After Midnight: Where Wild Things Go

THE STRONGEST, MEANEST, hardest-looking queen I had ever seen loomed in the doorway. The restaurant came to a stop. Five foot 11 and 160 lbs. of muscle dressed in spike heeled black leather boots and a clinging black gown, she stood taking a deep drag on her extra long cigarette. A large and capable looking waitress gingerly led her over to the most remote booth and silently prayed there would be no trouble.

The Rendezvous is closing early these days, and Tommy's never seems right if you want to nurse your wounds over a 3 a.m. cup of coffee. Except for Brighams, which even freshmen have stopped going to after the first two weeks of school, there is no place in the Square plastic and peaceful enough to serve as an escape from any situation that has gotten a little too hairy to deal with at some ungodly hour of the morning.

So, last Friday night, when I found myself in such a situation, I was forced to head out Storrow drive and seek peace at the International House of Pancakes. Chauffered by my New-Jersey-bred roomate we arrived at about two in the morning.

It seemed possible we might work our way through a bottomless cup of coffee and a stack of chocolate chip pancakes in relative quiet, unhassled by anything more complicated than figuring out the tip. Lulled by the reassuring buzz of the enormous glowing purple fly killer on the wall, I only wanted to hunker down over my order, and check out my fellow urban refugees who crowded the place. As the night went on, however, the crowd grew stranger. Any hope of calm was destroyed, and a hasty retreat became the only course left to us.

When we walked in, young and stoned, we were greeted by a row of moderately successful undergarment retailers and their fake fur bedecked wives. One, on the other side of 50 years old, pulled back to avoid our seemingly diseased path, tossing inaudible obscenities to our backs.

Fleeing the loathing behind us, we followed a waitress who carefully seated us away from all other customers.

Secluded in our booth, the first cup of coffee began to cut the fog. As we looked around, I had the warm feeling that I was back in high school, hanging out. One of IHOP's greatest features is that they are all identically tacky, so that all are familiar and safe. From the spreading pool of artificially colored and flavored boysenberry syrup that eventually leaves the table purple and gooey, to the clashing blue and orange of the seats and ceiling, IHOP's are always the same.

BUT OUR SEPARATE PEACE lasted only until an unbelievably huge woman heaved herself into the adjacent booth, gingerly followed by two relatively normal-sized girl friends. As they began talking, the two ordinary women grew more and more nervous. At the end of what must have been the thousandth disastrous Friday night of the fat girl's life, they compared notes about their dates. The seat began rocking violently like a small boat in a large storm as the fat girl became more and more agitated; in between gulps of food and drink she threw her body from side to side.

Fortunately she was pacified by the time our waitress returned with the order. Thirty-eight going on 53, our waitress was anorexic and her green eyeshadow drew attention to the hollows that sunk deeper in her gaunt face as the night wore on. Her short thin hair clung to her temples, never ruffling as she shuffled between our table and the gaggle of gossiping waitresses in the corner. Over the noise of the restaurant we heard them say things like, "Frank is still going out with Jill, and Beverly just won't see either of them" as they leisurely took orders and bussed tables.

Just when the place had begun to empty out and quiet down, a family celebrating the end of another hot night on the town came in modeling green doubleknit leisure suits and singing "Happy Birthday" as they lost their last shreds of sobriety. Hard on their heels came an arrant MIT professor jauntily sporting a computer logic manual and a beautiful women some 20 years his junior.

Seated directly opposite us, he shouted at his date who was 18 inches away from him. He bellowed delightful anecdotes about MIT tenuring practices and early American patterns of urbanization.

Then, two hours after we had come in, no more calmed or ready to deal with reality than when we had first seen the blue and orange IHOP sign from the highway, I finally resolved to block out any remaining freaks or crazy people, and just kill my munchies with one last order of pancakes.

And then, proving my fate that night was totally screwed, that long tall mean queen appeared, primed to drive me out into the night. Sitting in her isolated booth, she cast hostile glances at everyone in the restaurant. As our eyes met I jerked away in fear and applied renewed attention to my place mat. As she attacked her order, her wig came askew. The nextlook in my direction was so full of violence that I could almost feel a blow. Tossing a bill on the table, I dragged my near comatose roommate to the car.

BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON I could reduce the madness to anecdotes. And as I checked out the crowds of well-adjusted people cruising through the Square, I began thinking about my next chance to catch the best of the bizarre and grotesque, sometime in the morning, somewhere in an IHOP.