Floyd Kelly

Yesterday, my bestie, Charlotte, insisted we go to the Greasy Friday Throw Diner. It was my first time, and the way she spoke about it—with this weird take, like she was hiding something—had me a little concerned. “Don’t worry, you’ll have fun. It’s a local tradition,” she’d said. “You just have to see it.”

The place was packed for a Friday, especially since it was almost midnight. The air was so strange, a thick aroma of coffee, mop bucket odor and fried batter. We squeezed into a tattered booth. The crowd was a strange mix: some people looked as confused as I felt, while others, had this look of gleeful anticipation. It was as if they knew something, becoming giddy and talking about midnight.

Then I saw one of the waitresses, she put her arm under her armpit and made a farting sound, catching the eye of her co-worker, they gave each other a slow, deliberate nod, then they both giggled.

One waitress accidentally tripped, sending a tray of biscuits flying and landing on customers. Her co-worker, in response, let out a theatrical “Girl!” and started waving her arms around wildly.

“You’re a hussy!” she screamed.

“Well, umm … umm, you’re hair reminds me of George Washington!” the other woman screamed back.

And just like that, the show began. One waitress hopped up on a table and started twerking to the sudden loud polka music playing on the diner’s speakers. Another waitress grabbed a lemon pie and winged it at her head. She missed, and it splattered against the wall.

Suddenly, the customers chimed in and started to go wild! People were taking turns twerking on tables. An elderly woman sitting near us, who had been calmly eating a grilled cheese and milkshake, suddenly stood up, walked over to a waitress, and splashed her milkshake in her face and then they both let out a big laugh. Then the old woman sauntered to the dining area and started twerking too!

That’s when the food started flying. It was a wondrous, sticky, polka-fueled food fight. Calysta and I ducked under our table, laughing hysterically as waffles sailed over our heads like frisbees. Eggs, hash browns, pies, donuts, French fries, bacon, several chocolate cakes, a cobb salad.

Then the flashing lights. The cops. An officer walked in, looking confused. The music stopped, everyone stopped and giggling, the place a disaster. He approached the elderly woman, who was now calmly wiping milkshake off her glasses and sporting a giant smile.

“Ma’am,” the officer said, “What is going on here? Is that chocolate cake in your hair?”

The woman just patted his arm, “Oh, you’re a rookie,” she said kindly. “This is normal for Friday midnight. Welcome to the Greasy Friday Throw Diner. You should join in!”