Lowellita has shut one door in this chapter of her life and is now opening up another. That door belongs to a late-night gathering place filled with the reckless and abandoned she seems to relate to. Will she finally find that burst of inspiration in this downtown Lowell institution?

I was in the ninth grade the first time I took a step through the squeaky front doors of the Club Diner. It was 7 a.m. on a bleak late November morning, the kind that siphons the life out of your existence. You awake with the street lights still on. No songbirds join in a chorus leading the soundtrack of your day. Only the off-tune piercing pulse of the clock radio and your neighbor¹s third attempt to turn over his car engine meet you on this brisk fall dawn.

The home room bell was set to ring in five minutes, but that was not as essential as the garlic-spiked homefries I had heard were legendary. A disheveled couple pushed their way past us on their way out the door. They stumbled onto the sidewalk. I watched as they seemed startled by the sunlight that had begun to crest and spill over the tip of the skeleton of the long forsaken mills. My friend turned to me and said, ³I didn¹t even know they made people like that anymore.²
Neither did I, but I was mesmerized by their presence ‹ or lack thereof.

I realized that although my breakfast buddy and I were just beginning our day, they were just ending theirs. I was instantly attracted to them. My runny eggs got cold as I repeatedly peppered my friend with questions she could not answer. Where do you think they came from? What do you think they ordered? Where do you think they are going? What is their story?

She was less than thrilled and suggested I go ask them myself. That was the moment I knew I wanted to tell the stories of people and their tribulations. Plus, I don¹t even like eggs.

My friend and I never spoke to each other again after sophomore year. I find this aspect of friendship the most peculiar. You attach yourself to a person at a certain time in your life, delving into the depths of their idiosyncrasies, discovering their vices and sharing intimate moments. Years later, you can pass the same person on the street and barely whimper a hello, never mind make eye contact or muster a weak grin.

That was my initial introduction to the Dutton Street institution. But it wasn¹t until years later, after last call one night, that I had my first true Club Diner experience.

When there is no sunlight, the place is like a cocoon. Thick, sticky and filled with people who can escape at anytime, but instead remain inside. It glows like a beacon floating amidst a sea of crimson brick and concrete, attracting all the bugs that flutter about in the small radius of downtown Lowell.

Every inch of the place ‹ the floor, the booths, the vinyl stool tops, the ketchup bottles ‹ is bathed in a coating. A scent seems to linger on the skin of the people who spill out of there early in the morning. There is something in the air here. Everyone who flanks the counter seems to have an aura around them. It is the meeting place for those who come alive when the sun goes down. The ones who find it difficult to maintain a normal 9-to-5 schedule.

Exhausted by what took place earlier in the evening, I rested all my weight atop the last empty seat at the counter. I had to be up, showered and ready to start the day in six hours, when I hadn¹t even finished the one before. I took a sip of my black coffee, brushing the man seated next to me with my elbow.

The unkempt guy turned to look at me and asked if I smoked. I replied no and he proceeded to pull two Camels from his tattered soft-pack.

³There¹s a first time for everything,² he said, handing me the smoke and walking toward the door.

I took one more sip of my coffee and scurried to catch the door before it closed behind him.

Will Lowellita find the answers she is looking for from this rogue character, like she did when she saw the couple leave there a decade earlier or will her curiosity get the best of her? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.