Your Sandbox is my Sawdust by Kathryn Merrifield

 Woke up this morning thinking about the days that I spent with Dad – weekends with him at The Palm Restaurant – not entire weekends – but those Saturday nights we would drive east on Santa Monica Boulevard and arrive there almost by magic, pull up to the valet, walk under the valet overhang – black background with the palm tree logo in gold shining through.  Someone taller and in a black coat pulled at the large black door handle and ushered me and my two brothers onto the sawdust-coated hardwood floors, past the coat check and cigarette machines.  Past the buzzing conversation at the pretty, mirrored bar where, I’m sure, my father’s Chivas Regal scotch was set among the other pretty bottles behind the dark and shiny bar – the top of which was at least a foot taller than my young self and remained taller, and larger and intimidating despite my growth to a towering five feet, three and a half inches. 

Greeting us at the door was Chi Chi then Tony at the host podium and the walls covered in the character portraits of every star that ever entered that place or had died famous or, quite often, topless or with a hat or a cane or a distinctive jawline.  It was an education to me and to my two brothers – that one lady lounging by the palm tree, blond and barely clothed, characterized outlined in black like a comic book character is round an perfect.  Piercing eyes identified the men like heroes and swarthy, childless, unattached singletons. 

But a lobster was brought to the table and we were taught to put it to sleep by stroking the back of its neck before it was plunged into a boiling vat of water to cook while our clams casino and half and half (battered and fried onions and homemade potato chips) were served.  Dad ate the green guts but called it something else.  There was melted butter and lemon and a bib.  But, my brothers and I often ate meat instead.

It’s not a typical story.  Not just the meat part, I mean.

Neither is the story about the time my brothers told me to go into the men’s bathroom to see the odor-killing disk in the urinal they used for target practice before I got a quick look then got my fingers slammed in the door.

A screaming girl at the bathroom doors and kitchen entrance was interesting, to say the least.  We were often the only children patronizing The Palm Restaurant.

I miss that place.  Sawdust slipping under my feet, like it belonged to a bunch of adults grinding at the wood floors toward the same satisfaction children toil dig out and in a sandbox.