If these diner seats wanted to talk they would start speaking and never stop. But they won’t. The cheap, highly-durable red vinyl is, if anything, reliable. Relentlessly faithful. They’ve heard the screeches of children and the belly-aching of old men. They’ve borne witness to plots and plans and countless whispered adolescent trysts. Oh, the crushes and crashes and clandestine moments of young, pitiable love.
These seats have withstood the violent ends of friendships, but have also gently cradled young lovers who spent hours finishing a milkshake, then married, and kept coming back until the decades blurred together.
Take a good look. These booths have never changed. After over 50 years the floor still creaks in the space above the stairs, on the back wall toward the kitchen. The pungent smell of old grease still hangs the air. You can also taste a “special.”
Remember what he told me back then? When that high chair was a juke box that gobbled our quarters and supplied the soundtrack to endless confessions and plates of fries. Do you remember what he said?
The old red seats remember. But they won’t betray a word.