I’ve long been inspired by the reflections on Denny’s by this girl; in truth, I think of her every time I pass the establishment on the corner of University. She seems to own Denny’s, in a way. It’s her place, with her memories. No use trying to catch up. I feel tool-ish going there sometimes. And have I ever had a legit menu item, probably no, but.
But we wanted to get away from our people-filled apartments so late at night and in a debate about the limited options, we ended up below the bright red sign with the rain and the mostly empty parking lot.
A transvestite was our waiterperson.
This is real.
My, how confused we were! We were elbowing the laughter out of each other like a couple of middle school kids until we were sure this waiterpersonofunknowngender was out of earshot.
“Man or woman?”
“No idea. Seriously, there is no indication. A man? Trying. To. Be. A. Woman.”
This waiterperson had to come back 16 times before we knew what we wanted to order because of this necessary exploration of gender. This waiterperson should have been more patient and known that Denny’s folk are far too fascinating to be buried in the menu right off the bat; you have to have an experience first.
The hot chocolate and hilariously greasy nachitos appeared and we didn’t talk much, but people-watched. Kids came with their textbooks to study with Moons Over My Hammy; two girls snuggled too close; a couple of guys who weren’t talking to each other maybe just came because they have no wives, and were legitimately hungry; two women made us giggle when they swore and talked loud;
and then, us, sitting side by side, with our nachitos and whip cream-ed hot chocolate.
iloveaboy. he is not a transvestite. he does not swear. he does not snuggle too close to me. because that is impossible.
we talked late into the night as the rain fell down the car windows.