ANNA'S

Last weekend we woke up early, and since it was pleasant outside for the first time since, oh, early October, we decided to ride our bikes someplace for breakfast. I haven’t taken my bike out of the garage since sometime in September (there was a large, hammock-like cobweb attaching it to the garage wall which I was able to remove with a pair of gardening shears), and my tires were kinda flat, so we decided to go to the gas station on 9 Mile to get air. Stavros, being the gentleman that he is, immediately announced, “I’ll handle this,” and jumped off his bike to unscrew my nozzles. Now, I don’t want you to get aroused by that visual so let me clarify things: He was just taking the cap off my bike's valve stems. Anyway, because I feel I must supervise every imaginable task, I lorded over Stavros with my hands on my hips and began issuing instructions. He looked up and fixed as steely a gaze as is possible with those eyelashes and said, “I know how to put air in tires.”

Well. I guess he did, because it was much easier to keep up with him afterward. I suggested we go to a mystery spot—a little diner I’d seen all my life but never tried (because it seemed like it had to be gross) called Anna’s on Woodward in Pleasant Ridge. So we wove through PR and stopped our bikes in front and looked in the windows before entering. You don’t want to just march into a place you’ve never been—what if it’s Leprosy Day or something? Anyway, it sure looked cute. It was shotgun-style with tables running the length along the windows and a bar on the other side. The tables were formica and chrome with turquoise leather chairs and a bunch of porcelain knick-knacks and plants and shit were on the long windowsill. It looked totally charming. I couldn’t figure out why no one was in there. So we walked in and noticed two things at once. First, it wasn’t entirely empty; there was an older man sitting at the counter having coffee and talking to the ancient woman behind the bar, and second, the place smelled God-awful. It hit us the second we walked in the door. It was like getting smacked in the face with an old man’s underpants. Medicinal, unclean, moldy, ill. I mean, every gross smell you associate with the severely elderly in one noxious inhalation. Still, perhaps we’d get used to it. We were already inside, after all, so it was worth a shot.

We took the seat nearest the door and I went to wash my hands while Stavros sat down. The old lady took no notice of us, and I heard the man at the bar say something to her about sausages, and her phlegmy reply, “You know sausages are gonna take a while,” which I thought might be her way of trying to talk him out of it. I felt a rising panic as I washed my hands so I’m afraid I can’t even describe the bathroom. I was preoccupied with getting out of there. It couldn’t be any good. People would be there. The grill and the appliances hadn’t looked clean at all, from what I glimpsed on my way to the can. Did she even maintain proper refrigeration? I left the bathroom fretting, and passed Stavros, who was about to enter the same room. “There’s only the one, honey,” I heard the old lady say. We made brief eye contact and I sent the telepathic message: “WE MUST GET OUT.”

When I returned to the table, I saw that “Anna,” which is who the old lady must be, had brought us water. I took a sip, noticing that it was obviously tap water, and old-tasting tap water, like it had been poured a couple of days ago, and there was no ice in it. Okay, I don’t have to have ice. I opened the menu and read the breakfast offerings. The left side had numbered dishes, and odd, old-timey prices. Like “#1—Cereal, coffee, and toast: $3.65” People go to a restaurant for cereal, coffee, and toast? As I looked for the regulation eggs & bacon plate, I heard “Anna” begin to cough. It sounded like she was trying to dislodge a bowl of gravy from her lungs. I looked up from the menu and thought, Okay, this is where I get off. The smell of the place wasn’t abating, either. It was stronger. Suddenly everything lost its charm. The ’50s cigarette machine in the corner. The pristine, time-capsule look of the place. The quaint menu. I turned to look for Stavros and as he approached, I saw the cash register behind him. “CASH ONLY,” it read. “NO CREDIT, NO CHECKS.”

“Stavros,” I said in a loud monotone, “They only take cash. I guess we will have to go someplace else.” I stood up.

“That’s too bad,” he said in an equally loud monotone, and without breaking his stride, walked past our table and out the door.

Once outside we hopped on our bikes and didn’t say anything until we were a half-block away. And then we laughed all the way to the Flytrap where Stavros ordered—SHOCKER THEATER—the waffles.

My good friend Anastasia Galoreski tells me that she goes to Anna’s once a month with her friend the lawyer because he loves it. This particular lawyer is also deeply enamored of Jayne Mansfield, however, so I wasn’t a bit surprised. She also told me that the woman behind the bar isn’t called Anna, her name is something else—Anna was her mother or something—and Anastasia said that she believes the old lady would be happier if no one ever came in. That explains the whole sausages-are-gonna-take-a-while comment, I thought. We figure she’ll die soon (sorry, with that cough, the next customer to walk into that joint is gonna be the Grim Reaper) and some hipster will take it over. Glad the mystery of Anna’s is over at least.