Death of a Diner

“Omega” is a word that appeared frequently in my adolescence, usually completely out of context. An omega is simply the 24th letter of the Greek alphabet, or, when used as a noun, the ending or last occurrence of an event. My high school newspaper was called "The Omega."French Toast: A common meal at OMEGA. The link gives detailed, step-by-step instructions on the preparation of this treat. The cheapie dry cleaner on Highland Avenue was “Omega’s.” And the 24-hour diner across the street from my school was named OMEGA.

It was there, in the smoke-heavy, vinyl banquettes of the inexplicably named OMEGA, that I experienced the most essential parts of teenagerdom—trying my first cigarette, dipping French fries in chocolate milkshakes, stopping in before prom to show off my seafoam green dress. Countless nights ended with Ross, Brian, Theresa and I pushing out curfews by camping out at OMEGA, ordering a cup of coffee just to get the free bread basket that waitresses were obliged to set down.

The place was a complete dump. Shades of burgundy and orange cast unflattering hues across everything, the menus were laminated in burn-spotted plastic, and the staff was a haggard, harried bunch. The menu was biblical in proportion, though I rarely strayed from cream of broccoli soup or French toast. I would come home reeking of smoke and grease, and my mother would ask me if I was high. OMEGA had few redeeming qualities beyond it’s 24-hour accessibility, but we always preferred it to the Steak n’ Shake down the street, which was also open 24 hours a day, but attracted a different, more posh crowd under its faux-retro fluorescent lights. OMEGA was boring and comfortable, an inevitable last resort after a night of driving around, something we alternately dreaded and expected.

I was one of relatively few in my high school social circle to leave the Chicago area for school, and when I come home, I always want to go to OMEGA. For me, it is the home base of my adolescent nostalgia, and I feel a desire to recreate those sensations even now. For many of my old friends, who never left, OMEGA was never suspended in a particular place or time: it was, and is, and will presumably always be; and now that we’re all old enough, why don’t we just hit the bars?

I did convince Brian to go with me when I was home over winter break. We walked in, and the scene was disarming. It was midnight on a Friday, prime time for the groups of heavy-lidded, streaky-haired teenagers to be enjoying some soup or fries. Instead, it was mostly empty, with a few saggy-shouldered old men staring into endless cups of coffee. “What happened?” I asked Brian. “They banned smoking indoors,” he said. And while I never got much past my first cigarette at age 15, I was suddenly desperate to sit down and chain-smoke, to envelop myself completely in the stink of Camels and grease and teenage idealism. We didn’t stay.