The Diner on the Hill

After months and months of civilly protesting the seemingly unnecessary charge of registering a vehicle with the State of Maine every year, I finally gave in the other day and paid the town the $98 I apparently “owed” them. My sticker had been up since September, so the way I’m looking at this is that I got 5 solid months of protest in and not a ticket to show for it – sort of like streaking across Main Street with the president’s face painted on my ass for hundreds of hours without being caught. Sure I had some dips in confidence once in a while. Ever since my bright orange “04” sticker became all the more blatant Jan 1, I have avoided certain areas frequented by the cops. The experience was rather enjoyable all in all, and brought back memories of teenage mischief with the ever-looming fear of the dreaded blue lights.

Today being just the second day of my conformity to the law, I felt inclined to venture beyond my limited lunchtime perimeter; smack dab in the middle of Freeport and Yarmouth, where the forces don’t bother patrolling. I decided I’d pay an old diner a visit, which I once frequented long before being “on the lamb”. The diner rests at the top of a hill in Yarmouth, with a sliver-view of the harbor from which many of its patrons arrive. For sometime it has encapsulated the very essence of times past, and has always held a magical place in my imagination. On any given day in any given season you can find fisherman (snow-plowman in the winter months) and a variety of other laborers, sitting around the grill-centric dinning room, enjoying a yappy lunchtime atmosphere. The diner is one of the very few places left in this nation where $5 can buy you a full stomach and a wet palette, with its impressive assortment of Italians, Sheppard pies, burgers, and other easily prepared items.

As I walked into the cozy atmosphere of the diner on this snowy and desolate afternoon, I noticed that the place had seen some major changes since the last time I was in. The walls were painted a modern blue, and the menu board had been replaced with a fancy model and even fancier prices. I ordered a roast beef melt with a highfaluting spread of horseradish cheddar, and took a seat in the nearly empty dining room. It wasn’t a couple of moments before I noticed the diner was under new management and a new name to suit. Gone were the familiar faces I had once admired and voices full of stories I had once cast my attention to. Although I had always worn the persona of a quite outside observer at the diner, it suddenly seemed so lonely and characterless. My sandwich came and I enjoyed the horseradish cheddar more than a bland slab of American cheese, about half way through the meal an astonishing site caught my eye: “Wireless Internet Available”! I couldn’t believe it! It was all so clear! That priceless community pillar had sold its soul and become just another fucking Starbuck’s-esqe café! I nearly choked on my horseradish cheddar roast beef on sourdough as the full realization of what had happened set it. Pathetic! If my appetite doesn’t get the better of me, I will step foot in that cheap slut of an eatery again!