Jessie's Journal (8/26/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

Mel’s Diner used to be a popular pitstop for truckers at the edge of town.  Over the past few years, however, Denton has grown around it, tucking it between brand-new beauty parlors and department stores.  As a result, the generous portions it used to serve hungry truckers feasting for long hauls are now being fed to families. 

I can’t speak about the country’s obesity epidemic, but Denton has gotten noticeably fatter since.

I’ve only eaten there twice, so I can’t really blame it for my own growth spurt.  The first time was with my father a few years back.  I remember how wide his eyes went at the menu and the portions. 

“The Heart Attack Grill has nothing on this place,” he said, ogling his dinner-plate-sized patty of Chicken Fried Steak.   He had recently returned from a business trip to Las Vegas where he and his associates had gone to The Heart Attack Grill, a hospital-themed restaurant where the waitresses wear nurse outfits, and everything’s drenched in fat and lard.

“If you’re over 300 pounds they’ll feed you for free,” he had said excitedly to me at the time. Then he presented me a souvenir XXXL T-shirt emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo and slogan: “Fighting anorexia since 2005.”   

My father, like a lot of fathers, can be pretty clueless and insensitive.  Needless to say, I never wore it.

“I wouldn’t mind being spanked by her,” he muttered after a pretty waitress returned to take his unfinished portion of steak. 

He can also be extremely embarrassing.   

That was the other thing about The Heart Attack Grill.  Apparently, a “nurse” spanks you if you don’t finish your plate.  Unfortunately for Dad, Mel’s Diner had no such policy.

The second and final time I ate there was about six months later, also with my father.  I can’t remember why each time I was alone with Dad.  Maybe we were out running errands.  Or maybe he knew the diner’s mukbang-sized portions would be wasted on Mom and sissy.  Or maybe he just wanted fewer witnesses while he gawked at the pretty waitress.  Regardless, the second time wasn’t as good as the first.  The food was cold, and the service was slow. What I think disappointed Dad most, however (although he didn’t say so), was that the pretty waitress had been replaced by a frumpy fat one.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned she hadn’t been replaced at all.

Oops!  Time for school.  I’ll continue the story tomorrow…

--Jessie