Wishful Thinking at the Waffle House

They say eating at a Waffle House is trench warfare. I told a friend that, to the contrary, every time I’ve gone to Waffle House at 2 AM I’ve been treated with nothing but respect.

My friend smirked. “That’s because you’re the most polite person to ever visit a Waffle House at 2 AM.”

It was a hot night in June. I remember the sound of crunching metal from the parking lot, as I turned I could see headlights bouncing. A couple entered the Waffle House and sat in the booth behind me. Unable to see their faces, I was granted a private night of radio theater. The woman’s voice carried the weight of hundreds of miles traveled through the formless night.

“That’s because it was YOUR fault with the ******* car,” the woman seethed. “So you can call insurance…” her voice broke, “and then we’ll have to call the cops.”

The man mumbled something back.

“I’m sorry” said the woman, and added with a snap, “I wish I had your temperament.”

A waitress came by. The woman ordered a patty melt. A few minutes later, their food was delivered.

“What is this–” said the woman, “–never mind, it’s fine.”

“Is that not what you ordered?” asked the waitress. Through a reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows I could see a breakfast bowl in front of her.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll eat it.”

“I can send it back–”

“No, this is here, I’m going to eat it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s fine” the woman proclaimed. Other customers had turned their eyes to the booth, but the struggle was over. The couple finished, paid, and left.

It wasn’t coq-au-vin and linen tablecloth, but I know they’ll remember that meal as long as they live. That kind of dinner that will make or break lovers. My guess was a busted suspension that had left them in the trucker’s exit of an unknown town. Assuming the truck was roadworthy, how many more miles of interstate lay ahead of them?

I want to believe they made it. I like to think that after that dinner, they kept going, found their final exit, and made plans for the next journey.

I once dated a woman who helped jump my car at 1:30 AM during the first snowfall of December. I knew then she was a keeper. Five years later she had broken my heart, and I know I broke hers, and so I find my way back to the Waffle House. At two in the morning, I can get a booth all to myself. I think of the radio theater that couple performed for me, and I keep the faith. I want to believe there’s a way home, wherever that may be.

Waffle House
I-25 & CO SH 119
1:22 AM, Xmas Eve 2023