Club IR

Up in Allison Hill, where Naed lives, where the farm is, is the Club Diner.


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It sits across the parking lot from a Mexican/Dominican restaurant and the offices of Industrial Building Maintenance. The "Club Diner" sign has lost its D, N, and E, leaving "Club  i   r"

Josh (the assistant manager at the farm) and John-Michael and I have breakfast there sometimes. When we walk in this particular morning, the waitress greets Josh by name.
"Agh, she always knows my name," he says--quietly; Club IR is a small place.
"So?" says John-Michael.
"I can never remember hers!"
We all laugh, and the waitress brings the menus.
"What's so funny, boys?"
"Aw, nothin'" says Josh. "This is our friend Greg.'
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," she says. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Darn," says Josh, once she's gone, "I was hoping she'd introduce herself."

We sip the thin coffee (Josh sips tea) and chat, when pop music intrudes over the loudspeaker. The other waitress is just leaving the jukebox, and we flag her down. Under the cover of "Sweet Home Alabama," Josh asks, "Hey, what's the other waitress's name?" This is a dangerous tactic; the counter is only a few feet away, and our waitress could appear from the kitchen at any moment.

"You mean my mom?" she says, shooting him a look refined by having spent at least five years as a teenager. It tends towards a glare, but is not so malevolent as to imply that she is in any way deserving of a smaller tip than one might otherwise be inclined to give.
"Yeah," says Josh. Our waitress emerges, coming rapidly into earshot. Josh covers himself with "And what's your name?"
"I'm Jordan," she says.
"Cool," says Josh. "I'm Josh."
"Yeah, I know." She gives him another look and goes back to her own tables. Josh clenches his fist in defeat. Our waitress tops up our coffee and brings us our omelets. We continue to chat, but soon John-Michael gets up. "That music is too loud," he says.

He walks over to the jukebox. Everyone in the place -- Josh, me, the waitresses, the cook, the old guys in ball caps, the young guys in hoodies -- all watch as he fumbles with the interface.

"What are you doing?" asks Jordan from the counter.
"Trying to turn the music down," says John Michael. A few of the old guys nod in appreciation.
Jordan sighs, glares at John Michael, and whips out a remote control.

Being the only one in our party having not felt the wrath of the staff of the Club Diner, it is decided that I need to get the watiress's name when we pay our bill. I step up to the register.

"I didn't catch your name earlier," I said, handing over my money. The waitress punches the buttons.
"What? Josh didn't tell you?" she turns to Josh, "Josh?"
"Well -- I -- uh. I don't remember."
"Every time!" she says. "It's Leslie." She looks at me and John Michael. "Remind him next time, will ya?"

We nod, tip, and get out of there. Now we meet up there every other week or so, convening in the parking lot to review the staff's names before we enter.