Hey y’all!
I’m still fishing for consistency in this newsletter week to week, and always reminding myself that it doesn’t have to be anything but what I and it wants to be. Frankly the Disco Diaries and I seem to enjoy drifting between forms and tones and subject matters just as we like keeping the date but not necessarily arriving on time. Thanks for being around for the escapade each week.
Ode to Phyllis
I don't understand Twitter. I get its concept, but as a medium I have trouble interacting with it. I want so badly to love it, though. I want so badly to be funny on the bird app. But when I send what I consider a golden nugget of content out into the internet, nary a response comes back to me.
Example of a golden nugget:
This was a joke, not a threat, but it doesn’t matter what it was before because now it’s an actuality.
A lot can happen at an Applebee’s, especially when you’re drinking with a frisky friend. In part I of a three-part story, we’ll learn how these two sassy brunettes meet, and what — or who — will quench their thirst.
None of Jake’s family lives nearby, but once you get out to the eastern states you can efficiently visit the immediate members via one straight line down I-81. Highways can be boring, the the drive into Pennsylvania is pretty, especially in the fall. We made our way south in the late morning, while biting into fresh apples from a New York orchard, and listening to Wings. We had plenty of car snacks, but anyone who has been on a road trip knows that no matter the number or variety of snackables, sometimes you just need to break and sit down for a full, hot meal.
At my request, Jake steered our rental Kia off of exit 191B and pulled into an Applebee’s. We were in Scranton, Pennsylvania, a small town where the local eateries seem to be few and far between. This is what chain restaurants are for, isn’t it? Providing familiar comfort in an unfamiliar territory? For me, unfortunately, Applebee’s is a nostalgic indulgence, a menu filled with memories from when I made my living there as a server throughout college.
Without that personal connection, Applebee’s doesn’t stand out to most — unless you’re a fan of $1 cocktail specials. Since Jake neither cares about cheap liquor, nor worked in the company at any point, he decided to stay in the car to get some shut eye while I had a quick bite to eat.
I pushed the door open with my elbow and entered a familiar setting — jerseys on the walls next to framed photographs of Mick Jagger and Mickey Mantle. Walter Becker was shredding a tiresome Steely Dan riff over the speakers, which had a high volume that was discordant in the near empty dining room. I smiled to myself, remembering how terrible the service got at this time of day when most of the lunch shift had been sent home and the rest of the servers were in the back eating old mozzarella sticks.
Just then I heard someone click their tongue and noticed, for the first time, a middle aged woman standing near the wall by the host stand, looking out onto the vacant restaurant impatiently. We made eye contact, and instead of looking away she held my gaze and said, concernedly, “The service is terrible here.”
I could barely hear her over the classic rock and through her mask, which was made of fabric covered in juicy looking red roses, a somehow sensual garden print.
“But I like the potato skins, so I keep coming,” she finished.
“Oh yeah,” I said, “Those were always my favorite when I worked here.”
“You worked here?” she said, looking me up and down. “Then I bet you know that server with the red hair.” She smiled mischievously.
“Not this one, a different one.”
“Oh,” she frowned, and was quiet. “Do you get a discount?”
“Not any more,” I said. “I have to rely on the half-price apps like everyone else now.”
“That’s too bad,” she said softly, while looking out again at the dining room. We both stared a moment into the dim landscape. A single employee scuttled quickly across the back wall and into the kitchen. Televisions flashed bright images of sports replays over an empty bar. The only couple that had been dining there walked out past us. As they did, the woman stared at them with her small eyes.
Just as I was feeling a little spooked and preparing to give up on my chicken wings dream, the woman spoke again.
“Do you want to eat together?” she said. “I’m not meeting anyone.”
I acquiesced, figuring I cold use some entertainment to get me energized for the rest of the drive.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing two menus and leading the way to a clean table. It was a little sticky, although visibly clean, and set with glass salt and pepper shakers, a small tray of artificial sweetener packets, and a cardboard tent advertising the drink of the month: the Adios, aka Blue Long Island Iced Tea.
“I’m getting one,” my new friend said with that same mischievous smile, as she noticed me reading the description.
It was like she commanded the energy of the place, because as soon as we sat down a nice, blonde boy appeared out of nowhere and asked if he could take our drink order. The woman batted her eyelashes at him over her mask, and I stepped up to the plate to get our late lunch party started.
“Two Adios cocktails, please,” I said.
“Sure! Can I see some ID?” said the server, bubbling over like a soda pop.
“Oh, please!” my friend said, laughing too much at nothing, and flicking her wrist.
The server chuckled uncomfortably and walked away without saying another word or checking my ID, which I had dutifully pulled out.
We waited quietly, me listening to “Magic Man” blare on the stereo, her watching in anticipation as the blonde boy mixed our unnaturally blue drinks. She kept her eyes on him as he walked from the bar to our table with the delivery, then back to the kitchen to hide from his only two customers.
“He’s cute,” she said, removing her mask and pulling the glass to her lips to take a sip. I saw for the first time her tiny mouth, painted red in order to help it stand out. A single drop of blue fell from her glass and landed on her plum colored cardigan set, and she dabbed at it with the napkin sill rolled around the silverware. “I’m Phyllis, by the way,” my friend said.
“Katie,” I said smiling. “You live in town?”
“Yeah. I work at Dunder Mifflin Paper Company down the street from here.”
“Are you just taking a late lunch?”
“No, my boss brought in his guitar today, his amplifier and everything. It was giving me a headache. So I lied and said I had diarrhea and came to get some appetizers.”
“What was he playing?”
“I don’t know. Some rock ballad.” She took a swig. “I prefer smooth jazz and R&B.”
Half of her Adios was gone before I had even tried mine. I felt the need to catch up, so I took a sip. The mix of vodka, rum, tequila, and gin create a generic alcoholic taste that was easily covered by the sweetness of blue curaçao and sweet and sour mix. It was delicious.
“I wish my husband Bobby could come meet us,” Phyllis said. “He loves long island iced teas.”
“Oh, you’re married?” I asked, recalling the hungry way she looked at our 20 year old server.
“We’re in an open relationship,” she said daintily. “What about you?”
I hesitated mentioning a napping Jake in the car for fear she’d want to bother him, but when I told her about my partner, all she did was suggest opening our relationship.
“It makes things so much more exciting in the bedroom,” she said earnestly. “Bobby and I can hardly keep our hands off each other now.”
Phyllis’ drink was gone before we had even ordered our half-price apps. It was 3:15 p.m. Jake and I still had a drive ahead of us, but something about this curvy woman in plum appealed to me. I wanted to know more about her life, her hobbies, and how she would proceed with the server throughout the evening.
“Did you want to split some potato skins?” I asked.
“I’d like that,” she said, smiling sweetly and shaking the ice in her empty glass.
To be continued …
Enjoy your weekend, friends,
xo
Katya
I love your stories!