To help pass the time, I knocked back three dirty-water dogs with onions and Dusseldorf mustard and everything else they had piled on top. I was a teenager then, I could eat wood and wash it down with turpentine. Today, they'd have to call out the fire department.
I remember the owners, a married couple (or so for some reason I assumed) looked tired and anxious to close up and go home (the snow was really piling up), and yet they actually kept the place open an hour and a half so the three or four of us waiting wouldn't have to stand outside in the blizzard. I suppose we were all secretly wondering if they bus would ever get there, and then someone came right out and nervously joked about spending the night sleeping with our heads down on the counter. It didn't seem too pleasant a prospect, not to us and certainly not to the owners, but I couldn't help thinking at least there would be be eggs and bacon and pancakes hot off the grill for breakfast.
Then the conversation started up, the epic conversation, the one that can run on all night if you let it. We talked about favorite movies (unanimous agreement: The Godfather), about Vietnam and Nixon and about searching for something in life and whether or not anything means a damn thing in the end. When the bus finally did arrive, moving slowly but surely along the treacherous road, we ended up almost missing it. So we all went home and never saw each other again. Just one brief moment in the great warehouse of moments that make up our lives. A warm diner, friendly people, and snow falling outside.
Where does it all go to?
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