I remember, back when I had just graduated high school (in the bygone era of 1999), my friends and I would occasionally, that being once every few months, take a trip two towns over, next to the interstate, where there was a 24 hour Waffle House.
Now, for those of you who do not know, Waffle House is an institution here in the U.S. It is typical of what you’d call a “greasy spoon” restaurant, and you can find them everywhere on the east coast, in the Midwest, and especially down south.
Here is a picture of one, for those not quite picturing it:

Although, don’t let that picture fool you. Ours wasn’t nearly as brightly lit or clean. Hell, that one looks like it’s brand new. Ours was old, worn down, and in a part of town that invited homeless guys to urinate in the garbage can out front. In fact, one time we went there was a piece of plywood duct taped to one of the large windows, glass broken, likely from a robbery, that said “Still open, toilet doesn’t work. -Mgmt”
They weren’t kidding. The toilet did not work.
So anyway, my high school friends and I would go to this Waffle House late at night, find a place to sit (you could sit anywhere), and just talk. We’d order omelets, and bottomless black coffee. We’d eat, and talk. My friend Allen, a pale, thin, lanky fellow with a red Mohawk and permanent 3 day stubble, would smoke his clove cigarettes, and complain about the government. He had an anarchist streak in him. Not the social web of humanity governing itself kind that I find fascinating, but the “burn it all to the ground and fuck ’em all” kind of reactionary anarchism that you find in so many punk songs, which he listened to almost religiously, which was something of an interesting detail, considering he was an atheist. Well, except when it came to a woman he pined over. She was a goddess.
Meanwhile, during his ranting conspiracies, I would drink so much black coffee that I would start seeing the quantum vibrations present in the fabric of the universe. I’m fairly certain the reason I have an arrhythmia is because I consumed enough coffee to accelerate the process of global warming due to the caffeinated heat escaping my bloodstream. Sorry about that.
Ajay, the third member of our little group was a tall, dark skinned athlete that always wore his track and field jersey, and who would sit silently, nursing a glass of soda, contemplating life. He never really said much unless you hit the right topic, and then he could go on for half an hour straight, without taking a breath, until finally finishing his spiel with a softly spoken “it is what it is, you know?” as if that observation summed up all of existence in his world. Not that I think he was wrong. He was also one hell of a chess player.
It was 19 years ago, but it might as well have been three lifetimes ago. My friend Ajay, I see once every other year or so, but not to do anything. He’s married, has kids, works full time for the city (where he lives, not where I live), and doesn’t have time for anything else. My friend Allen got married, had kids, and has worked for the same shipping company 15 years now. I don’t ever get to see him, and haven’t for the past decade at least.
I can still taste the black coffee, smell the acrid odor of burnt toast, hear the silverware clinking and clattering on our plates, and see the smudged windows that looked out onto the interstate, the headlights zipping back and forth in the darkness, with the sickly yellow light from the Waffle House illuminating the parking lot, and Allen’s old 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, his rear bumper permanently dinged from where he had backed into a telephone pole while trying to execute a u-turn on a single lane back road. “The Tank,” we called it, and for good reason.
Sometimes I just want to live in these memories. I want to be 19 years old again, with no health problems as of yet (aside from my nearsightedness), all of my hopes, dreams, and hair. It’s no wonder people want to go back to the way things were, because it is so enticing. The seductiveness of nostalgia, of memory, taints the present, and flashes a cold, pale light onto the specter of the future.
Back then, I had just graduated, half a dozen colleges wanted me to enroll, one of them being an amazing aeronautical engineering school, and the world was open to me, inviting me forward.
Even then, however, I was already taking care of mom. She had been diagnosed with Sarcoidosis about 5 years prior, and this was at the point where it had reached its apex, making life miserable for her, and for me as well, by extension. Not her fault, of course. Nevertheless, I had no idea that 19 years later, I would still be dealing with the fallout of that dreaded disease. I would still be at home, still alone, still penniless, and in much worse health myself.
There are people whose lives have been worse, but since this is the life I’m living, this is the one I have to deal with. The only one I get. This is it. It is what it is, you know?
Well, I do know this: I could use a piping hot, bitter, black cup of quantum entanglement coffee right about now.