Still Pitching by Michael Steinberg

Author:Michael Steinberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Still Pitching: A Memoir
ISBN: 9781938604577
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2003-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

The State Diner was the gathering place for most of the school’s shakers and movers. I’d been so removed from the social scene that on Friday night of final’s week I decided to go to the diner and see it all for myself. I couldn’t bring myself to go alone, so I invited Mike Rubin to come along.

The diner was located in Far Rockaway on Beach Channel Drive and Bayswater Avenue, just beneath the El station. The parking lot was packed with choppers, hot rods, and assorted junkers from all over town. I could see silhouettes moving behind the drawn window blinds, and above the rumble of the Manhattan E-train, muffled strains of jukebox tunes drifted out into the lot. As Mike and I stepped into the alcove we inhaled the aroma of French fries and greasy hamburgers sizzling on the open grill. To the left was a pullout cigarette machine, to the right, bubble shaped pie and cake containers sat on the Formica counter right next to the glass encased menu that offered BLTs, grilled cheese sandwiches, burgers, fries, tuna and egg salad sandwiches, malts, egg creams, cokes, shakes, and the all-night special—two eggs any style with hash browns and toast.

Directly behind the counter were the stainless steel mixers and the sputtering grill; to the right, rows of red upholstered booths with red Formica tabletops. Each tabletop had an accordion shaped “Seeburg” jukebox that sat right next to the window, right between the creamers and the condiment trays. Above the noisy chatter and the clink of silverware and plates, jukeboxes blared out songs like Sinatra’s “Young at Heart,” “Sh-Boom” by the Crewcuts, the Hilltoppers’ “Till Then,” and “The Little Shoemaker” by the Gaylords.

If you were a freshman, you knew to sit in the back. As soon as we spotted an open table, we threaded our way down the narrow aisle. Peering through the haze of smoke, we squeezed past the sweaty crush of guys and girls who stood between the booths and the counter preening and showing off.

Before we were even seated, the waitress appeared. She was wearing a shapeless pale yellow dress, a smudged white apron, and scuffed gym shoes. She tapped her pencil, snapped her gum, and scribbled down our orders. Then she sashayed away.

Mike and I looked around the long, narrow room to see who was with who. The diner’s fixed hierarchy reminded me of the junior high school bus. The greasers and hoods still acted the same way. They flicked their cigarette butts on the floor and draped their muddy boots across the tables. One of them yelled to a passing waitress, “Hey cupcake, I need a refill over here.” Others made loud, crude remarks to the girls who were with them. But no one in the diner even bothered to turn around and stare at them. Somewhere between eighth grade and freshman year, they’d lost their aura.

Two tables in front of them were the preppies; current and future class officers, newspaper and yearbook editors, and honor society leaders.

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