My bus route would go right by it every day, the Pizza King in my small town. This small brick building attached to a hair salon was the hot spot for two middle school girls every Friday afternoon. I pull out my flip phone, text my neighbor and best friend Sarah and ask her if she wanted to partake in our weekly event together.
Of course she would say yes, we would beg our moms for $5 each. With money in hand we would get our Schwinn bicycles out of the garage, meet up in the driveway of my house, and start pedaling. We would take the back way, going through the alleys, always making sure to ride our bikes over the long drainage cover to make the fascinating noise, we always thought was so cool. We park the bikes out back, enter into Pizza King, put our $5 together, to make a hefty $10. By that point our mouths were watering for cheese fries and ice cream sandwiches.
After we ordered we would make our way to “our booth,” the one in the corner. Covered with a red and white checkered table cloth. We would sit in the booth, long ways on each side, with our feet dangling off the end. Usually Dr. Phil was on TV, so we would have the sound of Dr. Phil in the background while we talked about the newest gossip of the day. The food arrives, you can see the steam rolling off the cheese fries. We hurry and lick around the edges of our ice cream sandwiches fast, so we can indulge in our heavenly, and long waited, cheese fries.
Clara Boles Travel Blog 