There was this diner I liked to go to. A real greasy spoon if you feel the academic need to pigeonhole its culinary style. I liked it there, but I ain’t no sweat lodge expert or nothing. I just liked the way it smelled most days and the way the brittle red vinyl stuck to your skin when you were wearing short pants. It was a typical person’s joint, except during the summer heat … and when the moon was full. Last week, the moon was the biggest it had been in years. In the booth next to me, worn out shoes and broken teeth were discussing Rachmaninov and the merits of romanticism and structural ingenuity in Russian classical music while a drone wiped up the spit and blood that had collected on every surface around them. Then there was this slovenly waitress. I called her Tuesday cause that seemed to be the only day she worked. She had huge breasts with light red peach fuzz all over them, and she covered them with divisive little bits of flare. She often burned the coffee, but I didn’t mind. In every bitter cup there lay at the bottom — like the grit in Juan Valdez’s soiled underpants — her dreams of the Jamaican coastline.  She was no sommelier, but she could sure pour a cup of joe, and her eyes, she had the eyes of divine retribution. She told me once that I didn’t need the fake iodide … and ya know what, she was no naked bicycle ride with Ghandi, but I believed her.