The Dream Diner

We dim the lights slightly at 10 pm, and serve more alcohol and less food. The diner gets eerily quiet for about a ½ hour and then the best show in the theater district begins. The actors, singers, and dancers come in, almost in their pajama’s; each item of clothing is unique, most are well-worn, torn, and frayed; but loved like a child’s favorite teddy bear. Their make-up has come off, but each one has spots they miss, as though they don’t want to fully return to reality. They love their characters and their costumes, along with sending their voices up into the highest balcony, particularly the singers. Most of them have escaped a world they didn’t fit in, being gay in a small southern town, born black in a desperately poor family with talent that lifts them out of poverty, a history of bruises or worse. They have a voice first released in a small local church, then as the lead in the school play, and now on Broadway.

The musicians come in carrying their baggage; they always take the table in the back-left corner, because they can keep their instruments close. When I can stop, take a breath, and watch them, I can see they are still in rhythm with each other. Staying in-sync is comforting. When I see one person play on their own, I can almost feel them drowning out sounds of fighting parents, angry question about who ate the last piece of pie, or who can do the most chin ups. Most of them started playing their instrument by age six, and now they practice 6 or more hours a day, on their own, before coming to the theater at night. This is their time to talk and share a meal, only most of them have never learned to communicate with words. They are all still dressed in their performance tuxedo or black dress. If you look closely, their clothes are deeply worn, but well cared for.

The stage workers are mostly local guys, from Queens and the Bronx; their fathers did this and got them into the union. A round of beer, burgers and fries, all the way around, and bring the next beer, before they’ve had a chance to ask. They joke and laugh easily; surrounded by family at home and work.

The directors are dressed almost like normal humans, blazers, turtle necks, and slacks; simple, functional clothes, for both the men and the few women. There is still something idiosyncratic about each of them, an earring, belt, watch, or suspenders. They are the bossiest, I always wait on them first. They know what they want, their impatient, and each one requires special attention of some kind. They take the big table in the front.

The writer’s take the longest to come in, because they like to listen to what the audience members say, as they leave the theater. Their clothes are rumpled as though they picked them up off the floor and put them on, from the day before. They look at the menu, the words and not at you, when they order. Some of them will select, what they feel one of their characters would eat. These are the storytellers, the ones who start from the blank page, the purest act of creation. Even in today’s technology driven world, they each have their distinctive notebook, along with their iPhone; everything about it matters to them, the covering color and material, fabric, leather, or paper, not plastic. The pages are the most important element; the size, the width of the lines, thickness of the paper, and if its smooth or textured. The pens they use are also carefully selected instruments of creation, most of them have a few, so they are never caught without one, when an idea comes to mind.

We’re all the way over on 9th and 48th; and we are where the theater community comes to breathe, after the show. We’re a family owned business, The Dream Diner. My father and two brothers work the grill, my mother is the hostess and cashier, and my sisters’ and I wait on the tables. My mother’s parents started it with my father’s parents, soon after getting off the boat, from Italy. We’re open 24/7, but we all work the night shift, because it’s one of the most fascinating collections of people you can find, in one place. We come in at 10 pm and work through breakfast, then go upstairs to sleep during the day.

I started working when I was 7 years old. My mother got a pin, like hers with my name on it – Ella-May. I’m 24 now, and pregnant with my first child, and I still wear the same plastic pin. I have a habit of touching it often. I married the handyman Rick; we’ve known each other since we were in kindergarten. He used to come in here with his Dad, and I’d make him the biggest bowl of ice cream. Mom made my first work dress, as she eventually did for my 2 younger sisters. We still make all our work clothes, on the same Singer sewing machine. We buy our fabric in the garment district, about 12 blocks south from the restaurant, at a family owned store that sells much of the fabric for the stage wardrobes. I’m due soon, so I’ve been wearing my mother’s dresses, from when she was pregnant with us.

The casts from Wicked and Chicago have arrived; it’s Saturday night so the energy is heightened. They’ve done two shows today and you can feel they’ve been nourished by the extra attention and applause. The Chicago dancers have been doing the show for so long, they step together when they walk in. I’m moving slow, and the customers know us so well, someone is standing there each time I’ve filled a tray, so I won’t lift it. Almost all of them have waited on tables, so they’re all-in tune with serving in a restaurant.

