The Road. Part I

The Road
Part I: Diner


The road isn’t a story. It’s a long, flat dare, and most men fold before they make it to the punchline. 

I came into the diner because my stomach was clawing at my spine, and the last time I’d eaten was somewhere outside Tucumcari – a stale sandwich out of a gas station fridge. The place had no name, just a busted neon sign that flickered “Diner” like it was trying to convince itself. 

Inside, everything looked predictable. And if you’ve ever been to a roadside dive, you’d know that smell anywhere: old coffee, burnt grease, and something sharp and chemical that hinted at a cleaner that gave up halfway. The walls were yellow, though they’d probably been white once. A miserable little place, to put it plainly. A clock above the door said it was quarter past ten. Damn lie. 

The first person I noticed was her. Betty. I didn’t know her name the first time I came through, but I pieced it together from the way men said it – soft, like they were afraid of scaring her off, or sharp, like they were trying to get a rise out of her. Didn’t matter which way they said it. She’d heard it all before. 

She looked up when the bell over the door jingled. A quick once-over: same guy. Same boots, same jacket – worn, not fancy, just tough. I could see her pegging me as a drifter. Which I was. Had I been here before? I didn’t know. 

“You again,” she said without looking up. 
“Yeah,” I said, sliding onto a stool at the counter. 
She poured me a cup of coffee and slid it over. 

“What’s good to try?” I asked, flipping over a menu dirty enough to leave streaks on my fingers. 
“Nothing.” 
“Great sales pitch.” 
“I’m not here to sell you anything, sugar. Just pick something before the cook can still stand on his feet.” 

I ordered eggs. Didn’t matter how I wanted them; they’d come out however the cook felt like making them. She shouted the order into the kitchen. 


To be continued...