My mom cried when I told her about that semester. Her son was retarded. He was the white trash she always condemned. She had raised a monster. What did this monster do? Well first he ot a job working a third shift waiting job at a low end diner, a haven for drunks and high school students at 3 am. Then he moved in with his girl friend six years his senior. Yes sir, things were looking up for old Sam Landfried.
Let me back up. I flunked out of school my freshman semester. This was the result of a brain and personality molded to deal with the world from a distant pedestal of superiority. What I did not do, it would be understood, was beneath me and no one would hold it against me for not doing it. I had more important, genius-boy things to do, like play Halo. I wish I could say my academic failings sprouted from some exciting coming of age drama, or a chemical dependency or a new rough crew of friends. Really though, it was video games. Video games and late nights of compulsive coffee drinking at Steak & Shake on Scottsville Road in Bowling Green, Kentucky.
In high school, and through some of college, it was a nightly tradition for me and the boys to saddle up in the cars spread out between us (Mac's Bronco, Dylan's Scrambler, sometimes my Mom's Saturn) and head to Steak & Shake. Sometimes boisterous we joke in the cars, vexing the drivers with wet willies or playful hands over the eyes. It is OK because on this stretch of road we are invincible. In the back of the Scrambler (an open bedded first incarnation of what is known today as the Jeep Wrangler) we stand, protesting the wind, holding the roll bar or sometimes standing hands free, fighting the gravity on turns, surfing. Julian sits on the tire mounted on the back gate and we are amused. We are invincible. Sometimes we are melancholy, contemplative, philosopher kings returning to our castle. A hand out the window floats up and down. Heads bob to The Eels, cigarettes are lit and we cruise. Regardless of the mood, something is empowering when we turn on to that stretch of Bowling Green's main road, well, one of three, and in the distance we can see only the shape of the glowing North star that we all know will read, white letters on black frame, "Steak & Shake". We're going home boys. Closer and closer, stronger and stronger we children feel. Usually some sort of vehicular shenanigan ensues on turning into the parking lot whether its slaloming the speed bumps or coming to a screeching halt in the parking space, inches from the curb. The latter would be Dylan showing off his impeccable, albeit manslaughterously careless, driving skills. We dismount the vehicles with the air of soldiers returning to US soil, or rather astronauts victorious strutting for the camera. The image in my head of our arrival is one in slow motion, Julian and I dramatically vault out of the Jeep bed. Mac coolly takes the long step to the ground from his Bronco and pulls the collar on his sheepskin and denim coat. Jordan drags hard on his cigarette, holding it with thumb and forefinger like a joint. His eyes probably squint and he flicks it into its asphalt grave with little regard as we all start to saunter.
The building and entire company markets itself as a retro diner. Lots of chrome, pleather, tile floors and a black, white and red color scheme are the agents of nostalgia. I imagine they expected to conjure memories in the aging customers of high school, sharing a malt with your sweet heart at the local soda fountain, man in white paper hat delivering the treat from behind a bar with a grin so wide it looks painful. Starting at breakfast all the way through dinner, this makes sense. Usually older, country folk come expecting a good old fashioned eggs, bacon and biscuits and gravy breakfast served by an overeager, young person, or families with kids appreciate the "fun" environment. Up until this point, the marketing of the restaurant makes sense. However, once the seniors and toddlers tuck themselves in for the night, Steak & Shake stays open. In fact, they never close, except on Christmas and...Thanksgiving? Day. That's when the weirdos come out, and if the smiling guy in the paper hat making your malt was actually from the 1950s, he'd probably grab a pitch fork or a crucifix once they started showing up.
The four to eight of us walk in through the glass front doors, through the foyer, and enter like gangsters into a casino. We nod to the manager, ignore the line of waiting patrons and take over a good third of the smoking section. We fill two booths and if the night is a good one eventually a third will come. We drink for free, and sometimes, depending on the server, we get soup for free. The best though, was chili. And God bless Andrea for she was the holy benefactor of our chili quota. "You want cheese with that, right?" Cheese, a dollar or so addition, she gave gratis like everything else. A beautiful individual, that one. We were benevolent, too. Between four of us, there would be a minimum of a ten dollar tip, usually. Granted, that was after we would stay for three hours or more.
Nocturnal and blissful were our extra curricular activities. I recall those days fondly. I miss that sweet and innocent euphoria earned by having your own space, by feeling like an adult. Most of all, though, I miss feeling invincible.
you cant actually get a steak
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