It’s after midnight now, the ice maker is nearly empty because all the dancers have it on their sore spots. The Saturday Night Live crew will be in soon, otherwise everyone is fed and the stories begin. Jimmy sits down at the counter, and I sit next to him; I’m so uncomfortable at this point, I don’t know what to do with myself. Jimmy has been an understudy for The Lion King, for a while now, and tonight he got to play the role of Simba. The lead, couldn’t do the second show, so he was on. The cast members are all congratulating him on a great show. Jimmy is pure sparkle; it was his first big moment; he has fulfilled his dream. He is perched on a high stool, so everyone can see him and come by and congratulate him. We have a tradition at the Dream Diner, when you have a breakthrough moment, you select your favorite dessert, we supersize it and serve it to your table. Tonight, it’s blueberry pie; we take a whole one, put it on a big platter, surround it with scoops of vanilla and strawberry ice cream, and place it in the center of the cast table, with a pile of forks. He gets the first bite, then everyone digs in. Many of the performers and crew know each other, so lots of others join in, then the whole place breaks out in song – The Circle of Life, and Can You Feel the Love Tonight. The song moves around the room, and those with a set of pipes, each take a line.

Those who had just paid hundreds of dollars for tickets, would pay thousands for this. I feel my baby kick, wanting to get in on the action, and I feel fear, as I know it would be soon. I look at Jimmy and he’s absorbing this moment, like dry sponge soaking up water. He always wears long sleeves; tonight his shirt is torn on his right shoulder, and I can see what looks like a cigarette burn. He touches it, and looks at me, as I feel an early labor pain. I put my hand on his right arm and he covers it with his left hand, grateful for the human touch. I look around the room at my sisters laughing with the customers, my mother ringing the cash register, and my father and brothers competing for speed making pancakes on the grill, and I smile. Pain had driven each of these performers here, the stories have a 1,000 details, but the essence is always the same. They were different, outcasts, unloved, beaten, raped, or used in some way. They needed to leave to live, and they were lucky, because they had something most of us don’t – Talent! A talent that’s worth fighting for, that gave them something to focus on, so they could rise above the reality of their daily existence. The pain of the people who created them, would not dictate their lives; they had an escape clause written into their lives.

I think, for a moment, of the beautiful boys, who came in, after competing for an underwear ad. Sometimes on their own, and other times in small groups. The time of Me Too, has arrived for women, but it’s just beginning for the guys; there are still many secrets. Then there are the leather women, that work at the upscale place down the street. Next to everyone who realizes a dream, is someone who didn’t get that far, and I wonder how many cigarette burns Jimmy hides each day.

The Dream Diner, has become the place successful moments are celebrated. It’s also a place, where those who need comfort, come after one of those tedious long days, that feels like it will never end. I have another pain and my husband is beside me. I realize every time I had looked at him all day, he was already looking at me; he knew before I did, our first child would be born today. He hands me my red leather journal, with two black pens and we walk out calmly and get into a cab. Our daughter is born before noon. Rick has a dozen roses delivered to the room, as we cradle her still shivering, in our arms. It was the first time he’d ever given me flowers and they are so beautiful, we decided to name her Rose. Our families came in and my mother takes a few of the petals and places them on her granddaughters’ tiny new body, being comforted following her traumatic journey. She takes a picture of the three of us, and I know she has a place for it, on the old worn wall of the Diner.

I smile grateful my daughter will never know the pain, in the lives of most of our customers. I suddenly feel a deep appreciation for the love that will surround her. She'll work hard, long days and nights; but engaged by those who have transcended their circumstances, and have the courage to reach for the star within them. Some will win, and others won’t, but our star sparkles its brightest in the all-out effort, to share our gifts. Success is only a momentary reward.

I put down my well-worn journal and pen, and pick up Rose and feed her, as I feel the lights at the Dream Diner dim, without us tonight. Rick walks in and we cradle Rose between us, as we began to feel the light sleep of parenthood, for the first time.

Paula Weiner © 2020