Opuntia

1. Cal's Diner; Chicken-Fried Steak; Tip Generously

Friday, July 22nd 1966

I bought my first new car in July of 1966. It was a Ford Country Squire wagon with wood paneling and a 390 V8. I traded in my old Chrysler Saratoga for it. The Chrysler was a great car, and she held her value well, but the Commando V8 was tired and I needed something bigger. I bought the car at Keye Ford in North Vegas, immediately hit the highway and cannonballed south, headed for Arizona.

The Chrysler had one hell of a ride quality, but the Ford certainly drove like a brand new car. After two hours on the road I was pretty far into Arizona, keeping the needle of the geriatric speedometer pegged on 90. My personal reason, in case I was questioned about this excessive speed, was that I had to break-in the car, and who wouldn't speed a little in a virgin 390? At this point I'd used a considerable amount of gas and decided to stop. My stop was at a place called Cal's Diner, a little white-trash dive bar and restaurant with two gas pumps out front, surrounded by cacti and dirt for miles around. I pulled up to the green Sinclair pumps and presumably a mechanic came out of a shed a few yards away. I grabbed a pump, put it into the filler neck and started pumping gas. The mechanic was young, maybe 20 or 25, dark skin, with a lip full of chew and hands covered in grease, wearing a white shirt and blue jeans.

He whistled, "This is a new one isn't it?"

"Yes sir, brand new."

"...three-ninety huh?"

"Yep." I replied.

"Not bad, but ya shoulda bought a new Chevy instead."

I finished pumping and returned the filler to its resting point. He said "well, looks like it's gonna be $3.18." I handed him two 2's and told him to keep the change. I fired up the Squire, put it in gear, and lurched over to the parking area. I locked it and headed inside.

I opened the door and was greeted by some familiar sights and smells. Old wood scent wafted toward me, a light ring of smoke hung near the ceiling with exposed rafters and buttresses. An old waitress stood behind a marble counter with shabby barstools in front of it. To my left was a bar area, the sounds of glasses slamming onto the bar and disgruntled rednecks arguing came from the open entryway. The dining area was mostly to my right, as the diner was much wider than it was long. I took a seat in the far right corner, next to the window, so I could watch outside and keep an eye on my car.

Sitting at a table in a creaky wooden chair, I lit a cigarette as the waitress came over. I glanced at the menu on the table and had already made my decision; a chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and a cup of coffee.

The place was a rat's nest, measurable amounts of dust floating in the air, broken boards and creaking chairs, but at least their coffee was good. Sitting there eating my chicken-fried steak and sipping my coffee, occasionally taking a drag from a cigarette, I pondered; I knew this would be a long trip, but how many of these cheap diners would I run into? How many chicken-fried steaks and cups of coffee would I have? I guess I would have to find out.

It took me about 12 minutes to finish my meal. I remember looking at my watch constantly and occasionally looked up at the clock up on the wall, comparing the two because the diner's clock was an hour slow, obviously not changed for daylight savings. The Wurlitzer juke box in the corner opposite me sang out "Phantom Dragster", some B-list pop song about racing down the main drag on weekend nights, something seemingly unique to small town America. No doubt it was something I enjoyed, rolling up to a stoplight and smoking the white walls, leaving some high school kid in his daddy's 409 with fancier tires and carbs to only see the taillights of the big Ford wagon.

The thought of this made me crack a smile while I sat there in the ancient wooden chair, smoking a Lucky Strike and observing the two country-style miscreants in the bar area arguing about something. All I could catch was something about baseball. I downed the last of my coffee and left 35¢ on the table for a tip, fumbling around nickels and pennies while I stamped out my cigarette in the glass ashtray. Paying attention to the money, I had accidentally dipped into the ashes with my thumb and scorched it. I jerked my hand away quickly, knocking the ashtray aside, leaving ashes and butts all over the table. I sighed and dug out an extra quarter for the tip.

I walked over to the counter and paid my bill. "House of The Rising Sun" by The Animals came out of the Wurlitzer now. That was a song I could enjoy. Killing time and listening to the song, I meandered over to the cigarette vending machine and bought a pack for 29¢. I went out the door and got in the car, leaving Cal's Diner behind for good. Just aim the hood ornament at the mountains and forget everything.