The Denny's Beneath the Freeway

Dad and I are at the Denny's underneath the freeway in West Palm Beach.

I wake up 30 minutes prior at 7 am, when dad knocks on the door and suggests we get some breakfast somewhere. I tell him "Sure," which feels out of place for both of us, as I was used to rolling out of bed as far into the morning as I could get away with and either running late to work or spending time on the computer into the late evening.

We drive across overpasses I feel too timid to navigate as a new driver, past the accountant's office, past the storage place, rounding the exit and into the Denny's parking lot.

I order chocolate chip pancakes, and dad gets his usual eggs and home fries. After putting in the order, I exchange pleasantries with the waitress without making eye contact, but dad asks her about herself. She stands over us and talks for the next ten minutes about living in Florida, how hot it is, how people usually don't talk to her this early in the morning but having genuine interest taken into her work and her person was sure to brighten the day. I shift in my seat, looking around while dad sat there, not losing focus or breaking eye contact, his full focus given to this woman with genuine curiosity. How long have you been here? What was it like before? What are you looking forward to this weekend? She answers, and he has more questions, and you could tell from her face this is one of the best times she ever had at work — until two men in camo come in and sat down, all surly like, and she shuffles over.

For the next hour and a half, we just talk. About how the first year of community college went and what my aspirations are afterwards. About not sleeping. About eventually working for the family restaurants, but not wanting to show favoritism and having to cut my teeth elsewhere. (Starbucks.) About the quiet moments in the morning that I miss when I'm asleep, or on the computer, or just not present, and how, instead of grumbling about not having my time appreciated or whatever I could find myself angry about at the time, I listen and acknowledge that, yeah, maybe it's time for me to do more than "look at ones and zeroes."

When we don't talk, it's quiet. The kind of quiet shared with someone you love, the belief that this moment is a bookmark, a point in time to call back to when things are really good or really bad and realize the best moments aren't filled with noise. It stays quiet. Even the men eating behind us do so in silence. The waitress passes by and smiles. The windows dull the hum of passing cars. My stack remains half-eaten and, after some time, I tell him "I don't think I can finish this," so he waits for the waitress to come back before we go.

It's our last time at this Denny's. We'll have more meals together, sure — some memorable ones at favorite steakhouses, fancy places on the island, and haunts by the water that his girlfriend turned him onto. Yet sometime in the next 20 years, this Denny's won't exist. In three years, I'll move away to my grandparents' basement, then with friends to Crown Heights, Sunset Park, and so on. In five years, I'll meet the love of my life. In seven years, he'll be gone, and for every year after that, I will think back at the times I could've just taken him to Denny's again and again, even though neither of us cared Denny's all that much.

For now, as the waitress idles about somewhere, we sit there and look out the window past the tall white overpass supports and into the field beyond, the sun floating into view as a lone car passes above.

Dad passed thirteen years ago on this day. As my grandfather yelled to the obit editor, he was the kindest guy you've ever met.