It took him 46 minutes to walk out to the truck stop with $14.78 and a half pack of Marlboros in his pocket. That was enough for a copy of the Rocky Mountain News, a plate of biscuits and gravy, and a cup of coffee. It left him enough to give a couple bucks to the young waitress and a couple quarters to the old Wurlitzer.
"Any news?" The waitress asked him as she set down his coffee.
He shook his head. "You know me," he said. "I can't complain." They both laughed. "You?"
"New girl quit on us so I'm pulling doubles."
When he saw his order come up he made his way over to the jukebox and traded a faux-silver George Washington for a solid gold George Jones. When he got back to the lunch counter his food was waiting for him and his coffee had been filled up. He stirred one packet of Sweet-n-Lo into his coffee and put one pat of purple jelly on each gravy-laden biscuit. His song finished up and the waitress fed a red quarter in and Golden Ring came out. George and Tammy; Hot coffee and hog-meat gravy. He sipped and savored and for a moment he could forgot all about the news he was waiting for. He could forget about all the squirrelcage bullshit he'd been reading in the newspaper. All was right with the world.
"Excuse me, sir." A sad-eyed man wearing a camo baseball cap had appeared on his right. "Do you have anything you can spare?" The man had a hint of Kentucky in his voice. I'm trying to get back home and I'm awful hungry."
The old man did have $2.76 left, but $2.50 of it belonged to the waitress. He was really in the mood to hear We're Gonna Hold On before walking home but he decided that Christian charity was more important that the false hope of a doomed marriage. He took a quarter and a penny out of his pocket and slid them down the lunch counter.
"Sorry it's not more, but it's all I've got," the old man apologized with sincerity into those sad, destitute eyes.
"Anything helps," the young man said, swiping the money off of the counter and into his pocket with one fluid motion.
The old man was surprised by another voice coming from behind him:
"That's very kind of you."
The old man turned to see a tall guy with greasy, stringy hair about the color of weathered cardboard. His hunched over posture and his prominent nose gave him a buzzardy appearance. His eyes were stationary, but something behind his eyes were searching as if he was trying to push his vision through a haze that occluded the old man from his gaze. The old man recognized the cirrhosis in those yellowed eyes and regretted not giving the money to the jukebox after all. The guy with the stringy hair sat down on the stool on the left as the man in the ballcap vacated the one on his right to go bother the waitress. The old man took up his newspaper in a polite attempt to decline conversation.
"You're a good man," the stringy haired guy said. "I can tell."
"We all gotta do what we can to help each other get along," the old man replied, not looking up from his newspaper.
"Ray's a good guy too," Stringy said indicating out the window to the man in the camo ballcap now making his way around to the back of the building.
"There's a lot of good guys around here." He turned the page of the newspaper.
"Ray's not from around here," Stringy said at the side of the old man's head. The old man had reached the funny papers at the back of the sports section.
"What are you up to the rest of the day?" Stringy asked, uninterested in being ignored.
"Not much." The old man read a Garfield punchline about Mondays.
"You should come up to Jackson with us," Stringy suggested. "You should come to Jackson with us and do some Ayahuasca."
"Can't," the old man replied. "I told Ralph I'd fill in for him at the hardware store on Tuesday."
Ray reentered the diner with a grease stained paper bag and Stringy left to join him at a booth in the corner. They upended the bag to dump a pile of stale french fries directly onto the tabletop. The old man finished his coffee and folded the newspaper under his arm. He placed the $2.50 for the waitress under the rim of his plate. Ray was looking at him.
"You can't eat those in here," the waitress yelled to the booth as he walked out into the wind.
Outside he watched though the window to keep an eye on things inside, just in case. She said something else. The french fry eaters ignored here. She retreated into the kitchen. Stringy got up and put the old man's quarter in the jukebox and the the muffled "hoot who" of a Rolling Stones song could be heard through the window. The old man shook his head in disgust. It took him 42 minutes to walk home from the truck stop.
The next day he was back at the truck stop diner. He was hoping to share his news with the waitress, but something was off. He finally went around to the other side of the counter and got a mug and a couple packets of Sweet-n-Lo. He queued up a Charlie Pride tune that he knew she liked. Halfway through the song she appeared and unplugged the jukebox before retreating back into the kitchen. The cook came out.
"You want your usual?" he asked.
"She OK?" the old man asked.
"Something bad happened last night. She won't say what." the cook shrugged.
"Just the coffee today," the old man said.
He finished his cup and left the coffee money by the register. He put the carafe back on the warmer and left a ten dollar bill behind the counter.
On his way home a battered black Ford Taurus pulled up beside him. Ray waved at him from the passenger seat. Stringy was driving. The driver's side window was stuck down about an inch.
"I thought you boys were headed up to Jackson," the old man said at the gap in the window.
"And I thought you'd be at the hardware store," Stringy replied, moving his dead yellow stare all over the old man.
"We had something come up," Ray smirked at Stringy and the old man recognized the look that passed between them.
"I need a ride somewhere," the old man said.
"Sure, hop up front. Ray'll get in the back." Stringy gave a look to Ray, who removed something from the glovebox.
"I'd rather sit in the back," the old man said opening the door. Stringy glanced over at Ray and shook his head and Ray put something back in the glovebox.
The rickety old garage door rattled open as a man in uniform lifted it over his head. A haze of cold cigarette smoke rolled out of the garage and into his face. The body of the old man was laid out on a faded olive drab camping cot that looked like it'd seen better days.
He tentatively prodded one of the body's feet with his night stick, startling a little when the body sat bolt upright, wearing a vintage set of headphones. The sudden motion had pulled the 1/4 inch jack at the end of the coily headphone cord out of the faux-wood cabinet of an ancient hi-fi system. The scriiiitch clump, scriiiitch clump of a finished record pulsed through the speakers.
"Don, you’d better have a warrant coming in here like this," The old man said.
"I can get the game warden over here to take a peek if you'd rather." Don pointed his night stick at the upright Kelvinator in the corner. "No warrant necessary for a game violation."
"I can't hear a goddamn word you're saying."
Don made an ear can motion on his own head and the old man removed the headphones.
"I got a couple questions."
"I still can't hear you."
Don knew this routine but he raised his voice anyways:
"I'm sure you know why I stopped by," Don tried.
"Did your wife leave you again?"
"Someone found a couple bodies in a piece-of-shit old Taurus out behind the old mill."
"I can't help you there. I'm a Chevy man."
"A couple guys from out of town," Don continued, attentive for the old man's reaction. "Oregon plates."
The old man's bored face stared back at him.
"I notice you're missing the lace on one of your boots," Don observed.
"Poor men have poor ways," the old man deadpanned.
"You sure there isn't anything you might want to tell me?"
"Yea. The doctor finally got back to me with the biopsy results. Now kindly shut the door on your way out."
As the door clattered back down with a slam, the old man replaced the headphones and reset the turntable. The warm voice of Charlie Pride greeted his ears like an old friend. The old man lit himself another cigarette and laid back down on the cot. Charlie crooned out "Is Anybody Going to San Antone?"
Thank you to Shad Meeg for the cover photo.
Eeek...creepy but captivating.