On Onions

On White Castle, Philosophy and Freedom

A homeless man, who often slept in our backyard when I was a child, had a unique philosophy on perception. This man often bartered with my father and looked out for our house on the few occasions our family traveled. He surfaced in my mind yesterday as I was reminiscing with my sister, which got me thinking about the nature of change.

Along High Street now, near where I grew up, there are shiny new properties and pricy parking garages. Wealthy people in stylish clothes eat $20 bowls of vegetables with or without tofu and drink martinis or green juice. The Yankee Trader across the street, where I used to buy fake bugs and Halloween costumes, is now a series of businesses, including a Euro-style bar and posh living spaces, called, respectfully, Yankee on High.

Twenty years ago, this same stretch of the city was in transition.

Thirty years ago, the land and people seemed abandoned.

When I was a child, I wanted nothing more than to escape the neighborhood. We lived a block from High Street, which I could see from my bedroom window. I could also see a few regulars who traversed the alley. Neighbors and familiar homeless men.

Those who slept in our backyard and garage were mostly quiet and only prone to rebellion only in retaliation to injustice, such as (I’m assuming) against our moody neighbor who had called the police on them for no reason after threatening to do so, only to find her car on fire a week later. Our home had always felt safe because Dad showed respect to these few men we often saw and made a private study of interviewing them about their lives with his bulky camcorder.

The two men I remember in particular always seemed to be together, but I rarely saw them speak to each other. One was less talkative when it came to my father, but he would often do small chores in exchange for food or money. The other was the philosopher, and the camera seemed to light him up.

The talker, who admittedly enjoyed drinking more than most things, also admitted that even without the bottle he couldn’t see himself living in a society where he had to be contained by so many walls. He told my father he loved the freedom of his life, despite its perils, and he, quite frankly, thought us to be the ones who were insane. He also admitted, however, that quite a few of those he shared the streets with were not so intentional.

This man, let’s call him George, did not represent the homeless crew at White Castle, where I’d soon find employment for the shortest stint of my life.

The White Castle on High Street, when I grew up, was to be avoided. It was partly an aversion to onions that kept me away, but the restaurant was also a site for a transient group that was more inclined toward hard drugs and unpredictable behavior.

I’d heard stories about the difficulty of running any business in our neighborhood then, but particularly that White Castle. One such story, which I’ve verified through heresy alone, was that the store had to remove all seating in order to discourage gang members from congregating there on a regular basis. At the time, it had been a biker gang.

When I began working there years later, a part of me knew it would be the shortest time I’d ever spend with a company. I didn’t imagine, however, that it would be only a week. Devoid of homeless by the time I worked there, most of the customer base would come through the drive-thru. At the time, art galleries were coming into the area and beginning to attract intrigue and attention to the near-downtown neighborhood. This week of employment was either pre-gentrification or the start of gentrification. Whatever the case, the addicts had moved on.

White Castle sold square burgers that arrived at the restaurant frozen in large boxes. I would throw them on a flat grill and scoop onions on top, waiting for the fast sizzle before the single flip. Once cooked, the burger fit in the palm of my (very small) hand, bun and all. People ordered these sandwiches by the dozen, and after the first day of flipping burgers, I was perplexed that so many people purchased them at all hours of the day.

Perhaps more hauntingly, I was confused by the fact that the smell of onion seemed to follow me not only during my shift but for hours after. It lived in my clothes and overpowered both my conditioner and drugstore perfume. I spent two days trying to find the answer or waiting for my nose to become accustomed as I was trained, but no magic elixir would work. Once I knew all the rules and could work the drive-thru and kitchen, I realized no station was immune.

I got a tip the last day I worked, and though I wasn’t sure I was allowed to take it, I had nothing left to lose. Shoving the crumpled dollar and dime in my jeans pocket, I consciously surveyed the small restaurant thoroughly, reminiscently, and wondered about all its untold stories. Then I walked home, not toward the house I grew up in, but a few blocks in the opposite direction where my mother had recently secured a small apartment.

While a White Castle survived until December of 2022 on the same block of land in the Short North in Columbus, Ohio, it was not the same restaurant I remember as a kid or young adult in its last decade of existence. I never ventured in, as it sat nestled among condominiums that my educator and writer salary could not afford.

But sometimes I walk or drive past that stretch of land, and when I do, I also walk or drive near that house I grew up in, still with the open garage and easily accessible backyard but now completely devoid of those seeking to camp out. The neighborhood has changed and is no longer welcome to those resisting four walls. People have been pushed out or aside to make room for other people, those who can afford the parking, and I have mixed feelings about all of it.

When I drive to my old neighborhood, all I can think is of my father handing George food and asking about his life for a documentary that would never be shared, and how the star of the documentary said it was the rest of us who had questionable lifestyles, not him. He did not understand why so many people limited themselves to the norm.

I feel grateful for his perspective, and while I hope he’s well, I do not want to think about the odds. Whatever the case, I appreciate him looking out for us.

George went on record, a long-lost record I imagine, that he enjoyed his life. While I had yet to find enjoyment when I worked at White Castle, I think he would’ve approved of my short stint there and might’ve even offered the reprieve that when a person is averse to onions, she probably shouldn’t work among them.