by Flack » Wed Apr 05, 2023 4:13 pm
It's a little ironic that you don't get much sleep during a sleep study. Sleep studies begin with a stranger sticking dozens of sensors to your face, head and body, and ends the following morning when the same technician abruptly bursts into your room to wake you up and eject you from the premeses as quickly as possible.
With multiple wads of medical gunk still clinging to my scalp, I stumble out of my room and into one of the hospital's elevators, eventually finding my way down to the parking lot where my wife is waiting for me. I ask her to remind me what time it is and she says almost six, although I'm still groggy and it feels more like almost four. The sky shows no signs of dawn; it's as black as a moonless night. As I shuffle toward the car my wife suggests we grab breakfast at the cafe across the street. There's nothing I want more at the moment than my own pillow, but if that's not an option, coffee and cream are a close second.
There are three restaurants within walking distance of the hospital and only one of them, Dee's Cafe, is open at this hour. It's a unique location for a restaurant. Across the street to the south is the hospital, and to the east stands an old hotel notorious for prostitution busts. Within a few hundred meters in either direction are one of the largest dispensaries in town, and a methadone clinic. During the day, homeless people stand in the parking lot begging doctors sitting at the intersection in their Mercedes and Land Rovers for spare change.
Sooner or later, all of them -- the beggars, the doctors, the hustlers, the lawyers, the prostitutes, the employees and the clients of the methadone clinic -- all end up at Dee's.
The doctors eat at Dee's because it's convenient, the hookers eat there because it's cheap, and we eat there because it's dangerous -- more dangerous than a rollercoaster, but less dangerous than the alley behind the methadone clinic. If you love red velvet pancakes and the possibility of watching waitresses chase crackheads for walking their tabs, this is the place. The coffee's okay and the food is hit or miss. The only reason we came back a second time was because of a waitress, Charlie. In between coffee refills and bossing younger waitresses around, Charlie would tell us how ghosts visit her at night and how sometimes she sees the future in her dreams. She talks shit about her coworkers and the other customers and, after we leave, probably us. She's good at a job that's no good for her. Charlie hasn't been there the last two times we came and she's not here this morning either, which means there's zero chance of us getting a free slice of stale cake from the display case.
There are two sets of glass doors at the entrance of Dee's, and this morning the outer pair are shattered. Someone cleaned up the big pieces of glass but tiny pebbles sit against the wall, under the empty magazine rack, and outside on the sidewalk. The waitress catches me staring at the door and tells us a strong wind caught the door and smashed the glass. Sounds legit.
Two other tables are occupied this morning. At one is a couple -- the man, in his 40s and wearing a suit jacket, is sitting across from a woman in her 20s wearing a shirt that's too tight and hot pink hair that stretches below the tabletop. The girl is flirting and the two of them are learning in toward one another. Tinder, you've done it again. A few feet away in the booth closest to the front door are three kids in their early 20s. They're all dressed in black from head to toe. The waitress has already dropped off their ticket and the boys are taking their time paying it. One of them stands up, stretches, and walks out, leaving the other two behind. One of the remaining scrubs has emptied his pockets of change onto the table and is sorting the coins into small towers. The third member of the crew wanes in and out of consciousness. I am 100% convinced the pair plan to make a run for it when the waitress is furthest from the front door, a move the waitstaff appear to be anticipating as one of the two waitresses is hanging around the hostess podium even though it's still dark outside and there's no line forming to get in this place.
I'm feeling a bit light-headed, most likely from the lack of sleep mixed with the strong, shitty coffee. My wife is asking me how the sleep study went and I'm having trouble following her questions. All I can really focus on are the kids next to the front door. I remember reading once that you should always carry some cash with you in the event that you get mugged. Now I'm wondering if the kids are planning to skip the ticket or rob the restaurant and, if that's the case, if they'll rob me, too. We went to the casino last week and I don't have any cash in my wallet. I wonder if they will let me sync my pictures to the cloud before they steal my phone.
"How much cash do you have on you?" I blurt out. My wife did better at the casino than I did and still has $80 on her. When she asks me why I say I tell her I don't wanna get stabbed. Before I have time to explain, breakfast arrives.
I'm about to take my first bite when two doctors enter Dee's and take a seat at the bar, directly next to our table. They ask the waitress what happened to the front door and she tells them someone tried to kick it in. Sounds legit. My wife is bummed out that Charlie's not working today and I'm trying to hear what the doctors are saying. It sounds like they're heart doctors. For breakfast I ordered biscuits, eggs, sausage, and bacon. The heart doctors can't see any of it because it's all covered in gravy. I wonder if they have ever met someone in the restaurant that ended up being one of their patients.
I was too busy listening to the doctors to notice that the man and his pink-haired girlfriend have left. One of the kids in black is standing up now and the waitress is waking the other one up. Again. My wife asks our waitress if the kids have paid their bill yet and I guess they had enough dimes. The slightly more lucid one has called ten different people on speakerphone trying to get a ride home. Uber don't take dimes. Someone has finally arrived. As the pair stumble out through the door a lawyer dressed as a cowboy is on his way in. He's got a client to check on in the hospital before heading over to the office. Through the blinds I can see that the sky is starting to turn blue. The night crew -- both the waitress and the customers -- are making their way out while those who sleep at night and rise during the day are making their way in. For just a few minutes each day, they all cross paths here.
On our way out I hear the waitress telling the cowboy that a disgruntled waitress threw a rock at the front door after she was fired. I wonder if it was Charlie. Sounds legit.
