Ghosts of Memories Past

The unique blend of artificial maple syrup, heavy rewarmed grease, and post-club sweat is always the first thing I notice when I step into the diner. The late staff glance at me as I enter, too tired to give a crap where I sit. There’s none of the perky “Hey, welcome” that comes at two in the afternoon. Everyone knows that you only show up to a diner after 10pm if you’re drunk, in a theatre group, or brokenhearted.

There’s evidence of all three there tonight – the regular who's hunched over his coffee at the bar, staring into the mug as if it’s a crystal ball and not mud-colored sludge, lukewarm from sitting on the counter for at least thirty minutes.

The group of high schoolers in the corner, still wearing their garish stage makeup, singing songs from Rent. The adults in the group are a few tables down, haggard and whispering like shell-shocked survivors, recounting the sleepless weeks that have led up to the opening of Shrek Jr., judging by the name emblazoned on everyone’s t-shirts.

The couple laughing at each other through half-opened, tequila-glazed eyes, just a bit too slow in movement and loud in conversation to convince anyone that they’re sober, either post-hookup or just about to get it on in the parking lot.

And me.

I slide into a booth by the window, the seat creaking as I settle into it and fold my leg under me. This isn’t the establishment where anyone cares if you have your feet on the seat.

The server on duty takes her time bringing over a menu, which is fine. No one should be in a hurry if you’re coming in after 10pm. The menu is a little sticky - that vague, not quite dirty, but hasn’t seen it’s best days in a while kind of sticky, the laminate on the edges beginning to curl.

“Can I get you started with anything?” The server is the kind of person who’s going to be working the late shift – not too perky, friendly enough, but not going for the fake-I'm-so-glad-you're-here shtick.

“A number two with orange juice, please.” Same thing as always, an egg, hash brown, two slices of bacon, and stack of pancakes. I hand the menu back to the server.

“It’ll be out in a minute.” The server walks back to the kitchen, stopping to collect dishes from the theatre table on the way. The drunk couple are making out now, and the adults from the theatre group are glaring. The kids are too busy trying to sing all the harmonies in “One Day More” from Les Misérables to notice, with all the confidence that comes from being a theatre star in a small high school.

I lean my head back against the booth, watching the light on the sign outside flicker. The other customers seem almost like ghosts, phantoms of the past versions of me sitting in this diner.

The first time I had been in here was with a theatre group. Fresh from opening night, crowding ten people in a four-person booth, the high from adrenaline still pumping, elbows and voices both flying everywhere. Appetites sharpened by two and a half hours of dancing and straining to remember lines. Stealing glances with that castmate. Sharing memes on the group chat, even though everyone in the chat is sitting at the table. Someone spilling their soda at some point. Complaining about the director, and rehashing the prop that was forgotten and the mic that wasn’t turned off.

That’s how we had met, he and I. Bonding over the number two special. Talking for three hours in the parking lot after everyone else had left. That thrill of mystery and the knowledge that something is happening, something that you can’t stop and almost feel like a helpless spectator watching a train careening towards some abyss.

We’d been that couple, too. That annoying couple that sit in the same side of the booth, brushing against each other, lacing fingers together. Cloying. Sappy. Blissfully happy. Completely oblivious to whatever is going on around them. Strange to think I had ever been that stupid.

Maybe not stupid. Just naïve. Maybe not even that. Just hopeful.

The food arrives, actually hot and, despite my usual snobbishness about food, strangely fulfilling. The later in the evening it gets, the more I seem to want greasy diner food.

I take my time spreading the tiny pat of butter over the pancakes and methodically pouring the sticky bottle of maple syrup over them. Like a ritual, I watch the thick syrup flow over the fluffy cakes, slowly soaking in. I cut a bite and chew it slowly, for a moment melding the sounds around me and the sights out the window and the flavor of the breakfast special.

We had many dates here, hanging out with friends, coming after parties, grabbing a bite when they were low on groceries. I watch the drunk couple make their way out of the building, and I almost want to let them know that the best place to park and make out was the left corner of the parking lot, where the lack of light lends privacy.

