The last Howard Johnson’s in Connecticut was in Waterbury. When Steve and I lived on the south side of town we’d pass it every day and each time I’d be reminded of the all-you-can-eat clam dinners I had in their restaurants. The clams were decent, ok, maybe not, but the idea of getting out of the house with my parents, where they would be nice to us was a treat in itself.
In California Caryl and I would drive up to Marin to the only Howard Johnson’s we knew so we could recount stories from our childhood and laugh. We’d sit for hours, regaling past moments spent eating the rubbery fried crustaceous piles and the buffoonery we caused as children, laughing at all our foibles. For me it was hard to laugh in Waterbury and I craved a similar experience as I had with Caryl. I was yearning to experience such a joyful remembrance again, this time with Steve. He’d roll his eyes and say nothing when I'd suggest it. He told me he couldn’t understand why I’d want to go there, but finally acquiesced after more prodding. I was overjoyed at the prospect and as we drove into the parking lot I felt light-headed to have some fun with Steve.
When we entered the building I realized something wasn’t right. It was empty. The waitress who escorted us to our seat wore a stained outfit. She grimaced when she spoke. Walking to our booth I noticed the cake display. It was a tall glass box with automatic rotating shelves inside. The glass was covered with hardened frosting. The panels where the rotating cakes and pies were improperly placed on the shelves, forcing the desserts to squeeze against the glass, leaving trails of cream, butter and flour behind. My attention was taken away when the soles of my shoes began to stick to the floor, making murky sounds with each step I took towards the banquette. The once green carpet was now black and grey from spilled food and slick from hundreds, possibly thousands of shoes walking on it. The booth was ripped and the table had scraps of leftover food from the previous occupants. The waitress handed our dirty, chipped and scratched plastic covered menus and silently walked away. I told Steve I lost my appetite. He looked at me and chuckled and asked what did I expect? I told him I thought the food would be safe enough to eat and we could laugh about eating all-you-can-eat clams. But instead I felt I had walked into a roach motel after walking on the carpet (“They check in but they don't check out”). The waitress begrudgingly took our order. It was then that we noticed the light fixtures were not working. I think I asked for tea. Steve ordered a coffee and we left soon after. My excitement for a nostalgic moment was over.
Simone Signoret, a French actor known for her beauty, grew old and fat. Yet she gracefully continued on with her life, looking old, haggard and decrepit. She wrote a book about it entitled, "Nostalgia Isn't What It Used To Be." I believe she’s right.
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