Day 13: Friday Night At The Gateway Inn

Friday night is special to me. There’s some kind of weird metamorphosis that takes place on Friday nights that I can’t explain but leaves me feeling more relaxed than any other time of the week. More at peace and less responsible. I think the sensation is tied to the fact that many of my best and longest-lasting memories are associated with Friday nights, memories that make me realize how fortunate I was to grow up during the period of time in which I did, to have the friends and family that I did, and to have been able to enjoy small things as much as I did. If you grow up in a small town like I did, small things are often all you had. 

One of my favorite Friday night memories started from time I was five or so and lasted on through my college years. Often on Friday night, some collection of my mom, dad, and sister and I would eat supper at the Gateway Inn in Ashland, NE.  I’m not sure if dining out on a Friday night was an intentional move by my parents (I think it was), but the choice seemed the perfect way to wrap up a week of school and work. No worries about making supper. No worries about doing dishes. No worries if everyone would like what was on the table. No worries other than having to pay the bill, and that wasn’t my domain, although my father always said “if you pick up the check, you pay it.” My only duty was to pile in the car, stare out the window as we made the short ride to just outside of town, and walk through the doors of the Gateway Inn.

I loved the place. Loved the way it looked and smelled; loved the way the old, wooden booths and tables were scattered about; loved the scads of Husker helmets, posters, autographed photos, and other memorabilia on the walls; loved the allure of the candy bars sitting behind the glass counters; loved the shape of the beer tap handles and the bottles of booze; and I loved the TV hanging up in the corner that was seemingly always tuned into “The Rockford Files.”

I rarely ordered anything from outside my comfort zone, a trait that’s done me well to today. Usually, I went with a cheeseburger and fries. Tried and true. But on those nights when I was feeling particularly daring, I’d go with a hamburger steak to mix things up. On those even rarer nights when I was determined to throw caution to the wind, I instructed the waitress, the mom of a boy in my class, to bring me a grilled cheese sandwich. It would arrive pre-cut, piping hot, and oozing yellow goodness all over the plate. I can still taste the pickle juice that the bread would sop up from the nearby slices. I can still see the shape of the small glass that I’d drink my soda out of. I can still hear the bubbles forming at the top of my dad’s more slender glass as he poured a beer. On some nights after we ate our plates clean, the owner would slip my sister and I some candy before we left, and I’d wonder if we were the only kids he looked out for that way.

On the ride home, I wondered what we’d watch on TV when we got home, if dad would let me stay up late and watch “The Night Stalker” once the local news ran through all the high school football or basketball scores first. Later, as Johnny Carson’s voice registered somewhere far off in my mind, I wondered how much longer my eyes could fight off the inevitable and I could prolong the end of another Friday night.

I’m lucky to have such memories.