We were too drunk to drive home. So, we drove to Denny’s.
We settle ourselves at a table. It is red, raw from the endless scraping of plaster plates and cheap silverware. Harry looks around.
“Denny’s is where the devil goes to take a shit, I’m sure of it,” he says, eyeing a group of men in stained white T-shirts speaking Spanish in the corner. I roll my eyes. A waitress approaches the table.
She is old, molded from the innards of a grease trap and baptized in sour black coffee. She doesn’t ask, but we give our orders anyways. She takes our menus and leaves us.
She is back in a disturbingly short amount of time. Harry looks down at his food.
“You know,” he says, picking a pancake up between two fingers, “it is a clear cut sign that someone is off. I mean, if you ask ‘where’d you go for breakfast?’ and they say ‘Denny’s’, you know something is wrong with them.” He drops the pancake. It bounces. I take a sip of coffee and frown.
“Harry, we are at Denny’s,” I remind him.
“Yes,” he says, dowsing his entire plate in syrup, “but we are drunk.”
He begins shoveling up heaping fork-fulls of viscous mush. I sit back with my coffee and stare at my food.
“Better eat it before it starts eating itself,” Harry mumbles through a wet sticky mouth. I take a few bites. I put my fork down. My stomach, already sagging with shame, groans.
“Be back,” I inform Harry. I make my way towards the bathroom. The saloon-style doors into the back swing toward me. I step aside. A man walks through. He looks at me; his right eye, black, left — for some reason — green. He smiles and his teeth glint in the dull light. I shudder as he passes.
I didn’t plan to vomit when I entered the bathroom, but the state of things makes it unavoidable.
I get back to the table, paler. Harry groans, his plate wiped clean. I push mine aside. I look around the room. A woman sits at a table close to ours. Her clothes are tight, her skin, loose. Beside her, a small boy stabs his fork into a stack of pancakes, over, and over. I turn back to Harry.
“Is there a point to life?” I blurt out.
Harry raises an eyebrow at me. “I thought we came here to sober up?”
I shrug.
Harry looks around the room, “ask me when we get out of here,” he decides.
Reblogged this on All About Writing and more.
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I’m guessing this is a story inspired by ‘home’ and explains your catch phrase ‘I like it here’. 🙂
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Hahaha. Yeah. Pretty much. Th dennys near me is known for shoot outs. Cops sit outside of it. Just waiting for when the pancakes just aren’t enough.
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Pretty much sums up every Denny’s I’ve been in, drunk, at 3am.
Good imagery. I like it.
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Haha I think everyone has had this experience at least once. Once too many.
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“She is old, molded from the innards of a grease trap and baptized in sour black coffee” = killed me, in a good way
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Haha I’m glad. That line is actual the basis for this whole story. I just had it in my head for some reason then started writing around it.
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I’m not surprised it’s the basis. It’s a heavy hitter, for sure!
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We had two Dennys on opposite sides of town, one nice, the other gross. Just like in an episode of Family Guy.
I could only go to Dennys drunk, I wouldn’t eat there sober.
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Haha I’ve never seen a nice dennys. IHOP is the closest thing I found to a nice dennys
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LOL! Loved it!
“We were too drunk to drive home. So, we drove to Denny’s.”
😉 😉 That’s telling in itself!
“She is old, molded from the innards of a grease trap and baptized in sour black coffee. ”
I’m serious….Twilight. Zone! Make it so! LOL!
Excellent!
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