Back in the halcyon days of Barney's on Seventh Avenue, there was a greasy spoon so close to it you could smell the neckties. It was the kind of place where you sit at the counter and order a side of fries and a Coke. Then smoke a cigarette and read Spy Magazine while you waited for your meal to arrive.
Yes, I say "meal" when referring to my side of fries. Because some days, a plate of fries was the best I could do. And on a side-of-fries day, I was somewhat better off than on a cup-of-chicken-and-rice-soup day, which set me back a buck thirty-five before the tip. That said, the lonely cup (as opposed to bowl) of soup days were far superior to the ones where I didn't have the subway fare (90 cents) to get to my temp job downtown, not even after rifling through all my roommates' coat pockets and drawers.
Last Saturday, Peter and Edie and I lunched at the Empire Diner. Though almost pure kitsch, it's one of the few remaining diners in this part of town. Also, it closes for good on May 15. Out of some atavistic and/or perhaps sentimental habit, I felt compelled to order a milkshake and fries. But vanity, in the long view, finally vanquished desire. I got the mesculun salad with sliced chicken breast.
I know. When you're at a diner and you find yourself ordering a mesculun salad, is life even worth living anymore?
In my wan defense, it's not so much a matter of trying to keep my figure. Such as it is. Rather, at this point in my life, a plate of fries and a shake are basically a sodium-dairy-sugar speedball that my entire GI system would have to pay for for at least a day. At least. So alright. Gimme the roughage and some sliced protein from a cruelty-happy poultry factory and be done with it.
Gone. Trans fats, nicotine, dairy binges and diners. Also, for me, short shorts, cheap costume jewelry, bedhead, silly hats, Urban Decay nail polish, under-wireless bras. Also gone: kissing stupid jerks. Worrying about stupid jerks. Freely giving away chunks of self-respect to stupid jerks. These things are not mutually exclusive. But soon I might start going out in short shorts and green polish, packing a box of Camel Lights. Because I don't want the rest of my life to be an entree of mesculun salad.
