It's 8:30 a.m., chilly and overcast outside, hyper-lit and bustling inside. A man in a guard's uniform settles into a booth, reaching over the plastic divide to hand a waitress a pack of paper towels.
The guard, who prefers to keep his name out of the newspaper, is just off an overnight shift at a car lot. He comes here often after work, and sometimes he runs errands for the staff.
Today he'll earn overtime pay, so in an hour he'll return to the lot. But first, over breakfast, he's discussing his chances of winning the lottery with his friend John Seal, a burly, goateed 59-year-old who resembles Hulk Hogan.
If Seal sees someone trying to steal a car, he'll reach for his phone.
"I ain't trying to stop anybody doing nothing. I'm allergic to lead penetrating my body," he says. His shift starts at 3 p.m. For now, he's focused on preventing the government from skimming his proverbial lottery winnings.
"If you're getting $1,000 a day, how do you set it up so that it benefits somebody else after you're gone? If they're taking 5 percent in taxes, and you're only giving 20 percent to someone else, who pays that 5 percent?" Seal asks.
"They do," says the guard. "They're getting something they're not entitled to."
The guard's phone beeps and he glances at a text. "Thank you, nephew," he says to the phone. "Love you and your family, too." (For the record, he is not dictating a smartphone reply.)
The guard works weekends at this restaurant and its sister restaurants. He has helped waitresses pay bills and buy children's shoes. Combined, he and his wife have nine children. But his children are old enough to buy their own shoes.
A middle-aged couple, also regulars, take a booth against the far wall. The man opens a newspaper.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" calls a cheery waitress in a pink camo visor.
"Jeannette," according to her name tag, has been working at Waffle Houses since 1985. She has spent many Thanksgivings here, beneath the yellow globes and glowing Scrabble signs. That's because Waffle House is famous for hash browns and All-Star breakfasts (two eggs, toast, grits, a waffle and a meat), but also for another phenomenon: It never closes.
Waffle House was founded on this 24/7/365 principle in 1955, in a suburb of Atlanta. It's so ubiquitous that the Federal Emergency Management Agency has a "Waffle House Index" used to measure the scale of a disaster. If the local Waffle House is serving a limited menu, there may be power disruption and low food supplies. If Waffle House is completely closed, FEMA staff know they have work to do.
TREATS AND TRADITION
There are more than 1,800 Waffle House franchises in 25 states. That's an average of 72 restaurants per state. Arkansas, however, has only 43 Waffle Houses, and almost half of them seem to be clustered around the greater Little Rock area.
Seal and the guard are breakfasting at the Rebsamen Road branch, in Little Rock's Riverdale neighborhood. Seal has been a Waffle House regular since 1977.
"I make stuff up and have them cook it," he says and orders a large bowl of grits with three sunny-side-up eggs on top. When this arrives, he will mash the grits into a yolky hash.
Seal doesn't mind working holidays. His family lives in Louisiana, and he'd rather be working than "day-dreaming."
At the counter, Royce Thomas, a Social Security adjudicator, has just come from Mass at St. Andrew Cathedral. He's picking up breakfast for friends who are cooking, per his usual Thanksgiving "gofer" role.
Donnie Bakalekos, 46, a city worker, and John Baker, 45, a railroad employee, have just come from the Go!bbler Turkey Trot run, where they trekked through the city's Heights neighborhood for 4 miles at 10 minutes a mile, raising money for the Arkansas Foodbank. Now they are refueling, the better to handle imminent family gatherings. Baker is one of 15 kids, and some years his family table numbers 60.
Mary and Chris Heller, 55 and 61, occupy a two-top near the front window. They've breakfasted at Waffle House for about 10 Thanksgivings, following this routine: take the dogs hiking, eat at Waffle House, head home to pop the turkey in the oven, hike again while the bird roasts. They have just returned from the River Trail, after considering and dismissing Petit Jean State Park ("Looks like rain," Mary says).
Other booths hold a physician en route to Fayetteville for the next day's University of Arkansas game (final score, Razorbacks 28, Missouri Tigers 3) and a family of soon-to-be-four, which includes a 3-year-old with a precocious appreciation for the classics. (Barrett Hicks proudly dons a Superman T-shirt and dines on a syrupy waffle.)
THE GAME AND THE PREGAME
By 11:36 a.m., Geyer Springs Road's Waffle House buzzes with chaos. English and Spanish conversations bump against pop tunes from the jukebox, shouted orders and plates thumping on countertops. Despite the din, an employee's child naps in the booth closest to the door, her small body stretched across the bench, all but her plaited head cocooned in a fuzzy red blanket. Half-eaten toast rests on her table next to a stack of picture books. There's a pink backpack on the opposite bench and hot pink boots kicked beneath the table.
In another booth, a handful of Mexican commercial painters hurry through their lunch. For them, it's a workday like any other.
But Joe and Jackson Ellis linger over brunch. They're dressed in head-to-toe camo with brown paint smeared across their faces. Joe, 42, and his son, 14, have spent the past three Thanksgivings duck hunting. This morning they set an alarm for 1:30 a.m. and headed to England, to wade among the marshes of the Arkansas River. They plan to grill their bounty with jalapenos for dinner, once they're back from round two: deer hunting.
This is Jackson's first time in a Waffle House. "It's great," he says, helping himself to the hash browns cooling on his father's plate.
Joe plans to sleep off his All-Star breakfast in the woods. "I always tell him, 'Let me know when something comes,'" he says.
"I'll let him know by a gunshot," Jackson crows.
