I started working for my dad as a delivery boy when I was 11 years old. At the diner, our all-black crew consisted of a grill woman, one waitress, a sandwich maker and a dish washer. Southern soul and gospel played on the radio all day long, giving me my music education. The lunch counter was an uncrossed line, with mostly white professionals on one side, blacks and Greek-Americans on the other. Intellectually, I was too young to understand the dynamic, but on a gut level I knew where I stood.
As happens for many fathers and sons, we grew apart as I hit my teens. My personal profile was not atypical for the blue-collar neighbourhood where I was raised. I played pick-up basketball, drove a muscle car, listened to funk, rock and soul, attended many concerts, chased girls, drank beer, smoked weed until my head caved in, and underperformed at my school, where half of the kids did not go on to college. I was pulled over by the police many times, got in fights and found all kinds of trouble. When I was 17 I accidentally shot a friend in the face with a .38 Special police handgun that my father had bought on the black market. I was skipping school at the time in my parents' house. When my dad walked through the door that night, he dropped the bags he was carrying as he saw my friend's blood splashed upon the living room walls.
I don't know what my father thought of me then, but it's safe to say that he was not proud. He was a tough, handsome guy, an ex-Marine who had fought in the Pacific, but quiet, with nothing to prove. I was a skinny dude with a shoulder-length, white-boy Afro, sporting flannel shirts, ripped Levi's and suede Pumas. I could not have been what he had hoped for in a son. I know he loved me; I also know that I must have been a tremendous disappointment to him at the time. Inwardly, I wanted to please him, but I was who I was.
In December 1975, after a dance, my dad took a bunch of friends over to the Jefferson to cook them a late-night breakfast. I witnessed his joy as he prepared the food, but as I watched him perspiring through his shirt I thought: he's working too hard. A couple of days later, at the age of 54, he had a heart attack.
My mother sat me down in the kitchen of our split-level home. We had no insurance for our business, no savings, and probably little in the way of health insurance. I was to quit university and take over the running of the diner. Though I hadn't worked there in years, I had to summon what I remembered and make it happen. There wasn't any choice. I was about to become the breadwinner for my family and I was 18 years old. The next day, I took over the business.
It was rough going at first. I had to be up to greet the ice man and the bread man at 5.30am. I had to manage our adult crew, and I was not much more than a kid. I had to learn every aspect of the business and work every station, because we were often short-handed. And I had to learn how to deal with customers.
Every night I took the cash home and gave it to my mother. I was never paid a dime. It wasn't unjust: after paying the food brokers and staff, there was no money left. I began to understand that my father had worked so hard all those years for very little in return. His diner paid the bills, kept the roof over our heads and fed us, but there was nothing extra for him. There would be no extra for me.
It sounds like hardship but actually it was fun. I didn't want to be a student, and this was my way out. I was told by a customer that I should take the place over permanently, as "your people are good at running restaurants". The ethnic slag aside, he was right. It did feel natural. I turned 19 and began to inhabit my role of junior businessman. I enjoyed the company of a downtown secretary who was 13 years my senior. I got used to waking up in darkness after a few hours' sleep. Sometimes, when I had partied with my friends deep into the night, I didn't sleep at all. I took pride in making it into work at the appointed hour.
My favourite time was just before dawn, driving to work on 16th Street in my gold Camaro, the windows down, smoking a Marlboro Menthol, listening to the glorious music coming loud from my Pioneer 8-track deck and speakers: Springsteen's Born to Run, Mayfield's Super Fly, Al Green's Call Me, Bowie's Station to Station. The tunes made movies in my head and jacked up my imagination. I had a crazy idea that I might write stories some day, perhaps make films. But how would an unconnected Greek kid get there? If my plan was naive, it didn't matter. The dream sustained me.
Later that summer, when my father returned to work, I took off with my pal Steve Rados and wandered around the south on various adventures of the mind and flesh. That year – 1976 – was the most thrilling of my life. And, I know now, the most important.
Many fathers and sons never get to reconcile their differences or come to an understanding that fills the gap between love and expectations. I'm forever grateful to have had the opportunity to prove myself to my dad. After I took over the diner, the look in my father's eyes went from disappointment to respect. He never even had to say it – I knew. Not that I had matured by leaps and bounds. Nine years later, months before I got married, I was arrested for assault, fleeing and eluding the police, driving on the sidewalk and other charges after a fight in a parking lot, fuelled by alcohol and adrenaline and culminating in a high-speed chase. So, yeah, it took me a long time to grow up. But to my father, even with all my nonsense, I was a man.
Every so often I take the metro down to Dupont Circle, walk into the old diner and have a seat on one of the orange stools. The current owner has switched the menu to gourmet fare and changed the name, but the space is unchanged. The lights my father and I installed still hang over the counter. I order my food, eat my meal and look towards the grill, where I can see my baba in his apron, spatula in hand, flipping burgers and smiling. I'm not having visions; I'm visiting my dad.
@'The Guardian'
