Nothing else brings with it glorious calm like the corner booth of a diner. For whatever reason there was just something cozy and comfortable about a diner. No matter where you went throughout the country and no matter if it was a chain or a small mom-and-pop kind of place, there was always a familiar feel to them. It’s like there was this unspoken rule that all diners had to follow the same look and aesthetic. Booths lined the walls of the place all around the kitchen/bar where a pair of cooks would slave behind. You could bet that in the corner on the way to the bathroom you would pass a jukebox that had only music in it going up to the past twenty years. The feel of the tables at each booth smelled like bleach and you could see the smears on the table that a hap hazard wash rag went over the surface just good enough to call the thing clean. Then there was the food. You never really have to see the menu; you can always order the same thing regardless of where you were. The BLT sandwich and fries was always my go-to meal; it passed for both breakfast and lunch. It was comforting really; something constant that I could count on in my otherwise crazy and chaotic life.
I traveled a lot. I mean, really a lot. I probably haven’t had a permanent address since I was about fifteen.