The theatre kids started shuffling around and getting together their bags, the noise elevating as they herd out the door, the now barely awake adults in their wake. The diner is quiet now, and I swirl my finger through the condensation ring that puddles beneath my orange juice glass.

It had ended the way that these things usually do – you don’t see it coming, and then suddenly, it’s there.

The server goes by, bussing the theatre table, spraying and wiping it down, then carries the bussing tub back into the kitchen, leaving only the swirls of evaporating wipe marks on the table.

There isn’t any way to pinpoint the moment it had happened, the moment the relationship began to unravel. But, one minute, we were the world, and the next minute, it was as if every memory and moment shared was just wiped away, like the theatre kids’ table – all evidence of them being there gone, except for the knowledge to the people still there.

Ghosts. Just whispers that at one time, love had blossomed here.

For a long time, that had bothered me. If it didn’t exist now, it must invalidate the fact that it was there at one point. Because it ended, it couldn’t be real. I had questioned every look, every word, every moment. With no evidence that the relationship happened besides a few tokens packed away in the back of my parents’ garage, the only way I know that it even happened are the yellow-faded memories.

But what’s wrong with that? Why can’t there be ghosts? Why does that invalidate it? Just because ten years down the road, no one working at the diner would remember the cast from Shrek Jr., did that take away from the memories those kids would have? Would it take away from the fact that it happened?

“Anything else for you?” The server holds the tab in one hand and a pot of coffee aloft with the other.

“Nope, just the check.”

The server plunks the check down on the table, the condensation from the glass catching the edge of the paper and seeping into it, and deftly scoops up the empty plate and glass.

“Pretty slow tonight?” I always feel the need to make conversation with the server, as if to apologize for being there.

The server nods. “Yeah, except for the kids. We get a group from the school every so often after a show.” For the first time that night, the server really looks at me. “You come here often? I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

“It’s been a while.” I pull out my debit card and hand it to the server. “I used to come here a lot. I’m moving tomorrow so I thought I’d stop in before I left.”

“Nice.”

Polite exchange over, the server leaves to ring up my card.

The truck is packed, sitting in the driveway at home. Goodbyes have been said, people have called, lots of tears. It just seems right to come here one more time.

The dude at the bar has already shuffled off, and I’m the only one left besides the kitchen staff, who are talking loudly in the back. I’m moving. It’s really happening. I have put it off for so long, until the desire for change and a fresh start was greater than the fear of everything I’m leaving behind. But it’s time.

“Well, good luck with your move.” The server hands my card back with the receipt and a pen that’s on its last leg.

“Thanks.” I sign the receipt, add a tip, and grab my bag. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave. The ghosts pull me in, beckoning from the booths and tables with the echoes of the laughter and love that had been here. Stay here. You were happy here. Life was good.

It had been. It had been really good. I lean my head back and close my eyes for a moment. What if I just stayed here?

It’s not real. They’re not here anymore.

The voice jolts me back to the present. He’s not here anymore. The theatre group have long moved on. I’m the only one sitting here, being tied down to an old life by things that don’t exist any longer. Suddenly, the memories are just that – memories. Beautiful moments I can tuck away and carry with me. I don’t need to sit in the diner to do that.

They are always going to be there, fading as the years go by. I can move, can go on with my life, and not be tied down to needing to preserve them. They are fine on their own.

I linger for a moment at the door.

“Have a good night.” The server is sitting at the bar now, drinking her own mug of sludge, talking to one of the line cooks, and gives me a nod.

“Thanks, you too.”

Thanks for the memories. Thanks for the beautiful moments. Thanks for being here, and thanks for letting me go.

The light from the diner glows from the windows and spills into the parking lot as I pull my car out, the chapter on my life closing. It is time to move on. There’ll be new memories made at this diner, people falling in love and singing theatre songs and eating hangover meals, all weaving together in a tapestry of love and greasy food and laughter, and even some tears. Someday it’ll probably go out of business, an empty shell. It might even be bulldozed. But the memories will still be there, in the hearts of the people who made them. That’s how it should be.