The Road. Part IV

Part IV. Randy

The bell over the door jangled, louder than it should have, slicing through the low hum of the diner. The air shifted, the way it does before a fight breaks out. A man walked in, heavy boots scuffing the linoleum, his denim jacket stiff with grime, his face set like trouble. He didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it the second they saw him. 

“Betty!” he barked, his voice bouncing off the sticky walls. Heads turned, but no one said a word. His hand twitched, and the glint of a blade caught the fluorescent light. 

I glanced at her. She didn’t flinch. She leaned on the counter like she was bored, one hand resting on the edge, the other slowly reaching under for something I couldn’t see. Her eyes, though, were locked on him, hard and flat. 

“Randy, you pull this crap again, and I’m calling the cops,” she said, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. 

“The cops?” His laugh was a low growl, more like an animal than a man. He took a step closer, his boots squeaking on the floor. “What’re they gonna do, huh? Slap me on the wrist? You’ve been running your mouth too long, Bet. Think you’re untouchable.” 

He jabbed the knife toward her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to make his point. 

I stood up slowly, keeping my hands loose at my sides. “Hey,” I said, my voice low but firm. “Take it easy.” 

“This ain’t about you, cowboy,” Randy spat, not even looking at me. “So sit your ass down before I make it about you.” 

I didn’t move. “You got a funny way of settling things, Randy. You wanna talk, talk. But you pull that blade on her, and we’re gonna have a real problem.” 

Finally, he turned to me. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sunken like he hadn’t slept in days. Up close, he smelled like sweat and cheap whiskey, like someone who’d been losing for too long. 

“Who the hell are you?” he sneered. “Another one of her lapdogs?” 

“Just a guy,” I said, taking a step closer, slow and deliberate. “But I don’t like knives. So why don’t you put it down, and we’ll all walk out of here in one piece?” 

Betty’s voice cut through the tension. “Randy, you’re drunk. Go home. You don’t want to do this.” 

“Oh, I don’t?” He turned back to her. “You think you can talk to me like that? Like I’m some piece of shit you can scrape off your shoe? You owe me, Betty. You owe me for everything.” 

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” she said. “You think buying me a few drinks back in ’98 makes me yours? Get the hell out before you embarrass yourself any more.” 

The air in the diner went heavy. The trucker in the corner shifted in his seat. No one said anything. They just waited, hoping Randy would sober up real quick and get the hell out. The kitchen went quiet.

Randy’s knuckles went white around the handle of the knife. “You think you’re better than me,” he hissed. “You think you’re so goddamn smart, but you’re nothing. Just a washed-up waitress in a nowhere town. Nobody gives a shit about you, Betty. Nobody.” 

“Get out,” she said, low and calm, like she was telling him the weather. 

He lunged. Not far, not fast, but enough to make my body move before my brain could catch up. My hand shot out and caught his wrist, squeezing until the knife clattered to the floor. His eyes went wide, more in shock than pain, and for a second, he just stared at me like he couldn’t believe what had happened. 

He tried to pull back, but I wasn’t letting go. His free hand came up, wild and clumsy, aiming for my face, but I stepped into him, shoving him back against the counter so hard the salt and pepper shakers rattled. 

“This ain’t over,” he muttered. “You hear me, Betty? This ain’t over.” 

She didn’t answer. She just stared at him, her hand still resting under the counter. 

"I'll show you, Betty, what the hell I’m capable of. You’ll be begging for mercy, Bet. I’ll come when you're alone, and not a damn one of your mutts will lift a finger for you. And I don’t give a shit about your sick mama! Couldn’t care less!" 

He locked eyes with me, then spat on the floor.
 
"You’d better haul your ass back to wherever the hell you came from, ‘just a guy’ – or whatever the hell they’re calling you. You got lucky today, that’s all. Don’t expect it to last, cowboy.”

"Love it when the last word’s yours?" I said, smiling. "Well, you got it. Now get the hell out of curiosity here."

Randy opened his mouth like he was gonna keep yapping, but the gears in his head were grinding to a halt. He waved his fist around like it meant something, kicked a chair, and bellowed, "Eat shit in this sorry excuse for a joint! Ain’t none of you worth a damn, bunch of no-good sons of bitches!"

Then he stormed out, slamming the door hard.


To be continued…