Thursday, January 11, 2007
cure for writer's block...
I left too early this morning. No snow plows about town yet, and snow still coming down a bit. Really slick. So I gave it up and stopped for a coffee so the machines could do their work.
There's a place in Spokane called Dolly's. It's that Pepto Bismol pink catercorner building on the corner of North Washington and West Indiana. It's small. Very small. Back before the indoor smoking laws went into effect in Washington State, the greasy smells of bacon and eggs would have been mixed with hazy cigarette smoke on a morning like this, a morning with blowing snow that's piling up on the streets, and temperatures in the lower teens. On mornings like this, Dolly's is a haven for the cold and the hungry.
I walk into the place early. It's dark outside. I find a seat at the bar. I like to sit at the bar in diners like this, because you get to observe more. Dolly's is so small it only needs one waitress. She's fast paced, dressed in a black turtleneck this morning, and calls everyone sweetie. The bar is slowly filling up this morning with old men, old men with white, or whitening beards, who walked in removing snow covered wool lined bomber hats. These men all know each other, or at least talk with each other like they know each other. They laugh about the cold, warm their hands on the coffee cups, and order eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and gravy. From the bar I can also watch the cook. She's a large woman, easily six foot two and broad shouldered. Her short cropped hair can only be described as 'butch.' She cooks breakfast for old men who don't know what the term 'butch' could possibly mean other than the name of a loyal dog.
The waitress rushes around, topping off coffee cups, chatting with the customers, and continuing a good natured debate with a white bearded fellow at the other end of the bar from me, as she has done for the last twelve years, she says. "Maybe someday you'll win." I say. "That's not the point," she replies, "the point is just to have my own opinion." I think she's right. Here in this little place, that some would call a greasy spoon, or a dive, nobody puts on airs. Nobody is richer or poorer than the next guy. We're all just people, living in the world together, trying to make our way.
I pay for my coffee, put away my newspaper so the next customer can use it, and walk back out into the snow, which is thickly covering the parking lot. The snowplows have made one pass now, so I get back on the road, following in their wake. Out here it's cold, forbidding, and unfriendly. Back their in Dolly's, someone I don't even know just called me "sweetie." I like that.Labels: spokane
