trying to aim. He yelled at S., "Can't see too well. You'll have to help. Tell me when you see anything move, and I'll shoot it!"

S., back in control of his wits, did nothing of the sort. He drove Lou around for a bit to humor him, taking him though the park, around random streets, and then safely back home. Lou was irate, having been denied the slaughter than he thought rightfully his. Well, until he passed out in his yard. Then he was irate no longer.

I don't really know anyone who works at Denny's presently, though. The manager is the same, and some of the cooks look familiar, but it's not like I ever got a look at them in the first place. I sat down in the non-smoking section (a first for me, really -- I still feel more comfortable in smoking, but it was just too smoky. I can't believe I'm admitting this), which was populated by just me and a tableful of laughing old people.

They were talking about some local commercial, one that I've never seen. It's for Shoe Store A and features a Chihuahua, walking though the store, commenting on shoes, apparently. It was a lively discussion.

"I'm not at the point where I understand this commercial. I mean, the dog isn't wearing shoes. So why would he be in a shoe store commercial. Am I missing some part where the dog is wearing shoes?"

I drank coffee, and tried to write. I succeeded, sort of. I wrote about the upcoming trip. I was trying to set up some goals for it, and that wasn't working, so I instead tried to write out a list of the things I needed to take with me.

Soon, the old folks and I were joined by two other parties: an older man dining alone and a family. The latter was a pretty average middle-aged couple and a teenage girl. The girl was wearing headphones when she came in. She continued to wear them when sitting down, when ordering and all though the meal. Since she was talking to her parents, I figured she was either listening to something quietly or not at all. Or her ears could have been cold. Something like that.

I was close enough to hear her talk to the waitress. Headphone Girl kept asking about various entrees, wondering how spicy they were, as she didn't want anything too spicy. [2] She finally settled on chicken fingers. When all else fails, go for the chicken fingers.

Good thing she wasn't around me for lunch today, when I polished off the ground-to-air missile of a green curry I made a few days ago. It was good, but too good in the character-building sense -- every bite was an endurance. The thing that was most notable about it was the way it looked coming out of the microwave: in the buzzing florescent lights of the kitchen at work, it turned a bright chartreuse. It looked like a top-billed food item in an experiment to see if people would eat oddly colored yet normal tasting food. [3] Blue pancakes, yellow meats, pink soup, things like that. It was an alarming thing to behold.

I wasn't able to write anything. I didn't even bring any backup printed entertainment with me. Sure, I had the newest issue of Saveur and some other random things out in the car, but going out to get them would have seemed like cheating somehow. I mean, I came here to write something, no matter what. I just couldn't think of anything to put down. I should know better than to try and think deep thoughts on command.

The waitress brought me a big glass of water, without me asking for it. "You looked like you needed it." She was right. I was parched. Inner curry battles. I drank it down. Thought about pie. They had no cherry pie. No point in it, then. Headphone Girl announced that her chicken fingers were indeed Too Spicy. She had been lied to, like she was always lied to at restaurants. Her mom handed over some dry toast that came with her meal. I had the feeling she had to surrender her toast on a regular basis.

After that, I figured it couldn't get any better. I couldn't think of anything to write, anyway. Goth kids tried to bum a smoke off of me in the parking lot and then I went home.

[1] Maybe not the right term. "Befriended" signifies that Z. and I put some effort into the relationship. In actuality, he just started coming over and talking to us, casually disregarding any sign of disinterest on our part.

[2] WTF at Denny's would be too spicy?

[3] Or the final course in an all-charteuse theme meal. Which sounds like an interesting concept at first, but loses appeal because the only other chartreuse foods I can think of are wasabi and Surge. Sure, I like these things (even Surge, which tastes like an odd, low-rent version of Orangina to me) but certainly not together.

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