Saturday A.M. The weekend is fresh with the dew covered aspirations of the lost and disturbed. I sit whiskey-faced, broken, drenched in muzak and caffeine heart rhythms that shake the walls of this Warholian diner. Italiana bella across from me, goofy smiled and curious at the onslaught of zoo escaped adult contemporaries, laughing, mumbling, and cursing, in hypnotic beat.
Old man booth neighbor sees us now, eyes of doom questioning. Polyester jacket and bushy eyebrowed medieval peasant. Wife wears death mask and bad fro dripping in swine grease perfumes. Look at that magnificent shade of blue, no look away. What’s thissad lamented thesis of 5.99 ham heart attack bombs with heaping sides of colon clogging farm-hand delicacies?
"Chicken steak and eggs thank you." My voice, gravelly, smoked, torn, angst ridden amongst the third verse of verseless Neil Diamond synthesized classic. "Chocolate shake, n' apple pie." Sweet toothed lady-friend smiles widely at the questioning horror.
Standing Frankenstiened, hair bleached, a transgendered nightmare serving up food and despair. Towering over us, ducking to avoid plastic chandeliers, wearing a head-like potato sack. I delve into Grand Canyon face structures carved by the centuries nicotine rapids, descending into frown faced loathe-monger. Departing in her hate vessel into dirt door stink cocina.
Dueling mustached culinaries ring bells in dull life window, scowling like the voodoo waitress, all victims, all are fear in encroaching economic jungle. Serving, servants, to the young and old bargain garbage eaters, we engulfed in the Elton John bastardization trance. Ensnared, engrossed, incontinent, Agina Pectoris. Screaming arteries, thinning wallets, criminal gratuities, joyless laughter drowning out the ghost pig slaughter song. Fast breaking.
Floating meat tray presentation arriving now with slime shine egg-whites, gravy poultry beast, no vegetables in sight, death queen revealing the entirety with strict coroner professionalism. Non-ceremonious plate slam, grease splattering, frown, grunt, off to more pain no doubt. We dive in, two genetically advanced trans-fat devouring bacon jockeys, racing the marathon, slurping, glurping, burping, shirking the frightening outside Richard Simmons philosophies of deprivation and homo-eroticism.
Paul Simon now, Garfunkel even. Both gone, replaced by ones and zeros. Troubled Waters. No bridge. No check. Smell of unending doom mingling amongst the mindless moaning of the sullen masses, slow death. Time to flee dolce bella, sitting with deep brown eyes and old soul, staring blankly back, me sad-faced, heavy belly hung low with my toxic lard bargains. No check. Vomit desires. Soulless music weaving madness over dining circus performers, jaded and ailing, all either drunk, high, or insane. Us too. No check. Black cloud cop booth of terror seeing scruffily me, and we, with their suspicious crime visions and daydream car chase glances. Starched, crouching large shouldered over 200 pounds of fried beasts, endless calf skulls and sausage links in a sea of dripping bear claws. Check please.
The missing check arrives with the smoke stink and sunken eyes of that hate-wizened waitress. She forces that crusted lunar surface into what must be a smile, in a last vain grasping for a decent tip. Vanishing instantly for an extra cigarette break from sick, ever thickening atmosphere of gluttony and muzak.
The night is cold departing. One word shining our path. Technicolor Dee's burning in all of its Vegas Live Nudes Live glory. Sugar-highed and beautiful, riding shotgun, my giggling princess, ecstatic with the prospects of diner-free life, grinning infinitely. New freedom. Opportunity. Diarrhea at a steal. Neil Diamond with guitars and words. Horns. Sweet Caroline. Doo Doo Doooo. Good times never seemed so good.