If I truly need inspiration; if I am having a sleepless night and the urge to write strikes me, I know where I need to go. I head to the Waffle House, whenever I need to supplement the benign lunacy that is at the core of what I write; I jump in the car and head to the nearest one. It really doesn’t matter which one, because a Waffle House, is a Waffle House. The only thing that differentiates them is the street that they happen to be located on.

I can’t just go there at any time of day and hope to obtain the same benefits. The Waffle House isn’t the same place between dawn and dusk. During the daylight hours it is a relatively normal environment. It is in the wee hours of the morning that it offers what I need.

It is when you can sit there staring at the other characters, and they in turn can sit there and stare back at you that the Waffle House environment is best. I once heard the clientele described as what scurries out when they burn off the brush. I think that says it all with the economy of words that are common in the south and consistent with the truth.

It is when the old joke about the staff manifests itself as reality that this place is ripe with ideas to somehow employ as the fodder for what passes with me as the creative process. I am sure that almost everyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line has heard the riddle; “What has six breasts and three teeth?” As a matter of fact having two breasts and one tooth might be a requirement listed on the official employment application, at least for nighttime positions. I think the only other job qualification might be the ability to say, “Scattered, smothered, chunked, and topped!” in a somewhat comprehensible southern accent.

As I sit and scribble, and/or ruminate about what I am going to write about, I am not distracted by the general chaos taking place around me. As a matter of fact, the jeering, pointing, laughter, yelling, and mostly intoxicated behavior are a catalyst for my thought process.

The reality of the matter is that I am not on the brink of writing the next War and Peace. I am not giving birth to some Faustian plot. In actuality, even the simpletons gathered at the Waffle House to flush out the Budweiser with bad coffee at 2 AM are capable of grasping what I write about. Scrambled eggs and scrambled thoughts go well together. What I do, is often scattered, smothered, chunked and topped. I write about the thoughts of old and the thoughts of new. I write about sunsets and sunrises, and sand and surf.

On some mornings I write about malice and the bitter cold. I’ve put together the pieces of the puzzle, and I’ve remained perplexed by them even when the interlocking was complete. I’ve written about cheap wine and cheaper whores, unhealed wounds, and broken songs. I’ve crafted line after line punctuated with unshed tears and freely bled blood.

When others have been putting the alarm on snooze for five minutes more of sleep, I’ve written about corners unturned, roads un-walked, and bridges unburned. I’ve sweetened my mouth with extra syrup on the waffle, and translated it into truth unspoken, lies told, and promises broken. I’ve considered the irony of misery kept and happiness spent, and I’ve spilled the pain onto a fresh yellow pad before the sun has risen.
While seasoning the eggs with salt and pepper from grease spotted shakers, I’ve recorded passages dealing with wreckage held and thoughts un-grown. Willie Nelson at 3 AM has inspired thoughts of the challenges left and the seeds unsown. I’ve discovered during the chorus that the truth can’t be revealed by the warmth of a kiss, but a lie can be concealed behind petal soft lips.

The come-ons from the Friday night cowgirls anxious to ride a bronco in the seat of a Ford F150 are testimony to lives that are bent and horribly broken. Love isn’t the touch they seek; there is no interest in the warming of two hearts or the joining of two souls. At 4 AM there is pain, desire, vulnerability, and half sober lust. There are vending machine condoms; spiked, ribbed, flavored and tinted, some that glow in the dark, and all are guaranteed to be safe in the saddle. It all ends with discarded panties and the lost dreams that are left to litter the street.

Take down the wall, and lower the pride, at 5 AM at the Waffle House is where the real world hides. I hide there as well scribbling anxiously on the pad, I think of their pain and I think of mine. That is something we all have in common. Maybe that is why I go there. Perhaps it is because at 6 AM we can all sit there and sneer, it doesn’t matter because we will continue to die.

So…

We might as well do it at a Waffle House!