I'm going to try and write this for all of us, but I really need to nail this for my wife. I want her to understand that I get it. That I can comprehend the passing of place. I want her to know she's not alone in her grief. I heard her last night. Actually, I felt it, too. She sat down and cradled her head before popping up and shouting, "dammit, I'm so damn sad about this." I'm pretty stoked that I can pick up these subtle cues.
I'm sad as well. We're losing a little bit of who we are and a whole lot of who we were. We're losing the Breakfast King and, with that, this blazing orange beacon of comfort and company. This place that, in my early standup days, we'd go to celebrate a good gig and lament a bad one. Where we took my mom between doctor appointments. We named the half order of eggs Benedict after her. And where, in the floating years beyond her, I'd simmer for hours. Cup after cup, sometimes on the smoke-free side. Sometimes not so much. A place where we'd shove 6 people in a booth for four and relish how close we could be. Sides of ranch the size of soup bowls between plates of food seemingly served by the acre. We celebrated there. We spaced out there. We loved and we dined and felt just how lucky we were, even if the rest of our lives seemed anything but.
from when we had more time
In our case, we showed up as boyfriend and girlfriend. We came back as a married couple. Often once a week if not more. And one kid. Two. Then three. Elementary, middle school, high school. They knew where the suckers were and they knew to fist bump Jerry and Terry. The thrill spilled to everyone we knew. If we weren't at home, there was a good chance we were at the King. We introduced countless people to the place. Place. Oh how good it is to have an island. We should celebrate more. We need to grieve better. We need to appreciate each other more often. We needed a King for that. We needed a moment. We needed a perfect forkful and some time to ourselves. Friends and family from out of town would be late to our house. Bucking the soulless nodes of navigation for however long it takes to savor a French dip.
The Breakfast King. Where in the infinitude of the universe there were four walls keeping the chaos out and the warmth in. The protocol was simple. Follow Lulu or Roxanne or Michelle to your table. Everyone fell in line. It wasn't just food at stake, but the organic order of something bigger than ourselves: community. Whether we like it or not, we're very much the same. And whether you'd never do it anywhere else, you shuffled a little sideways dance between chairs. Twisting and lifting. Conscientious of your body's proximity to the most important meal of someone's week. Business dudes, auto techs, real estate agents, ravers, students, the disaffected and those proclaimed otherwise. Sweatpants and pantsuits scooted between goths, punks, priests, police, poor, up-and-coming and the already arrived. Families with kids draining plastic cups of Sierra Mist. Hot chocolate for my children. Whipped cream so tall it tilted like a house in Whoville. This was a fantastical place. Unreal in its portions and indefatigable in its attention to your coffee.
So I'm sad. I'm bent. Wrapped around a sign of tough times. My flow forward abruptly stopped by the reality of mortality. Even places that are always open will eventually close. Compared to other restaurants, the King seemed immortal. Transcendent. I've thought that if we all came together for a cause, then this would be it. A 24/7 vigil to match the hours we were served. But we also have bigger battles to fight. And maybe the King prepared us for those. I've got this moment that, to the one I love so dearly, I demonstrate my understanding of how important it has been to all of us. As if we're floating on the forever of a vinyl booth and lucky enough to be right were we are. Growing up and growing older put on pause for a meal bigger than anything else life could serve us.