I pass by Ellen's Stardust Diner every morning on my way to work. The windows are full of overweight tourists slurping down eggs while being "entertained" by would-be actor/singers in sock-hop get-ups.
This morning one of the waitresses in full poodle skirt, lace anklets and cat eyeframes adorned in rhinestones was sitting on a milk crate outside the kitchen door. She was puffing on a cigarette and half-listening to a kitchen worker describe a new omelet. And it was hot and sticky out. Not only did I feel for her, it also reminded me of how I felt the summer I worked at Jerry's. (Granted, I didn't have to wear a ridiculous costume or sing.) I would work my shifts--often a dead lunch hour for pennies--and chat with the remarkably smart waitstaff. I was miserable. I was determined that I would never spend another summer as a waitress.
I spent the next summer in Nantucket.
Ah, Nantucket. I've been thinking a lot about my time there. (What was it? Six months? Seven?) I want to go back.