I frequented the Hollywood Grill a great deal in my early days of Chicago living. It was the closest 24-hour anything to my first apartment, offering respite after weekend house shows and late night exploration of abandoned churches. My dopey pals and I would make the long walk over on humid nights to chug coffee, shoot the little cups of creamer, and lick sugar off our hands. Ridiculous but clean wholesome fun compared to the other things I was doing before moving to the city. Always the caffeinated stop before a night of stealing street signs or crawling up under the bascule bridge on Ashland and Clybourn. Other adventures at this diner involved almost getting beat up by a 77 named Uno, and when I started drinking heavily there were a few times I’d use my plate of hash browns as a pillow. For some reason the management never thought ill enough to toss me out, I’m sure they’d seen much worse.
Last night, I had somewhere to be after work. The day had been challenging enough that I needed somewhere to sit down and collect myself before facing the next swarm of people. Hollywood was the closest location that promised solitude, carbs, and caffeine so I walked up the block and fell into an empty booth. It had been years since I set foot in the place and it was still a chincy timewarp of faux Hollywood memorabilia. Maybe a few new paintings of the 3 Stooges mingling with Marilyn, James and Groucho…but for the most part, 25 years had passed and Hollywood Grill hadn’t even blinked.
Business was slow enough on a late Sunday afternoon that at least 3 staff members checked on me before my designated server could give me a menu. And when he did he slumped down in the booth across from me and let out and exhausted, “gorl!”
He had a black ponytail and some Anton LaVey looking facial hair, crooked teeth that were actually becoming, and an upside down dangling cross earring. On his neck was a faded kiss print tattoo that I kept staring at because the shape of the lips didn’t look right. He was young, looked like a hard 28 or so but what do I know about age? Nobody looks like themselves, anymore. He interrupted me while taking my order to follow a train of thought, “Wait, how old did you say you were? You look so young.”
I wasn’t sure if his conversations with customers were all blending together or he was carrying on some dialog in his head with me. I had never mentioned my age, I was just trying to order some food. I don’t know why people ask this stuff and answered him with the same question I always give when someone has got to bring age up.
“How old do I look?”
It’s awkward enough to get subjects changed real quick–most of the time.
“I wouldn’t place youuuu…a day over 42.” He responded.
“Good guess.” There was a brief pause as we looked at each other. Social scripts say I was supposed to fill in the blank with an actual response but instead I put my order in. “Can I get a plate of cheese fries with a side of bacon? And a bloody mary?” I never realized Hollywood Grill served booze.
My server was attentive, maybe too much so. Checking in on me every 5 to 6 minutes, when I just wanted some peace to write at the booth and inhale my dinner, starving coyote style. Each time he’d slump across from me in the booth, and call me “friend” or “gorl”.
I had overheard him talking to a table of ladies and tell one of them, “you’re too pretty to be sad…”
Get those tips, sug. I thought to myself.
Then he’d return to me and sigh, “Gorl, this day is going to kill me.”
Suddenly I found myself offering moral boosts to my server, “It’ll get better, hon.”
He’d take his glasses off, toss them on the table dramatically and ask, “you promise?”
He offered me the tea among the staff and I took the bait. Sometimes folks just need to be heard. He told me the overnight waitress in her 70s complained to the owners about the quality of his side work and fuck that old bitch anyway, she had a swastika tattoo on her back and why are you serving in your 70s? What’s the retirement plan, Marge? I was greatly amused by all this sassiness and he kept refilling my bloodymary as he dished the dirt.
It was getting to be about that time when my server slipped me a ten dollar bill and asked if I’d be his bestie forever and run down to the liquor store and get him something. I asked what he likes, fully knowing in my mind he was going to say Fireball.
“Fireball”.
Right on the money.
I paid my check, realizing half my order had been comped and he whispered, “don’t tip me”.
Well there you have it, I officially had a side mission. So I did as I was asked, walking down two blocks and buying a 4 pack of Fireball shooters. I wrapped them and the change up in it’s black plastic bag and walked back to the diner. Debating how I was going to hand these off to the server in the most discreet way. Don’t want to get your new bestie fired. Maybe I could claim I had left my card inside or use the restroom? Just as I approached Hollywood Grill, there he was in the back smoking a cigarette.
“Oh my god you are an angel!” He exclaimed while tucking the package inside his apron. “Come back and see me again, or look me up on Instagram!”
He hugged me and told me he loved me a few times. Funny how free and easy people can be with that phrase. I waved goodbye and walked down the road to the second part of my night, realizing we never even exchanged names.