If
the Fleetwood Diner were a person, it would be a cranky old man named Morty who
wears a tattered fedora and suspenders holding up his ridiculously loose pants. He tells dirty jokes to inappropriately
young women. He has an aversion to
taking showers and he may or may not smell like dirty socks. But despite Morty’s shabby exterior,
people are drawn to him. Drawn to
him like hippies to a summer music festival, like bar hoppers are drawn to
late-night, deep-fried snacks. He
is a character, and one who attracts a crowd.
A
person such as Morty is even more likeable (albeit tolerable) when one has had
a few drinks under their belt, and the Fleetwood is no exception. All of the previous times I have
visited the restaurant have been after a night of concert-going or drinking at
nearby establishments, so many of the restaurant’s less than spectacular
qualities did not appear themselves to me at all. Rather, I saw the endearing eccentricity through the haze of
my post Cherry-Bomb buzz. I didn’t
pay attention to how dirty the floor was because there were so many people
packed into the place that I literally couldn’t see the floor.
But
tonight was different. My
sister-in-law, niece and nephew and I were one of three parties at The
Fleetwood, despite the Art Fair’s having attracted thousands into the
city. The Fleetwood seemed lonely
and ignored. I imagined Morty in
his human form, standing outside trying to cajole strangers to eat at his
restaurant, asking them to come eat in one sentence, and then spewing insults
at them when they decline and pass by in another.
It
was odd to be in a place sober that I was so used to patronizing when I was
not. I paid much more attention to
the details of the restaurant itself.
I noticed all of Morty’s age spots- the rust patches and water stains on
the ceiling, the pop and coffee dried up on the black and white (although I use
the word white loosely) tiled floors.
But Morty is not concerned so much with how he looks as he is with
serving good food that people will wait outside in the freezing cold for thirty
minutes or more to eat. Morty is
unapologetic for his oversights, and unselfconscious about his appearance
because of them. Morty is who he
is, as is The Fleetwood Diner.
And
the Fleetwood invites its customers to be the same. A place that offers up a
comfortable haven for absolutely anybody, from lawyers to change beggars to
kids with brightly colored Mohawks (I actually saw one while I was there), to
teenagers to the elderly who dine at the Fleetwood in the hopes of reliving a fond
memory from their past. Everyone
has a place and everyone is welcome.
It’s like once we eat there we are one of Morty’s friends and he always
invites us to come back.
So
I was excited and a little nervous to introduce my niece and nephew to the
Fleetwood- excited for them to experience the retro “blast from the past”-ness
of the place and nervous that they wouldn’t share the same appreciation for it
that their mother and I did. I couldn’t wait for them to see the splattering of
stickers on the wall, ranging from bands to bumper to bubble gum. I thought they would get a bang out of
the authentic looking stools lined dutifully at the counter and the novelty of
being able to watch the cook prepare our food as we sat. But to my chagrin, they
had no appreciation for the details that, in my mind, make this place so
unique. To them, Morty’s bygone era quirkiness went unnoticed; their attentions
focused more on playing with the silverware than noticing their surroundings.
I
noticed, however, the almost uncomfortable blank silence that hung heavy in The
Fleetwood like the metal awnings outside.
Usually, (by that I mean at 2 am on any given night) a mix of music as
eclectic as the clientele blasts from a little boom box propped on top of one
of the refrigerators behind the counter, it’s blown speakers blaring scratchy
sounds like Bob Marley, The Sex Pistols, or maybe even a little ‘50’s Doo-Wop. But tonight all I could hear were the volcanic
pops of hot grease, the AC blasting its little heart out and little (boring)
snippets of conversation from the people around us. No music at the Fleetwood? It was as if they ran out of Hippie Hash- something
significant was definitely missing.
The silence amplified the Diner’s sleepy mood.
