Mr. Write's Page

I’m on a road trip right now, driving from Georgia to California and back. I’m spending Thanksgiving with my son Britt and his family.

Cross-country trips are always an adventure, and they invariably yield an interesting story or two. When I left home, I wondered how long it would take to encounter something blogworthy.

Not long. By the morning of the second day, I was making notes for a post. By midday, I had what I thought was an embarrassment of material.

But you can judge for yourself.

————

Amy

Weatherford, Texas, 7:00 AM.

The evening before, I had checked into a motel in Weatherford and, after a quick supper, crashed for the night. I deserved it. It had been a 600-mile day. I slept well.

Having retired early, I was up at 5:00 AM, anxious to roll. I was sick of Texas already. I wanted to get moving, maybe cross into New Mexico by nightfall.

I showered, packed, loaded the car, and went to the office to check out and partake of the complimentary breakfast, whatever it was.

To my chagrin, the lobby was jammed with Rvers. They were the loud, silver-haired kind, apparently traveling in a pack. They were like a chattering flock of magpies and probably had picked the breakfast bar clean anyway. I spared myself the aggravation and departed.

As I pulled out of the motel parking lot, I spotted a homey-looking diner across the street. Perfect. I pulled into the parking lot and went inside.

The diner was a classic place, pretty much as I had pictured it. Only a half dozen customers were present, most of them truck drivers. I figured I would get a fast, tasty breakfast with lots of hot coffee, and I did.

My waitress caught my attention immediately. She was a melancholy girl of about 20, very sad and distant. Clearly, her burdens were great. She struck me as painfully tired and vulnerable.

In spite of the state she was in, she carried out her duties professionally. She was polite and attentive and took good care of me.

As I ate, she puttered behind the counter, busying herself with unseen tasks.

Moments later, the busboy passed my table, stopped his cart next to the waitress, and began to chat her up.

It was a one-sided conversation. The waitress continued wiping down the counter and studiously ignored him.

The busboy was a muscular, tattooed fellow in his late 30s or early 40s. He wore a tight-fitting knit cap (a tuque, a la The Edge from U2) and thick glasses with heavy rims. He was a somewhat rough-looking sort.

My table was about 20 feet away, and I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. All I could hear was a deep mutter as he spoke quietly to her.

The waitress never looked at him or responded. She kept her eyes down and continued working. The man kept speaking to her.

I studied her a little closer. She was of average height and weight, not quite pretty, not quite homely. Her hair was medium length, brown and straight. It looked as if she had stepped from the shower, combed it flat, and left it to dry that way. She was painfully sad. I couldn’t imagine her smiling.

The busboy continued to drone on in a low voice. It was clear he wasn’t giving up or going away.

Finally, without looking up, the girl said, quietly, with feeling, “No. I can’t.”

Even though she spoke softly, I heard her clearly. It was a bit of a surprise.

The tempo of the man’s muttering increased. I couldn’t make out what he said, but his meaning was clear: Why not?

“I can’t,” she repeated. “You know I can’t.”

The man droned on.

“No, I won’t,” she said, eyes averted.

There was a brief silence. She looked up at him at last.

“How can you ask me that?“ she said. “How can you ask me that after what you did?”

The man stopped speaking. He turned without a word and disappeared into the kitchen with his cart. The waitress continued wiping the counter.

I don’t know what the man’s transgressions were, and I don’t care to know. But clearly, they were awful. I wanted to cry.

By then, I had finished breakfast. She brought the coffee pot, warmed up my cup, and asked if I were ready for the check. I said I was.

The bill was a little over $8.00. At the top, next to “Your server is ____,“ she had written “Amy.“

I placed $20.00 on the table and left.

————

Mel

Big Spring, Texas, 1:30 PM.

By lunchtime, exhausted from listening to the news on Sirius all morning, I stopped in Big Spring for a lunch and fuel stop.

Next door to the gas station was another of those anonymous small-town cafés, the kind I much prefer to a MacDonald’s or a Wendy’s.

Like my breakfast stop in Weatherford, this place was small and well-worn. It featured one waitress and a meat-and-two menu. Only four or five other customers were present. I found a table and sat down.

The waitress appeared. She was tough and brassy, fully capable of whipping anyone in the place. “What are ya drinking, sugar?” she asked.

“Iced tea, please, unsweet.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I scanned the menu. I had a choice of meat loaf or chicken-fried steak. The veggie selection looked good.

When she returned, I posed the question: did I want the meat loaf or the steak?

“The meat loaf,” she said. “Sometimes the steak is tough.” I ordered meat loaf, black-eyed peas, buttered jalapeno potatoes, and cornbread.

A lone cowboy came in and sat down at a nearby table. “Hey there, Mel,” he said to the waitress.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Things aren’t too busy in here,” he said. “Why don’t you and me get out of here — go to my place for a couple of hours.”

“You don’t want to do that,” she said. “I’d hurt you. And I don’t mean your feelings.”

“Okay, baby, but the offer stands.”

The telephone rang. Mel answered it.

“Oh, hey. Did you go to the grocery store? Good. You what? God dammit, you dumb-ass! I told you we need to cut back! I don’t care! I told you what to get! You are such a dumb-ass! I gotta go — I‘m busy!”

She hung up in disgust. “Dumb-ass,” she spat.

A few more minutes passed. My tea glass was half empty, and Mel topped it off. She set the pitcher on the counter and went to the swinging doors that led into the kitchen.

She pushed the door open and yelled, “Hey, what’s the hold-up in there! Get a move on! My little man wants his lunch!”

A muffled, but equally sharp reply came from the kitchen. Mel walked back to the counter, picked up the tea pitcher and a coffeepot, and made the rounds of her customers.

Soon afterward, someone yelled “Order up,” and Mel brought my lunch.

The meat loaf was pretty darn good. The buttered jalapeno potatoes were even better.

————–

Later, back on the road, I turned off the radio and rode across west Texas in silence. I thought about the contrast between the two women.

At that moment, if I’d had a wish, I would have returned to Weatherford, collected Amy and everything she owned, and driven her to Big Spring. I would have taken her to Mel’s café and left her there.

Mel would watch out for her, by God.