I just learned that my favorite late night dive restaurant is closing. It’s a greasy spoon actually located inside a gas station. They serve burgers and steak and cheeses for $7 with a mountain of fries until 4am. Scratch that. They used to serve burgers ‘til 4am. Now it’s gonna be a Marriott. A freaking Marriott.
This troubles me for two reasons. First, does the world need another chain hotel? Don’t we all just stay in Air B&B’s now?
But mostly, the news troubles me because, where am I going to go right after I drink too much and right before I throw up on my walk home? That’s a pivotal point in the evening’s events. A turning point. A transition from reckless booze-hound to responsible husband and father. You know that scene in every Hulk movie, where the Hulk comes off of his bender of rage-fueled destruction, and shrinks into tiny, naked Bruce Banner again before waking up naked in some random park? That’s what’s happening at my late night burger shack/gas station. I’m turning back into Bruce Banner. Without that late night grub, I’ll be hungover in the morning. Have you ever tried to get your kids ready for school at 6:30am while trying not to throw up on them? It’s not fun for anybody.
I’d like to take a moment here to express that I’ve never actually thrown up on any of my children while drunk or hungover. I’ve come close, but…And so what if I had thrown up on my kids? Do you know how many times they’ve thrown up on me? Countless times. The way I see it, they have it coming.
The only other late night grub options in my town are pathetic. I don’t live in a big city where you can knock on a windowless door in a back alley and a mustacheoed gentleman with a monocle will serve you three authentic street tacos with real tongue at 3am. My options are a bit more limited. There’s the “Hippie Crash Pad” (not the restaurant’s real name) that serves bland lentils and tempeh until 2am, but then I’d have to eat bland lentils and tempeh. Or there’s Taco Bell on the outskirts of town, but I’m too damned old to go to Taco Bell. I’d have heartburn for a week. Plus, it’s way outside of town so I’d have to take an Uber there, and I don’t think I could stomach the reaction from the Uber driver as I shame-eat four Doritos Gorditas in the back of his Prius. I’m too shy for that.
So I’ll have to go home directly from the bar, still in my full green Hulk state and fry up half a dozen eggs and hope I don’t wake the kids up when I puke in the guest bathroom. That’s no way for a grown man to live. All because of a Marriott. Call it progress, call it gentrification, give it any name you want—I’m in a pickle.
Rest in peace, late night diner that also served cheap draft beer so I could have one more before heading home. Rest in peace.