Love, Dad | ✔️

4 | YOU DO YOU

"Welcome to the Clinton Diner, folks! Start you off with some coffee, to chase away the evenin'chill?" A warm baritone seasoned with time booms gently over the clatter of dishes and low murmurs of conversation. A friendly elderly waiter with a worn name tag reading "Harold" flickers his gaze between Dave and me.

"Ladies order first." Dave stretches his long legs and points at me. 

Suddenly in the spotlight, I scan the menu, my eyes widening at the vast array of options, from juicy burgers and golden fries to classic comfort food like meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

I can count the times I went out for a meal with mom and dad on the fingers of one hand.

"Hey, Lewis," says David. "Order anything you'd like. I'm dead serious.  We got a long drive ahead."

I clear my throat. "I don't have that much money."

"Food's on me. I told you before. I meant it."

I hate being poor. "It doesn't feel right to take your money."

"Okay, listen." David places his warm hand over mine. "How about this? You'll give it back to me."

I guess that's doable. Dad would pay Dave back once we're in L.A. And I really am starving.

After much deliberation, I make a decision. Clearing my throat to get over the awkward hump, I still only manage a low mutter. "A classic cheeseburger with a side of onion rings?"

"What was that, my dear? Speak up, don't be shy now," the server prompts me with a disarming grin.

I hate that he put me on the spot like this. I repeat the order, digging my nails into my palms. There is certain discomfort at voicing what you want in unknown places, before unknown people.

"As for me, I'm gonna go for the house specialty." Dave puts his hands behind his head and tilts his neck slightly forward. "Juicy Lucy. Bring it on."

"Excellent choice, young man. Our best burger, stuffed with delicious melted cheese." There is an unmistakable pride in Harold's voice.

Soon, the aroma of sizzling meat and fried onions fills the air, making my mouth water. Now I'm double glad I didn't eat those stupid Mac & Cheese Marjorie made at home.

I follow Dave's example and lean back into my red vinyl seat in a relaxing fashion, appreciating the place. Equally colored booths line the counter, chrome stools gleam under the soft neon light, and a jukebox in the corner hums "You Give Love a Bad Name". The grief I feel for the Walkman my dad gave me lessens with every beat. It was just a sound-transmitting object but music is all around me. It helps me always remember him.

I steal glances at Dave, his face illuminated by the warm light of the jukebox. The tension from the almost car-crash has melted away, replaced by a sense of companionship. Can't believe we've only been on the road for two hours and there's already a bond, a sense of trust blossoming between us.

It's so easy being around Dave. Because he lets me be... me.

Harold is back with our food, piled high on vintage plates. The first bite of the juicy burger sends a wave of satisfaction through me.

"Mmm. It's heavenly," I can't resist humming out loud. The flavors are simple, yet perfect — comforting taste of Americana that warms me from the inside out.

"That's a nice piece of burger for ya," the elderly waiter says. "You don't even have to taste it. Just smell it. It's a poem."

And he's right. I can almost hear the words in a poem that is this burger.