All American Exhibit

It's an anachronistic diner, straight out of dreams of times that never gleamed so bright when they were being accounted by the chrome clock on oh, chrome walls almost fiercely reflecting too much light. Everything smells like old grease, the kind that still clings to your clothes long after you've shit out your meal. As you sit you appreciate the soft touch of good fabric against your leg and appreciate that they gave you a very good suit for this exhibit. It slides easily on the vinyl. It rests on your shoulders awkwardly though, clearly made universal so fitting no one perfectly. It's a light but constant pressure around your back, and brushes your shoulders perpetually. Okay. An attentive twenty-four year old with the wide eyes of one who never regretted getting herself contacts and short, manageable hair, medium length, walks leisurely over but manages to reach your table quickly. She's done this before, outside of this exhibit which is why she was so interested in it originally. She gives you an immaculately clean white plate, the kind that shines with life, and a steel fork, steel steak knife, and steel spoon. They each hit the table gently, but with a reassuringly weighty thud. She says in her practiced server voice as another male's tenor begins to harmonize from another table, lending his precise and deliberate melody to the spiel. “You have been given a suit. You will be started off with a glass of vanilla coke, or diet vanilla coke to drink?” She smiles with you as you recognize the familiar intonations of the standard restaurant greeting warped. She continues apologetically, “You will first be served chicken and vegetable broth. Then you will be served a caesar salad. Your entree will be spaghetti and sauce. For desert you may choose either a cup of coffee, another serving of spaghetti, or sweet potato pie.” She walks away. You and the Asian family across the room are the only people at the only two tables. As the doors to the kitchen swing open a voice bangs briefly against the silence, “But nooooo that dumbass little sonofabitch, he takes another swing.” The father, a small man with a confident and kind voice says something to his wife that his son overhears. The kid chuckles like an old man who's heard every line in his life and still loves them. The door swings open again. “-out. In one jab. Everyone's stunned. Guy raises his fist in the -” Your server is back out pushing a metal trolley with a bowl on a plate in it. She smiles briefly to herself, but hides it quickly. She's thinking of how much this thing would've helped her during seven years of lunch and dinner rushes. She's next to your table. She places the bowl in front of you, right in line with your center. She pushes the trolley away. No kitchen door sound this time. The soup is golden with a slight greenish tinge that reminds you it's chicken and vegetables. The bowl has two red lines about an inch from the rim. The plate has one gold line tracing its circumference. You pick up the steel spoon. It dips readily. You pull up a shaking pond and drink its ripples. The soup lies just between warm and hot and you drink it quickly before coldness sharpens the rounded, rich, salty, sweet fullness of it. It's so savory it lingers so you can savor it. But it's a big bowl for the fleeting last drop. It lands on your tongue lightly, but splashes all over, giving your entire mouth a fleeting good bye. Your server comes back with the metal trolley, composed and straight-faced now. She picks up the spoon right by its point of balance with two fingers, slides it onto the plate next to the bowl. It hits it and rings out clear. She picks up the plate, bowl and all, and puts it on the trolley. She walks away again. The kitchen door reveals the sound of clanging pans and the staccato of deft knife work. It barely closes when she's back again guiding a wooden bowl now, gliding it across the floor with its leaves frosted with oily cheese. She places it down in front of you, once again in line with your own symmetry. She walks away. The kitchen is silent. You pick up your fork and spear a mouthful of lettuce with high expectations. A good bite is entangled in the tines and you slide it off into your mouth. It cracks apart and softly melts into a bright and crisp flavor punctuated with the earthiness of olive oil, and then the cheese and vinegar reconcile the two like a child thanking their proud parents. You leave the croutons untouched. Your server appears by your side as you lay down your fork, removes the plate and bread, and places a very large plate of spaghetti in front of you. It smells sweet and alert, like the first breath you take after stepping out of your house for the first time that day. And there's just that little bit of fruity sharpness that tickles your nose so lovingly that your mouth is suddenly full. Of saliva, swallow it. The first bite hits you so fast that you don't even remember picking it up. The spaghetti firmly yields to you, telling you that it's strong enough to not break apart, and sure enough in itself to do so anyways. That second bite fills you. The third is lost in a reddish smear. You look down and suddenly your plate is empty. Your suit grabs you tighter by the shoulders. Your stomach reaches out to your dress shirt and hugs it. You take a deep breath and wonder how your lungs can move with so much pressing against them. Whoo! You lean back, and the vinyl gives just enough to let your slide your ass into a comfortable position. Your waitress runs out in a hurry. She has her glasses back on and a backpack. It swings by the handle in her hand as she comes to a stop next to you. She leans over, puts the spoon, the knife, and the fork back on your plate in that order. She picks it up and puts it in the backpack. She says, “No dessert, please go back the way you came, and don't forget to return the suit.” She leaves. How long do you sit there for?