Don’t stop believing

Summer 2022 was when I made Mel’s Drive-In—founded in 1947—my regular spot for writing, people-watching, and devouring the most lavish milkshakes imaginable, all while lost in an artistic reverie. And what a milkshake it was! A regular highball glass served alongside a tall tin cup filled with the extra—pure diner-style opulence.

Open until midnight on most weekdays and until three in the morning on weekends, Mel’s Drive-In would become resplendent with all kinds of colorful characters once evening fell. Oblivious Gen Z packs, gays and drag queens, bikers, the occasional celebrity, and waiters and waitresses who weren't merely old but timeless—frozen in another era, as though they had stepped straight out of a cheerful 1950s family advertisement.

Whenever I'm here, I have to carry quarters. I feed one into an authentic Rock-Ola, shuffle through the song cards, and begin the sentimental ritual of my restless romantic heart: Eagles' New Kid in Town, Fleetwood Mac's Go Your Own Way, and Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. These oldies poured from the tiny speakers as I drifted through the heavy cloud of my milkshake, my curious eyes wandering over faces and outfits. And just as Steve Perry hit the soaring note of his journey, I locked eyes with a surfer-looking guy sitting in the booth farthest from mine.

His lips moved almost imperceptibly, unconsciously following the poetry that bound us all: "...Streetlights, people..." His eyes found mine, and after a beat, two sheepish smiles mirrored one another.

"Livin' just to find emotion, hidin' somewhere in the night." ✦