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Monday, January 23, 2006

Saturday, A Late Breakfast

We eat our pancakes and egg sandwiches in front of the hot grill, grease boiling in the potatoes, the young short order cook hungover and looking like he needs to cook a few servings of steak & eggs for himself.

The noontime sun lights up the tiny Band Box Diner, a greasy spoon that’s made it through decades of change on its little corner in Minneapolis’ Elliott Park. One gets the feeling that not a lot has changed there since the diner opened its single door in 1934. Much of its clientele are regulars; they don’t need to tell the tattooed waitress what they want because she’s already got the order on the grill. It’s a source of pride for these customers. They are known and expected here.

The bar stools — where we sit — are all occupied, as are all six or so tables. Across the bar, a young girl sits with her dad. Probably eight years old, clearly of Scandinavian descent, with bright blonde hair and blue eyes.

It’s noon and she looks tired. The sun glows around her face, creating a halo effect. She is staring at the wall 10 feet in front of her, her eyes blank and her mouth wide open.

With that look on her face, I first think she is, well, retarded.

Greg. I give him an elbow. Look at that little girl. What is she doing?

She’s just spacing out, he says.

I think it might be a permanent space out. For thirty more seconds she stares at the wall. Her tongue is pink and small in her round mouth.

And then her eyes flash, life jumps back into them, her mouth closes, her head moves down and she is back to the present Saturday; the daydream that consumed her thoughts is over. Now she must make the mundane decision of eggs or hamburger.

I wish she could have reveled in her thoughts all day, indulging in whatever fantasies and dreams rumble through the mind of a girl too young to pick out her own clothes.

Posted by Aaron on January 23, 2006 10:45 PM