Our
waitress seemed sleepy, too. She
was efficient, but not overly friendly or engaging. She did, after all, have the whole entire restaurant to
serve. I counted six the stools at the counter, fourteen seats at
the inside tables, and there had to be at least 4 tables outside seating about
4 at each- that’s over 36 potential seats to one little waitress. That was a lot of people to serve, so
the fact that she plopped a pile of silverware and napkins on our table for us
to distribute didn’t bother us so much.
I imagine her as Morty’s great granddaughter, the
“you-can’t-teach-an-old-dog-new-tricks” attitude being concentrated through the
passing on of generations.
Another
thing that adds to the personification of Morty through the Fleetwood is the
attitude. There is a unique manner
captured amongst the sheet metal walls- one that is almost devil-may-care, or
on the contrary, the devil-does-care,
and he wants you to eat at his restaurant. It’s not only the attitude of the restaurant, but also the
demeanor of many of its customers.
During my late night visits, the inevitably inebriated patrons didn’t
mind waiting a half an hour, didn’t mind the slightly less than presentable
appearance. Going to the Fleetwood
isn’t about getting gussied up and fancy, it’s about slinging a greasy spoon, fork
and knife while fraternizing with your fellow bar hoppers.
Instead
of a varied, colorful crowd, tonight’s patrons were just plain and simple. There was the newly-dating couple in
their 20’s who sat at a table by the front window and made small talk, the
college-aged girls sitting by the back jealousy window (which doesn’t open to
the outside, but rather to the basement stairwell), and us. A few people came in and out to get carryout
orders, but that was the extent of it.
I noticed how much bigger the small diner felt when it was not bursting
at the metal seams with people.
The space seemed expansive with the longing for capacity to be
fulfilled.
In
an effort to try and redeem myself as the “cool aunt”, I brought my niece and
nephew down to the bathroom for a pit stop (they had been asking all through
dinner to go down there). We
opened the door to the back steps (the bathroom is in the basement) and a wall
of heat and stink and mustiness assaulted our noses. Trapped underneath the black rubber mat that covered the
stair landing lurked smells that should not be found anywhere near a place
where people eat. The stench was a
mix of bleach, mildew, and bread gone bad. The odor that warned us to turn back around only encouraged
my niece and nephew to follow the stairs down to the bathroom. It was like we were in the belly of an
old ship- dark, dank, and damp with the black walls emanating an unfriendly
vibe (That, or the inside of
Morty’s belly). We turned the
corner after the stairs and there was the bathroom- its unevenly hung door opened
ever so slightly, daring us to even have a look. I pushed open the door and turned on the light. One of the walls was painted a chalky
black, and the other a deep, dusty blue.
Graffiti and phone numbers were scattered all over the walls. The garbage can underneath the sink was
overflowing with used paper towels. The stink of “bathroom smells” was so
strong my niece had to hold her nose to keep from gagging. “Awesome!” My nephew exclaimed, anything disgusting and putrid piquing
his interest. I was disappointed
that the thing they got so excited about was also the least appealing attribute
of the place.
I
was also disappointed at my reaction to the Fleetwood this particular Friday
evening. I had looked forward to
seeing this place as I was used to seeing it- busy, loud, and boisterous. Instead my expectations slumped like a
runny egg yolk on one of the Fleetwood’s hash breakfasts. It seemed everything that had attracted
me to this place previously was missing- the eclectic and friendly crowd, the
garbled boom box tunes, and the party-like atmosphere. It was quite a letdown that instead of
showing my niece and nephew a rockin’ good time in a retro restaurant, they had
a mediocre time experiencing the Fleetwood as a drowsy, derelict diner.
While
its ambience was lacking this particular evening, I know had we gone a mere 5
hours later I would have seen the Fleetwood Diner I know and (somewhat
begrudgingly) love. “Morty” would
have drawn in his usual crowd of friends and been in full swing- slurring
rounds of dirty jokes and stories to anyone were they listening or not, his
loose pants held up by suspenders as he danced behind the counter to the tunes
all night long.
