On my way back from running an errand in Broad Ripple this afternoon, I took a less-direct trip back to the office (read: I have no idea what the most efficient way back is, so I just wing it). I was driving down 10th street in a general eastwardly direction, looking for some place to quickly grab some lunch. There are a lot of places on the east side I’ve been wanting to try — mainly shady dive bars that I wouldn’t step a foot into without a dude like Bubba around — but also ma-and-pa lunch establishments whose signs seemed to call out, “Here Be a Hoosier Treasure!”
That’s how I found myself at The Steer-In.
(photo by this guy.)
I saddled up to the small and cozy counter.
“You’re finally here!” bellowed the older gentleman occupying the corner seat. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
“Hah! Is that right?” I shot him a smile over my shoulder as I slipped off my shades and took a seat. He wasn’t creepy; he was a harmless retiree looking for conversation.
“Them’s some fancy glasses,” he commented, pointing to my bright yellow knockoffs. “Where’d you come from? Hollywood?”
“Naaah.” I ordered an iced tea and flipped through the menu. “So what’s good here?”
“Everything. Everything is good here.” The man anchoring the opposite corner nodded in agreement: “I’m here every day. They got big, breaded tenderloins.”
I chuckled. “That’s so Indiana!” This whole experience was Indiana — the stuff of Mellencamp songs. This guy’s got an interstate runnin’ through his front yard, you know, he thinks he got it so good.
As I sat and waited for my carry-out, we talked mainly about death:
“I don’t want to be cremated. And I don’t wanna be put in the dirt,” he declared.
From four seats down: “Whaddia want, then?” The Retiree had captured the attention of everyone at the counter, this lunchtime table for singles.
“I wanna do like the Egyptians.”
I looked up from my tea. “You wanna be mummified?”
“I wanna be put above the ground in a crypt, like them phay-rohs.”
I smiled. He looked me in the eyes: “When you’re dead? You’re gonna be dead for a long time. You gotta enjoy your life.”
The door chime rang and focus shifted to a younger man in a white tee shirt, who sat down next to my lunchtime companion. The waitress approached his place at the counter: “You orderin’ sumthin’?” The way she said it - she must know him.
“No, thank you. It’s too hot to eat.” He looked kind of…weathered.
Retiree punched the Young Gun on his shoulder. “This is son number one. His girlfriend just broke up with him. She’s an officer for the Coast Guard in Koh-dee-ack, Alaska…. Traded him in for a bear, er sumthin’.”
I guffawed, then covered my mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s not funny.”
Young Gun shook his head. “He’s having a harder time letting it go than I am…. How’d you get stuck in this mosh pit?”
“Just meandered my way in, I guess.” The waitress came with my carry-out. “Nice talking to you fellas, have a lovely afternoon.”
Ain’t that America.
As I was walking out to my car, someone called out, “Hey…” and I turned around to see Young Gun. “What did you say your name was again?”
I hadn’t.
“Oh, it’s Jenn.”
“Jenn, I’m Jason. Listen, um, would you maybe want to go out sometime?”
“Um…sure…” I trailed off. I lack the ability to reject anyone in situations like this.
“Ya like motorcycles?”
I told him I didn’t know.
I gave him my number — not because I want him to call, but because it takes GUTS to run out of a diner after a perfect stranger, like they do in the movies.