At the register, Lee Gupton, 65, pays for his takeout order: two scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns. His mother-in-law has eaten the same breakfast every morning for the five years she has lived with him. Now the cooks practically have his order waiting.
Cynthia Morgan, 52, dines alone at the low bar, dressed in clogs, pajama bottoms, a T-shirt and a jacket. She travels for work, transporting liquidated goods, and spent last night trekking from Illinois to Arkansas.
"I've been to Arkansas before but not Little Rock. This is Little Rock, right?" she asks.
Donna Carrothers has also been up all night, but cooking rather than driving. Even so, she appears chipper, presiding over her progeny (three grandchildren and a daughter) in a T-shirt proclaiming "Who's the boss?"
"What are y'all most looking forward to eating?" she asked her grandchildren.
"Pizza!" shouts Mikayla Kidd, 8.
Carrothers' menu includes turkey, ham, dressing, greens, mac-and-cheese, deviled eggs and pecan pies. Unfortunately, it does not include pizza.
THANKFUL TO BE ALIVE
At 2 p.m. at the Waffle House on University Avenue, three generations spill out of a booth and into an extra chair. Lottie Sims, 46, is the matriarch. "I'm thankful for my health and my kids and my sister and my grand-babies, and I'm just thankful to be here, to be alive," she says.
"You can put that on five," says her sister, Jibril Sims, 29. She waves her hand to indicate herself, Lottie's two daughters and a 5-year-old granddaughter. "Right there, what she said. That can be the headline."
Suddenly Lottie's eye brim with tears.
Alesia Bone, 24, reaches across the table to grasp Lottie's arm. "Mama, don't, please don't. You're going to get me emotional," Alesia says.
Recently released from the hospital, Lottie wasn't sure she would be spending Thanksgiving with her family.
Lottie dabs at her eyes and just as suddenly, grins, reaching to chuck the ankle of 5-month-old Aria, in an infant carrier on the table. They love Waffle House and come about twice a week, but today, this is just pregame. They list the foods they're most anticipating at their grandmother's house: mac and cheese, potato salad, greens.
"Our auntie, she does greens real well. She couldn't even tell you what's in it, 'cause she's just a real cook. ... It's like your food has sleepy medicine in it," Jibril says.
At 5:30 p.m., business trickles into the McCain Boulevard Waffle House in North Little Rock. JT and Linda Ross are road-trip fueling with their granddaughter Sydney Ross, 14. The Star City natives have been visiting family in Little Rock since 9 a.m.
Sydney checks her phone, distracted by a picture of a preteen boy with a deer.
"She's upset with us. She wants to be hunting," JT says. The boy in the picture is her brother.
Sydney shrugs. "A little," she concedes.
She knows JT will take her first thing in the morning, because venison is his favorite meat. (Linda is partial to Thanksgiving ham.)
At the bar, Karen and Dave Woodruff, 56 and 57, dine on steak, a salad and an omelet. They are at Waffle House because Cracker Barrel was packed, and their Thanksgiving dinner of Cornish hens and apple pie never thawed.
A young man -- a former Waffle House employee, back for a visit -- greets an older man dropping in for coffee.
"You working tonight?" the waitress asks the older man, handing him a mug.
"My grandmother is," the older man says grumpily.
The waitress responds quickly: "I know, but she can't because she's 6 feet under."
The ex-employee hugs her goodbye and tells the coffee fiend, "You haven't changed."
By 8 p.m., the Rebsamen Road Waffle House is slower than it was 11 hours earlier. Local author David McCeery, 67, dines at the bar.
"Two things will always be available -- Alcoholics Anonymous and Waffle House," McCeery says.
BEATING BLACK FRIDAY
On Bowman Road, Best Buy's Black Friday sale swings, even though Friday is technically an hour away. At the Waffle House across the street, there's a wait to be seated.
Five women, all related, crowd a booth, in custom-made T-shirts that read, "Is Black Friday ready for all this?" They're carb-loading for a night of marathon price-busting. After a big Thanksgiving lunch in their hometown of Sheridan, they cleared the table and spread out sales papers, outlining a plan of action. Thus far the best deals have been TVs and trampolines.
"We plan to shop all night and hit Bass Pro at 5 a.m.," says Stephanie Jones, 30.
Is that the grand finale?
"Possibly," says Kourtney Chaddick, 31.
"Who knows?" Jones asks.
JUST ANOTHER DAY (TO GIVE THANKS)
At the next table a group of (mostly young) men in various combinations of black and burgundy (button-downs, slacks and ties) eat their second Waffle House meal of the day. They're not out shopping. To them, Black Friday represents a materialism best avoided.
"Our religious views are basically no holidays, because every holiday that is known is originally from pagan worship," says Miguel Ramirez, 44, a father, grandfather and entrepreneur. The men are Jehovah's Witnesses who have just come from a Kingdom Hall meeting.
Ramirez celebrates one annual holiday, the Last Supper, which falls on a different day each year. But most of his employees celebrate Thanksgiving, so he closes his businesses and welcomes relatives from Mississippi, in town because they had time off from work and school.
"The funny thing about Thanksgiving is, it's a day to give thanks. But really, we just do it everyday," says Ramirez's nephew, Jordy Clark, 20. "We don't have to wait one day a year to give thanks, like it's a special occasion."
It's a philosophy held by Clark and enacted by the staff of 1,800 Waffle Houses: Every day is Thanksgiving, which means essentially, no day is. Each day is simply another day, well served with coffee and hash browns.
Family on 12/16/2015