Robby
He was eating dinner
at the counter of the old
Sitton's North Hollywood Diner
on Magnolia in North Hollywood. I was
there with my wife, Leslie, and my always
beamish and delightful son, Joshua Zollo,
who had a hot dog, french fries, a chocolate
milk shake and for dessert, cherry pie. An
essential and iconic American meal it was,
and heaven for a little kid. I had a tuna-melt,
which, while certainly not healthy at all,
was delicious.
I saw Robby from a distance - he had this
great long straggly hair, and was wearing an
earthen brown sweater vest over a white shirt
with a red paisley tie, oddly formal for an Angeleno
diner. He was watching the other patrons, the
waitresses and the prize-fight being broadcast
on the little color TV over the counter.
Though my wife doesn't like it when I
interrupt our familial functions to take somebody's
photo, I couldn't resist - and with my son's
encouragement - he always welcomes my
photographic proclivities - I went over to
Robby, discovered he had great green eyes,
and asked if I could take his photo.
He smiled at me with a bewildered smile,
but rather than ask me what my purpose was,
as people often do,
he simply allowed me to take his picture. Wanting
to know more about him, as is my way, I asked him,
if he was a writer. I didn't think he was,
but asking anybody if they are a writer, actor, model
or musician in L.A. is always a good way to break the
proverbial ice,
and is often answered in the affirmative.
Robby said no, he wasn't a writer. He said he worked
at the St. Paul's Church, which is on Magnolia,
not far from this restaurant. He didn't expand into
details of what he did in the church, and whether it was
even a paying job, or if, perhaps, he considered
prayer and confession a form of work. I know for some it is.
He didn't have much
more to say, but he kept smiling at me warmly,
and somewhat curiously, as if waiting for what was
to happen next.
But I had a family sitting in a naugahyde booth to
return to, so I thanked him, and he thanked me in
return, and kept smiling at me and staring,
and as I tasted Joshie's milkshake, I saw
Robby ever so slowly creep towards the cash
register, where he paid his check, and then almost
hypnotically he sluggishly
sloped towards the door to leave. Before
making his exit, however, he stopped to wave
at us with a flourish,
and I waved back, as did Joshua. And then
Robby stepped out into the evening sunlight, still
bright in this Junetime even at 6:45, and he stopped
outside of the window, fixed his glance on us, and then
waved again before walking off
down Magnolia.
Robby
He was eating dinner
at the counter of the old
Sitton's North Hollywood Diner
on Magnolia in North Hollywood. I was
there with my wife, Leslie, and my always
beamish and delightful son, Joshua Zollo,
who had a hot dog, french fries, a chocolate
milk shake and for dessert, cherry pie. An
essential and iconic American meal it was,
and heaven for a little kid. I had a tuna-melt,
which, while certainly not healthy at all,
was delicious.
I saw Robby from a distance - he had this
great long straggly hair, and was wearing an
earthen brown sweater vest over a white shirt
with a red paisley tie, oddly formal for an Angeleno
diner. He was watching the other patrons, the
waitresses and the prize-fight being broadcast
on the little color TV over the counter.
Though my wife doesn't like it when I
interrupt our familial functions to take somebody's
photo, I couldn't resist - and with my son's
encouragement - he always welcomes my
photographic proclivities - I went over to
Robby, discovered he had great green eyes,
and asked if I could take his photo.
He smiled at me with a bewildered smile,
but rather than ask me what my purpose was,
as people often do,
he simply allowed me to take his picture. Wanting
to know more about him, as is my way, I asked him,
if he was a writer. I didn't think he was,
but asking anybody if they are a writer, actor, model
or musician in L.A. is always a good way to break the
proverbial ice,
and is often answered in the affirmative.
Robby said no, he wasn't a writer. He said he worked
at the St. Paul's Church, which is on Magnolia,
not far from this restaurant. He didn't expand into
details of what he did in the church, and whether it was
even a paying job, or if, perhaps, he considered
prayer and confession a form of work. I know for some it is.
He didn't have much
more to say, but he kept smiling at me warmly,
and somewhat curiously, as if waiting for what was
to happen next.
But I had a family sitting in a naugahyde booth to
return to, so I thanked him, and he thanked me in
return, and kept smiling at me and staring,
and as I tasted Joshie's milkshake, I saw
Robby ever so slowly creep towards the cash
register, where he paid his check, and then almost
hypnotically he sluggishly
sloped towards the door to leave. Before
making his exit, however, he stopped to wave
at us with a flourish,
and I waved back, as did Joshua. And then
Robby stepped out into the evening sunlight, still
bright in this Junetime even at 6:45, and he stopped
outside of the window, fixed his glance on us, and then
waved again before walking off
down Magnolia.