I was sitting at a Waffle House counter about a year ago, enjoying a delicious and bountiful breakfast, when an older gentleman walked in and sat down at a very particular chair. He hadn’t made his seating decision haphazardly — no, he knew precisely where he wanted to sit, and made a beeline for it. Pulling the chair out from the counter, the waitress said “morning Frank, you want your ususal?”

Just a note: it might not have been Frank. He was probably a Henry or a James, or maybe a Bob. But when I tell the story, he’s Frank.

The man, older with wrinkles on his forehead, white hair, and a rugged disposition, just smiled and nodded his head. The waitress repeated a very precise order — coffee (black), two eggs over easy, hashbrowns smothered and covered, and couple sausage links. That may or may not have been his order, but again, I’m the one telling the story here.

And then the two conversed with each other like old friends.

That’s what I want. I want to be a regular somewhere. Just one of the dependable locals. Preferably at some crappy hole in the wall diner. I want to walk in to my chair, speak with my usual waitperson, and just get “the usual.” I want that kind of intimate relationship where they know precisely the food I want to eat at any given moment, and they can make it happen with just a simple nod of the head.

Man oh man, I want to be a regular someplace.