An Old Man At An Anaheim Restaurant

I want to recount an experience I had recently

. I was walking down the street and I realized that I was feeling hungry. Luckily, I was just around the corner from my favorite Anaheim Restaurant. It was a tough choice because money was tight and there was a delicious taco truck parked across the street but I had made up my mind. I was going to eat at the restaurant. I pulled myself away from the delicious scent of frying peppers and onions and continued on down the street. Finally, I reached the diner I was looking for. It was an old classic diner that was rumored to be a relic of the First World War. Its corrugated aluminum frame was marred only by a trio of large stained windows. I opened the creaking wooden door with the broken spring and winced in preparation for the sharp crack of it slamming behind me. I made my way to a small vinyl-covered table nestled between a sputtering radiator and a cracked jukebox. I liked this table because I could keep my back to the wall and my eyes on the entry. It is not like I was born paranoid. When we are young, theres only happy and sad, joy and tears. Both come and go like water on rubber, smooth and frictionless. But life wears on you and slowly but surely you find yourself carrying far more around than the clothes on your back.

I grumble a thank you to Luther, the grizzled owner of this heap, as he slides a mug of black coffee in front of me. Mornin kid, as he shuffles off to the kitchen. The thing that always brings me back to this heap is not the food although it sure is better than you would think. I mean, I can get overcooked eggs and greasy bacon at a dozen other joints around town. No, the reason I come to this Anaheim Restaurant is for the pictures. They haphazardly coat the wall behind me. I sighed as men I once knew smiled back from their frames, their freshly pressed uniforms and bright eyes spoke of a lighter time and a smile almost manages to break through the weight.

Luther whistles a desperately flat tune as he hobbles over with a steaming plate. My stomach grumbles so hard that the food almost looks good. I chew my eggs and think. This is not my favorite Anaheim Restaurant because of the food. For some reason that makes me smile. The food is not all bad. The hash browns are a little burned just how I like em. The bacon revitalizes and the coffee helps me focus. It is only Monday and there is a lot to be done. There are a few lessons I have learned about this town. I have walked these streets for a long time. There is great food to be had and meals viler than you can imagine. I am happy for them both though. It takes a little bad to remember the good.

by: Paul Marino

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