Night Owl Writer

Nighthawks at the Diner

  Why are so many writers night owls? Is it the peace and quiet, the hush when all the world's asleep? Or the insomnia that arises from trying to resolve insoluble plot problems? Well, I can only speak for myself, and my memories are a little bit hazy, but I blame my oldest brother and sister. Let me take you back. It was probably 1966, and I would have been eight or nine.

Jim, a career Army sergeant, was just back from his first tour of Vietnam and cooling his heels waiting for orders on his next posting. So he got a job as a short-order cook at the Toddle House (chain restaurant), and for good measure got my sister Nancy and his new bride, also named Nancy (both fresh out of the convent in the mass exodus of nuns after Vatican II) jobs as waitresses there. Yes, there were two Nancys with the same last name living at one address, which confused Toddle House corporate no end. They kept trying to pay them with one paycheck.

Bedtime for me and my older brother Asa was still 9:00, and the Toddle House crew didn't get home till about 11 (although in my memory it was more like 3 in the a.m.)

Now here's where it gets interesting. Y'see, Toddle House made pies fresh every day. Which meant they could take home any left-over pie at the end of their shift. Which meant if we could just stay up till they got home (when they would have coffee and pie and gab about their shift into the wee hours) we could cadge some PIE.

"All Home-Made Pies 12¢"

But of course to wander downstairs two or more hours past our bedtime we needed a pretty solid lie, which meant a story, and, like Scheherezade, a different story every night. And a story which would past muster with Jim and Nancy, two seasoned storytellers. Which meant I was developing my story-telling powers while learning to stay up late, all for pie, glorious pie, chocolate, lemon meringue, or the king of them all: black-bottom pie.

Black-bottom pie

Nighthawks at the diner
Of Emma's 49er, there's a rendezvous
Of strangers around the coffee urn tonight

All the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
Now the paper's been read
Now the waitress said
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?  

                            --Tom Waits

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking by it.