Thursday, December 26, 2002
“Client?” I ask. Daphne merely arches an eyebrow as she sips her coffee. I’m starting to suspect that she’s getting a kick out of stringing me along, dishing up little nuggets of information just often enough to keep me on board. Now’s she’s locking eyes with me as she starts making loud slurping sounds with her coffee, sounding every bit like the obnoxious six-year-old with a straw who always seems to sit right behind me during matinees. I’m no Cassanova, but suffice it to say I’m getting mixed signals here.
I take a swig of my own coffee, which tastes exactly how I’d imagine coffee filtered through the leavings from the grill back at the stand. The stand. By this time of the morning, I should getting ready to open for the so-called Saturday “lunch rush.” That’s what Donler, in his delusional moments, calls the sporadic bursts of cars and pickups that pass by the stand as folks from the county drive into town to pick up groceries and pig feed. He keeps forgetting that the Hoople Co-Op has its own grill. More importantly, they’re willing to grill something other than Tater Dogs.
Thinking of the stand sitting empty on—in, actually—the shoulder of the road, I momentarily feel a pang that resembles guilt, only in a distant sort of way. My God, am I actually getting homesick?
At this point, nothing would surprise me, but amazingly, something does. Harold staggers into the diner, somehow carrying Molly in his arms. He looks like he’s trying to bench press a big, furry sofabed, and the absurdity of it all makes me stare blankly at him for a long minute before I notice: Molly’s bleeding. Badly.
The waitress is a bit faster on the uptake. “Mister,” she barks, managing to raise her voice without losing the cigarette between her lips. “You can’t bring that damn thing in here.”
Harold ignores her. His eyes have a faraway look to them, which strikes me as kind of funny. If I was carrying a giant bleeding dog that may or may not have bitten my ring finger off at some point, I’d find it hard not to live in the moment.
“Guys,” he barks. “We gotta go. Now.”
Daphne gets up, rolling her eyes as if bleeding dogs and sudden exits from roadside diners were all part of the drill. Who knows, maybe they are. Unable to take my eyes off Molly, I follow until I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. Hard.
“Not so fast. You forgot to pay.” It’s the waitress, what’s left of her cigarette still dangling between her lips. It’s practically a butt now—a butt in Butte, I want to tell Daphne, only she and Harold are practically sprinting across the parking lot.
“Uh, um…” I stammer as I pull out my wallet, knowing full well it’s going to be empty. As usual. Harold and Daphne are at the car now, and I see them trying to slide Molly into the back seat. Great. It’s going to be a fun ride, assuming they even wait for me.
“C’mon, pal,” the waitress snarls, practically extinguishing her cigarette against my face. “Do I need to call the cops?” An insistent honk from Cadillac’s horn suggests that no, that’s probably not what I want. As I rummage around my pockets for change, I hear gravel fly. Harold pulls up front, laying on the horn again for good measure. My fingers hit the crumpled 100-dollar bill, and without thinking, I yank it out of my front pocket and toss it at her. For some reason, this doesn’t upset me as much as I thought it would -- easy come, easy go, I guess. “Keep the change,” I mutter as I sprint for the door. I notice that Harold’s popped open the Caddy’s trunk. Not a good sign.
“Get in!” he shouts, extending a bloodied thumb to point to the trunk. “If you try sitting in the back, Molly’s likely to rip out your throat,” Harold adds, somehow finding the one sentence that makes me willing to step on the bumper and climb up. As soon as my feet clear the ground, Harold peels out, damn near throwing me from the car as he careens back onto the highway. Scared half to death, I hit the deck, hoping to God that the swaying trunk door doesn’t slam shut, trapping me inside.
It could be worse, I guess. At least the trunk’s open, if dangerously so. And the Caddy has a nice, roomy trunk – not like those flimsy VW bugs, where I’d be sitting facing oncoming traffic. Even Lucy probably couldn’t squeeze into that trunk, I think, again feeling a pang of something resembling homesickness. Or maybe it’s just the exhaust fumes. And for some reason, there’s a TV in here. Too bad I can’t plug it in, or I’d be set for the next 700-mile leg between bathroom breaks.
Then I notice the sign on the side of the TV, made with one of those plastic label-making guns: PROPERTY OF GUNDERSON REST HOME – NO CHANGING CHANNELS WITHOUT PERMISSION OF MANAGEMENT.
Weird. And it’s not even time for the Saturday lunch rush yet.
