Pass the Chronic-work-cles

I worked at an undisclosed diner in Minneapolis for years and years. It is a greasy spoon in the truest, most perfect way, and it is a temple of breakfast. In fact, I would go so far as to say it is the best breakfast in the world. Music has been written for this diner. Gourmet magazine did a piece on it in the 90's. This diner even won a goddamned James Beard Award. This diner is also one of the weirdest places I've ever been. Though I went there several times a week for years and was a part of the joint, I always thought the place was weird and chock full of weirdos, even if I was one of em.
The first day I ever worked there I picked up a towel to clean something during a lull and the very gruff and loud owner told me that if I had time to clean, I had time to do the crossword puzzle. This was a man who would also inquire as to whether or not you had your shots if you came in to eat and he didn't recognize you. God I loved him.
There was also shop dope there at the diner, which was bought in trade from the neighborhood pot dealer, who would stop by near the end of the day once in awhile, and pay a little visit to the back room. The shop dope lived in a bag somewhere in the back, along with a pipe someone had carved by hand to look like a small circumsized penis. The men of the diner did very much love smoking dope with this pipe, even though they vehemently denied playing for the pink team. The shop dope situation made it so that sometimes people working at the diner might be very high right at 6 AM when the doors opened for the day. Which could lend itself to the whole experience of weirdness at this very weird place. But I wouldn't know anything about that.
When I first started my tenure at the diner, I worked Saturdays in the back room as dishmonger, and this very tall guy Tony was the back room cook. He was about 8 feet tall and had giant unruly curly dark hair and he never shaved. He was skinny, and very, very grouchy. One day he decided it was Underwear Contest Day and he wore 18 pairs of boxer shorts. Sometimes he would insist on picking other people up by their butts. He was always bitching, and smoking. I loved him, too. One morning I was mongering the dishes and Tony just disappeared out the back door. When he didn't come back for awhile I went out there to try and find out where he had gone, and lo, he was IN THE DUMPSTER. Which we did share with a hardware store, and a fixer of old turntables. Tony came out of the dumpster with all kinds of things, washed his hands, and started making some omelets. I thought to myself, well, OK, this is really....really good.
Other times we would set up the back prep table with a ping pong net and play ping pong in the back room. The back room was about the size of a pool table.
It was dog eat dog at the diner. Hijinks were always happening. One day as I was driving home, people just honked their horns at me all the way home. Why? Because someone had put signs on the back of my car that read "honk if I have a huge ass" and "roll over daddy yer crushin' my cigarettes". I admit, I was involved in a few scoundrelly moves, but you do what you have to do to get by. I was threatened ("I'll bust your kneecaps and lay you out in the parking lot to bake in the sun").
There were the parking lot Diner Olympics, in which I participated in the frying pan toss (and then used the same pan to cook up some scrambles) and basketball. One summer we even grew a small garden back there next to the dumpster. I miss the place.
When I got ready to leave town and come to Oregon, the folks at the Diner threw me a going away party. There was beer and food and lots and lots of people come to wish me well. Right at sunset, a bagpiper in full regalia made his way up the alley behind the house where my party was, and played some bagpipe music for a moment, and then disappeared silently. Nobody would admit to setting it up, but man I felt loved. Huge ass and all.