Pour me one

Over the weekend, a friend threw a birthday dinner for me. She had called earlier, asking what entrée and dessert I’d like. Also, what beverage. Single malt scotch? A nice merlot?

I happened to be reading a book at the time in which the protagonist has one of those thoughts; those thoughts you had and suspected they were unique to your mind. Then, you find out you’re not alone.

The protagonist reflects back to an incident when he was seven. His mother took him for a walk by the beach. He always associated ice cream with that and asks for a cone. She says it would ruin his dinner and denies the request. He puts up a big fuss and she walks on ahead. He later realizes that she just didn’t have enough money, but didn’t want to tell him.

He vows that when he grows up, he will have a great job. And, he’ll eat ice cream every day of his life.

With me, it was soda. That was a luxury we couldn’t afford to go with the ever-present leftovers. Now that I think of it, I can’t think of where the leftovers came from. That is, I don’t recall having original meals. Or, anything I cared to eat. I subsided on peanut butter and jelly. That would've washed down nicely with something carbonated, but there was never anything in the house.

The exception was that one Sunday a month, my father took us to the Franklin Diner for dinner. For most people, it was probably just a greasy spoon. To me, it was Spago. I would order the same thing every time, the turkey & dressing platter. And, the piece de resistance, a root beer. That’s what I looked forward to.

Years later, I would begin to attend junior high dances. The beginnings of the mating ritual. But, they held another attraction for me, a soda machine. No matter how tight things were, I’d figure out some way to earn a dime each week and have it in my pocket for that. How can I describe the sensual experience? The clinking of the coin descending the machine’s gullet, the plop of the paper cup dropping into place, and the twin streams of syrup and carbonated water. That made the night. Well, that and Linda Tucker.

So, fifty years later, I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday dinner. Root beer, of course.