The truck drivers were constantly flirting with her. Even so, she still moved and talked with a kind of style - she had an air about her. She looked bored - but then it was such a foul day she’d probably spent most of her shift there. When she wasn’t waiting tables, she was sitting by the kitchen door, flipping through a newspaper. ![]() She didn’t look or act like anything special, just your average Midwestern girl. If I had it to explain again, I would have tried talking about the waitress there. I thought it was appropriate I found it comforting. I didn’t quite see it then, and Beth certainly would not have approved, but the truth was that I didn’t just like the place. I couldn’t explain it wasn’t an important question for either of us, but I couldn’t. The tacky details were there only to keep it from looking like a cafeteria. She was a connoisseur of kitsch, and by her standards kitsch had to be lurid, grotesque, and uncompromising. I tried to explain - all I could say was that I liked the kitschiness. I said, truthfully, that none of it bothered me there was even a way in which I liked it. ![]() The fake wood-grain Formica, the feeble little curtains, the cute place mats, the plastic plants that didn’t even bother to seem real - it was all so tacky, so devoid of locale, so American. She wasn’t being a snob about it she’d been in a lot worse places and would never pretend otherwise. A couple of truck drivers laughed to themselves in the middle of the room, and my friend Beth and I were in a booth in the corner.īeth wasn’t happy with the restaurant. The windows had iced over snowdrifts rearranged themselves in the parking lot. This was a bitterly cold day, the dead of winter.
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