A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

Untitled Evening
by Eric Sakmar
December 7, 2006

I was always good at keeping secrets; mainly because the only secrets I knew were my own. I walked into a near empty diner. It was so empty that the 600 pound hostess let me choose my own booth. The place had just undergone a pretty heavy renovation, and the new upholstery meant the death of the smoking section. I sat in what used to be that toxic zone. It was the kind of diner that would have been teeming with senior citizens around 4:00 that afternoon. But it was late, and they'd all gone home.

I ordered a cup of soup and a slice of pie. It wasn't a big meal, but it was one that I knew I could finish. She brought the soup, and it was tastefully average.

Every time I sit down at a diner alone, I remember exactly why, when I left the last one, I vowed never to do it again. But that's what humans do. You say you'll never do again what you just did, and on the same breath, you're already in motion to repeat it.

I finished the soup. I waited about twenty minutes for her to bring the pie. It's pretty hard to make yourself appear to be fascinated by the place mat for that quantum, so of course my mind began to drift. I saw a piano and figured I might as well go play it. I sat down and remembered that I had no idea as to how to play the piano. I pressed down a few keys and made a sort of sullen sounding chord; I pressed a few more and made another sullen chord. I must have impressed the hostess because she began to make her way over to the piano. She sat down on the bench with me, and it crumbled to splinters. She was carrying butter and got a bit of it on her uniform. I was always good at keeping secrets; mainly because the only secrets I knew were my own.

About the author:
My name is Eric. I am a musician and an all-around creative sort.