Today I was a substitute Spanish teacher at Teays Valley High School in Ashville, Ohio. On my lunch break, I stopped by the “Cherry Street Diner” in Downtown Ashville. It’s a quaint little diner which still bears all the furnishings and style of the 70’s and 80’s. The walls are decked with all sorts of random americana. Everything from a Betty Boop imitating marilyn monroe, to a clock featuring Elvis Presley with swaying hips. A sign hangs above the front counter reading, “Prices subject to change according to customer’s attitude.” Beside it, is a notice from the complaint department featuring a hand grenade with a small number attached to it’s pin. Just below it it reads, “Take a number”.
I seated myself at a small table just down from Elvis and directly below an old tin sign for Vernor’s Ginger Ale. The simple upholstered metal chairs and wood-patterned laminate tabletop immediately brought back memories of my great-grandmother. The steady twangy beat of the FM Country station playing in the background seemed to blend so much into the decor that I almost didn’t notice it until sometime after I had been seated.
The diner’s one waitress was named “Kimy”; spelled K-I-M-Y, “KI..MY”--NOT Kimberly, NOT Kim, but Kimy. She was very clear on that point. Kimy was as classic as they come, it was as if she was one and the same with the whole downtown diner package. She always seemed to have a coffee carafe in her hand, which she carried with her as she sped about from table to table, awing her customers with her extraordinary wit, blunt quips, and take-it-or-leave it attitude. She’s was a real gem. As she sped around to my table, I quickly placed an order for a real “greasy spoon”
classic: Two fried eggs--over-medium, bacon, home fries, and a cup of that magically mediocre coffee sloshing around in Kimy’s pot. The order was done and on the table in no more than two and a half shakes (give or take a quarter of a shake). It was everything I had hoped: a salty and greasy goodness that slid straight down, fulfilling a deep longing for a classic kind of Americana that I had nearl
y forgotten.
I have never been here before, but somehow, I feel like I know everyone. This is truly one of those places that knows no strangers--or maybe its just Flo. I just watched her fish through a big bow
l of candy Valentine hearts sitting on the front counter for Valentine’s day. As she dug through, she would read allowed each heart in an attempt to award her customer with a heart that is most like him. She claims to be an excellent judge of character and she didn’t even hesitate to tell this man exactly who she perceived him to be. “He likes the ladies” she announced to the woman sitting beside him--a comment which I am certain was given plenty of attention on the couple’s ride home.
As a went up to pay and I handed my card to an obvious “new hire”. At the mere scent of unconfidence, Kimy burst through the pivoting cafe door and seized her golden opportunity to take the young fledgeling under her wing. The three of us walked through the painstaking process of processing a credit card--the right way. This, of course, lead to several fiery stories of countless run-ins that she has had with customers who have had their cards handled the wrong way. Slightly ruffled, and with eyes that looked as if they had just witnessed a furious hurricane, the new hire delicately handed me back the card as Kimy continued the force of her story. After batting back and forth a few playful quips with the seasoned waitress. I sat back down and finish off that mediocre cup of downtown diner goodness, reflecting on the rich slice of americana that lay before me.
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