It's a little ironic that you don't get much sleep during a sleep study. Sleep studies begin with a stranger sticking dozens of sensors to your face, head and body, and ends the following morning when the same technician abruptly bursts into your room to wake you up and eject you from the premeses as quickly as possible.
With multiple wads of medical gunk still clinging to my scalp, I stumble out of my room and into one of the hospital's elevators, eventually finding my way down to the parking lot where my wife is waiting for me. I ask her to remind me what time it is and she says almost six, although I'm still groggy and it feels more like almost four. The sky shows no signs of dawn; it's as black as a moonless night. As I shuffle toward the car my wife suggests we grab breakfast at the cafe across the street. There's nothing I want more at the moment than my own pillow, but if that's not an option, coffee and cream are a close second.
There are three restaurants within walking distance of the hospital and only one of them, Dee's Cafe, is open at this hour. It's a unique location for a restaurant. Across the street to the south is the hospital, and to the east stands an old hotel notorious for prostitution busts. Within a few hundred meters in either direction are one of the largest dispensaries in town, and a methadone clinic. During the day, homeless people stand in the parking lot begging doctors sitting at the intersection in their Mercedes and Land Rovers for spare change.
Sooner or later, all of them -- the beggars, the doctors, the hustlers, the lawyers, the prostitutes, the employees and the clients of the methadone clinic -- all end up at Dee's.
The doctors eat at Dee's because it's convenient, the hookers eat there because it's cheap, and we eat there because it's dangerous -- more dangerous than a rollercoaster, but less dangerous than the alley behind the methadone clinic. If you love red velvet pancakes and the possibility of watching waitresses chase crackheads for walking their tabs, this is the place. The coffee's okay and the food is hit or miss. The only reason we came back a second time was because of a waitress, Charlie. In between coffee refills and bossing younger waitresses around, Charlie would tell us how ghosts visit her at night and how sometimes she sees the future in her dreams. She talks shit about her coworkers and the other customers and, after we leave, probably us. She's good at a job that's no good for her. Charlie hasn't been there the last two times we came and she's not here this morning either, which means there's zero chance of us getting a free slice of stale cake from the display case.
There are two sets of glass doors at the entrance of Dee's, and this morning the outer pair are shattered. Someone cleaned up the big pieces of glass but tiny pebbles sit against the wall, under the empty magazine rack, and outside on the sidewalk. The waitress catches me staring at the door and tells us a strong wind caught the door and smashed the glass. Sounds legit.
Two other tables are occupied this morning. At one is a couple -- the man, in his 40s and wearing a suit jacket, is sitting across from a woman in her 20s wearing a shirt that's too tight and hot pink hair that stretches below the tabletop. The girl is flirting and the two of them are learning in toward one another. Tinder, you've done it again. A few feet away in the booth closest to the front door are three kids in their early 20s. They're all dressed in black from head to toe. The waitress has already dropped off their ticket and the boys are taking their time paying it. One of them stands up, stretches, and walks out, leaving the other two behind. One of the remaining scrubs has emptied his pockets of change onto the table and is sorting the coins into small towers. The third member of the crew wanes in and out of consciousness. I am 100% convinced the pair plan to make a run for it when the waitress is furthest from the front door, a move the waitstaff appear to be anticipating as one of the two waitresses is hanging around the hostess podium even though it's still dark outside and there's no line forming to get in this place.
I'm feeling a bit light-headed, most likely from the lack of sleep mixed with the strong, shitty coffee. My wife is asking me how the sleep study went and I'm having trouble following her questions. All I can really focus on are the kids next to the front door. I remember reading once that you should always carry some cash with you in the event that you get mugged. Now I'm wondering if the kids are planning to skip the ticket or rob the restaurant and, if that's the case, if they'll rob me, too. We went to the casino last week and I don't have any cash in my wallet. I wonder if they will let me sync my pictures to the cloud before they steal my phone.
"How much cash do you have on you?" I blurt out. My wife did better at the casino than I did and still has $80 on her. When she asks me why I say I tell her I don't wanna get stabbed. Before I have time to explain, breakfast arrives.
I'm about to take my first bite when two doctors enter Dee's and take a seat at the bar, directly next to our table. They ask the waitress what happened to the front door and she tells them someone tried to kick it in. Sounds legit. My wife is bummed out that Charlie's not working today and I'm trying to hear what the doctors are saying. It sounds like they're heart doctors. For breakfast I ordered biscuits, eggs, sausage, and bacon. The heart doctors can't see any of it because it's all covered in gravy. I wonder if they have ever met someone in the restaurant that ended up being one of their patients.
I was too busy listening to the doctors to notice that the man and his pink-haired girlfriend have left. One of the kids in black is standing up now and the waitress is waking the other one up. Again. My wife asks our waitress if the kids have paid their bill yet and I guess they had enough dimes. The slightly more lucid one has called ten different people on speakerphone trying to get a ride home. Uber don't take dimes. Someone has finally arrived. As the pair stumble out through the door a lawyer dressed as a cowboy is on his way in. He's got a client to check on in the hospital before heading over to the office. Through the blinds I can see that the sky is starting to turn blue. The night crew -- both the waitress and the customers -- are making their way out while those who sleep at night and rise during the day are making their way in. For just a few minutes each day, they all cross paths here.
On our way out I hear the waitress telling the cowboy that a disgruntled waitress threw a rock at the front door after she was fired. I wonder if it was Charlie. Sounds legit.