From the Vault

Birth of a Writer

The diner was crowded for a Sunday at midnight, I’d surmised as I pulled up in the tiny well-worn parking lot. With its 1950’s dulled brass light fixtures, wood paneling, over-bleached countertops, and brusque but friendly wait staff, the diner was the perfect spot to encounter life. I’d been visiting this legendary neighborhood spot for over fifteen years on different occasions – Sunday brunch with the family, late-night coffee with dates, conversations with friends in high school. Tonight was different. I was on a personal assignment.

Checking out the scene through the glass door, I saw about a dozen people perched atop chairs and counter stools – a businessman reading the paper, a young mod couple conversing over pots of coffee, a pensive college girl in the back corner with a laptop and an ashtray brimming with spent cigarettes. I wanted to be among those characters, but needed a spot where I wouldn’t be scrutinized.

I grabbed one of only two seats to the right of the cash register, hoping it would block everyone’s view of my clandestine work. I sat on my stool like a CIA agent thinking about the classified secret held in my brain, hoping no one would ask why I came into the diner bearing a notebook and pen. I was eager to start my next writing exercise, needing a moment to take in the scene.

“What’ll ya have, sweetie?” the waitress asked me in her cigarette-seasoned voice.

“I’m easy tonight,” I replied. “Just a Coke, thanks.”

She whisked away with a cock-eyed smile, as diner waitresses do, and returned with my drink. “One outta the tapper on the rocks, babe,” she said as she set down a textured hard-plastic cup at my perch. I thanked her, and she scurried back to tend the sizzling bacon on the hot griddle. The smell of it swirled in the air with pungent scrambled eggs and the aroma of Camel cigarettes.

“Janine, when you quit slingin’ hash here and get your real job, you want me to be your financial planner?” asked a t-shirt and ball cap clad twenty-something. His two much-younger companions laughed as he sucked on an unauthorized beer bottle. “I’m gonna be really good,” he continued. “Got a 3.7 last semester. I wanna work with stock and mutual funds and stuff. Financial advising - that’s where the money’s at, you know. I can do it. I’ll be real successful – nice clothes, awesome car, and fat paycheck.”

“I’m sure you will, baby,” she smirked. “And if I ever have enough change to throw your way, I’ll do it.”

I sat amused, taking in the discourse between this young hopeful kid and older sarcastic woman. The more I listened as he continued on, the more I realized how much like that kid I had been not too long ago – full of hope, ready to reap the rewards of my degree, confident in my confirmed intelligence. I’d thought getting that first career job would bring about the satisfaction and reward I’d deserved. I had to keep from giggling out loud thinking back on that period of my life.

He caught me watching the lively conversation and gave me a smile. I had inadvertently drawn attention to myself. And then he opened his overconfident mouth at me.

“Studying, huh?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said like a five-year-old with a sheepish smile.

“You must be a teacher,” he concluded.

“Nope,” I repeated, sipping my Coke and dreading the next question.

“Then what’s with the notebook and pen?”

The words came out of my mouth like a surprise belch, shocking and utterly out of my control. “I’m a writer.”

And then I had that moment – the one in the movies where all of the activity in the room comes to an abrupt halt. I had twelve sets of eyes on me as if I’d just declared I was the reincarnation of James Brown. I felt like an exotic zoo animal who’d escaped from its habitat – completely liberated and yet unsure of my surroundings. I hadn’t meant to say it; I was just getting started after all. Who was I to say I am a writer? I could envision literary critics rolling their educated eyes.

“What kind of stuff do you write?” he continued in the stillness of the room.

“Mostly poetry and short stories,” I replied. Fully aware I was navigating uncharted waters, I was relieved to hear the clatter of plates and clang of the spatula on the griddle again. The customers had lost interest in me, the delusional idiot sitting at the counter. The diner was back to business as usual.

“Wow. That’s really cool. I mean it. Do you have a degree?”

“Yeah, in biology with masters work in molecular genetics,” I smiled smugly.

“How in the heck did you end up writing?” He looked completely baffled.

“I hated my life,” I said with a shrug. “I had money, stock options, and a title, but I just hated waking up for work every day. So I’ve gotten back to what I’m passionate about, which happens to be writing. This,” I said tapping the notebook with my pen, “is my real love.”

In that moment, I self-righteously felt like I held the secret to happiness – the secret that he needed to know. I wanted so badly to tell him that I’d been exactly where he was – confident and looking forward to reaping that huge material reward. I wanted to shake him and let him know prestige and money wouldn’t be the elixir if the job didn’t make him happy.

“That’s totally awesome that you get to do that,” he said. “I don’t think I’d have the balls. That’s crazy, you know? Putting your head out there on paper for everybody to read.”

I laughed almost silently. “You’ll be surprised at what you’ll do when life goes contrary to the plan.”

I was on the verge of lecturing him, but I didn’t. I sat silently chewing on my words. Maybe he’d be one of the lucky few, I thought – those people that somehow happened to choose a befitting career right from the moment they matriculated. I knew a few of them; they seemed to just fall into the right place from the start. If he wasn’t one of those lucky few who found contentment, I knew that he’d have to learn the lesson himself, just as I had.

He stood up from his stool and the counter, opening his wallet. Pulling out a crisp twenty dollar bill, he approached the cash register. The waitress tallied up the tab, snatched the bill from his hand, and returned his change.

Without realizing his self-symbolism, he waved his bills at me. “Good luck with that new career. If you write about me, make sure it’s good in case my mom ever reads it. And tell Janine when you’ve hit the big-time so I can do your financial planning, ok?”

“Absolutely. Good luck with school and that big plan of yours,” I smiled.

He walked out of the diner, his two companions in tow. I watched him head to his car and realized he’d inadvertently helped me conquer my biggest fear of all – reinventing myself, going outside the bounds of my prior plans. I’d been given the chance to recreate myself into the person I’d always wanted to be, and I didn’t need any degree or edict to declare that I could do it. Under the flickering overhead lights of a corner diner, I’d been freed from the self-doubt that comes with taking on the unknown. And all it took was an hour, a notebook, and a college student – the tools of divine intervention.