Just Like Before

My Aunt and Uncle owned Service Cleaners on South Second Street. Most Saturdays, Mom and I would go ‘in town’ to have lunch with her sister, my Aunt Lillian. After they chatted a while, one of them always said, “Let’s go eat at Tom Carpenter’s.”

I don’t remember the first time I bit into a hotdog from Central Lunch. I was probably six years old. To a kid like me, Central Lunch was a fantastic place. It had everything. The screen door opened into a small space with two or three booths on the left wall and a counter with maybe a dozen barstools on the right. Yellowish/tan stains, the remnants of years of cigarette-inspired conversations, covered everything. Thumbtacked notes, envelopes, and faded order tickets decorated the dingy wall behind the counter. A vintage .38 revolver, dangling from a nail through its trigger guard, hung like a sentry beside the old cash register. 

A steady stream of farmers, politicians, and professionals sat at the counter discussing the day’s topics. “Cab east,” the dispatcher shouted as he keyed the two-way radio microphone, summoning a driver on the east side of town. Unfazed by the scratchy, staticky drone of the taxicab stand next door, the patron’s thoughtful conversations continued. 

There were other small lunch stands in Albemarle, The Goody Shop, Henry’s Lunch, and others, but Central Lunch, ‘The Fly,’ the nickname is an Albemarle thing, was my favorite. Whether it was after school or after midnight, the little corner building with the neon sign was my go-to for a couple of dogs all the way and a glass of iced tea.  

In 1972, I took a job in Charlotte. After a year or so, the commute back and forth from Albemarle was taking its toll, so I moved closer to work. Years passed. Job transfers, moves, and relationship changes resulted in fewer and fewer trips to Albemarle.

One Friday in late spring, while traveling home to visit my parents, I felt the urge for a good hotdog, so I headed ‘in town’ before driving to their house. It had been at least ten years since I opened the screen door on the little building at the corner of King Street and Second, but I knew it would be the same. 

Fridays were always busy in Albemarle, so I had to park in the next block. Walking up the sidewalk, I felt like a little like Marty McFly. Had I been transported back in time? I approached the old building’s front window and saw George, Mister Tom’s son, behind the counter. Except for the beard, he looked just like ten years before.

I walked in, took a seat about midway down the counter., leaned forward, and rested my elbows on the worn Formica countertop just like before. Scraps of paper and notes were thumbtacked to the wall, and the old revolver was still guarding the cash register, just like before. 

George came from the kitchen, rubbing his hands on his apron, and looked up. As if I had been in the day before, he asked, “What for ya, Dennis?” I answered, “George, I’ll have two hotdogs all the way and tea.” He nodded, then stepped toward the steamer and took out two buns. After forking two weenies from the pink water, he slathered on the mustard, slaw, onions, and chili, just like before. Then he reached for a glass, filled it with their soft ice crystals, and added the sweet tea, just like before. 

While I ate, George leaned against the cash register, lit a cigarette, and asked about my mom and dad. I answered and asked about Mister Tom, just like before.

I folded the chili-stained tissue paper, wiped the mustard from the corner of my mouth, and then stood and reached for my billfold. George hit two buttons on the register and handed me my change. “See ya, George, I said as I took the last swallow of tea and turned toward the door. “See ya, Dennis,” George answered. I smiled and waved as I walked out. George nodded, just like before.

The handle stuck as I opened the car door and slid into the seat. For a moment, I rested my head against the seat back and closed my eyes. Marty McFly? Really?  After fastening the seat belt and adjusting the Delorean’s flux capacitor, I signaled Doc. As the clock struck, he jammed the electric cords together.

Is this a dream? I thought. Nah, it’s Albemarle, North Carolina, my hometown.