The neon sign still looked good against the blue Colorado sky. November weather in Denver can be a crap shoot but we won that day. It was jacket weather but sunny and beautiful – ideal for the cowboy that looked like he might tip his hat from atop the Davie’s Chuck Wagon Diner sign.
I’m a sucker for vintage signs. And for diners.
Really, for anything that harkens to an earlier time. That’s the only reason we were there. To see an old diner with a gorgeous old sign.
I promised my friend that I would buy her lunch if our diner breakfast was bad. That’s another crapshoot. Diner breakfast is either delicious or your basic greasy grub.
There’s little middle ground.
Davie’s is the kind of place that sells cold cereal alongside pineapple by the slice and something called the Chuckwagon Breakfast.
Our waitress was an older lady who called her regulars hon. It seemed like she had a lot of regulars. She neither approved nor disapproved of my veggie omelette but she brought it quickly and kept my Diet Coke topped off so I liked her. I don’t drink much pop but an early morning after a long day of traveling is one exception to the rule.
Our corner booth was situated just inches from the table next to us where an elderly man studied a newspaper crossword puzzle. His pencil, slow and deliberate, scratched in the letters. He never erased and never looked up from his work except when a coffee refill was offered or when he took a bite of hot cereal.
I had an irrational desire to strike up a conversation with this stranger but it wasn’t as strong as his apparent desire to be left alone.
And so I did.
Later, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and admired the tile work behind me. The wall tile was a mid-century pink but a closer look at the floor revealed some tiles featured images with a western theme.
I wondered how long that man had been coming here. Does he not have cereal at home? Does he just enjoy the atmosphere? Does he have pleasant memories of bringing his children here to admire the cowboy sign out front? What does he think of the cowboy tiles scattered around the restaurant?
That man will always be like a good fishing tale to me. He was one that got away without telling me his story.
Memories like this are etched in my mind’s eye. Like snapshots in a photo album, they flip through my consciousness and make me appreciate the pure delight of the places I’ve been and the near encounters I’ve had.
Who needs a resort vacation when you can find neon, a great breakfast and an intriguing character all in one place?
Not me.
