THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 23, 1995 TAG: 9507190034
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K4 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL MOMENTS
SOURCE: BY MIKE KERNELS, SPECIAL TO REAL LIFE
LENGTH: Medium: 69 lines
THE WALL MARQUEE flashed in red capital letters . . . DUKE'S TRUCKING CENTER . . . JUNE 27, 1995 . . . 9:27 p.m . . . then went on to tell about where to find a good deal on a truck or van.
Welcome to Duke's Place.
You may not know it by name, but you know the type. They are landmarks that dot the highways and byways of America, a sort of roadside lighthouse to asphalt-weary travelers and a throwback to the diner-type restaurants of a simpler time.
Duke's to me has always been a nice, cozy place that served great and greasy food in heaping portions at cheaper-than-McDonald's prices, with mother hen-style service.
I'm there at all hours. I know the waitress by name, the specials by number.
I have my own parking space and my own booth (designated by my initials under the napkin holder.)
I've been there with parents, friends and - if I thought I could get away with it and still look cool - dates.
I wore the blue-collar feel of Duke's like a trusty pair of old Jockey shorts. This is what life is all about. A slice of Americana.
And, at any time of my choosing, I could become a part of this world of the working class. I didn't just want to be another patron. I wanted to belong.
But I didn't belong.
The security that I believed Duke's provided me and its other customers was a sham. There was no familiarity among truck drivers. Knowing that Duke's was ahead in the distance didn't bring a smile of welcome relief to anyone on a long haul. It was just another stop among many.
And while many of the employees know most of their customers by face, they don't have time to remember their names, much less get to know anything about them before they are off to points unknown and a new wave drifts in to shake off the rigors of the road.
There isn't a face in there that isn't weather-beaten. Not even bothering to take off their caps, the drivers stare down at their plates, their forks moving toward their mouths with repetitive precision. Some are lucky enough to be seated in a booth with a phone. Some are even luckier if they have someone to call.
Duke's is just a business off Interstate 58 West. Nothing more, definitely nothing less. Get 'em in, get 'em out. Take care of the next bunch. The mom-and-pop flavor I thought I saw and admired was never there. I think I saw only what I wanted to see.
Maybe because there is something deep inside all of us that yearns to find a clean, well-lighted place that we can call our own.
I thought I had found it.
But now as I sit here staring into the creamy beigeness of my coffee, I realize that all along I was only an outsider looking in. Guess I should be grateful.
``Would you like a menu, sir?'' came a startling voice from a waitress I didn't recognize but whose name tag spelled LISA.
While my fingers stroked my chin for the few brief seconds I considered her offer, I answered, ``Uh . . . no. No thanks. I'd just like the check, please.''
I paid my bill and hastily scratched out my initials under the napkin holder.
My time in Americana had run out. MEMO: Mike Kernels lives in Chesapeake and is eating TV dinners at home these
days. by CNB