I stepped up to the counter and surveyed what they had on the menu. Behind the counter stood a short, stocky black woman that looked like she was no taller than five feet and weighed about 300 pounds. She looked like a bull dog in a skirt. She was a sight to see. It's true. She didn't look too happy to be there, standing around and looking off in the distance like she was waiting for her shift to be over. On her stained shirt was a name tag. It said, "Consuela." I thought that was funny. She didn't look Hispanic. Maybe she was Puerto Rican. I wasn't about to ask. It looked like she could rip me in half with her bare hands if she wanted to. It's true. She glared at me while I looked at the menu.
"Wha' choo want?" she asked, putting her hands on her bulldog hips.
"What's good?"
"Everything. Wha' choo want?"
"What's your specialty?"
"Specialty?" she asked, sighing like the life had been punched out of her. She became visibly irritated. "We don't got no specialty unless you think chicken is special. That's what we gots. Chicken. You want some chicken?"
"Sure. What does it come with?"
"It comes with what I give you." She slapped some chicken and rice and beans on a plate and flung it on the counter. She looked satisfied tossing my plate like that. A little smile appeared on her bulldog face. She sure was pleased with herself. "That'll be five bucks."
I gave her the money and she shoved it in the cash register. She returned to where she was standing before, looking off into the distance. I felt compelled to say something to her. I regretfully did.
"You could be a little nicer, you know? It's all about good customer service." I really believed that too. There is nothing better than good customer service. It can make someone's day. It's true. She stepped to the counter and leaned toward me. She gestured for me to come closer. I did, a little.
"Mister, if you had my job, you wouldn't be nice to nobody either. Got that?"
"OK," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Just be glad I didn't spit in yo food. Enjoy yo chicken, white boy."
And then she walked into the kitchen. Spit in my food? What a goddamn disgusting thought. It was almost enough to make me toss my lunch plate in the trash but I was getting pretty hungry. And the thought of eating the junk food crap in the convenience store made my stomach turn. I decided to take a chance and eat my chicken. We still had a couple of hours before getting to Dallas and I didn't want to starve on the way. Besides, that roasted chicken sure smelled pretty damn good. I was convinced that the hot oven would have incinerated any cooties that good ol' Consuela could I have put on it. I was sure of it.
I found an empty spot along the bar and quietly ate my food. Snaggle was nowhere to be found. He was either knee deep in a sugar buzz or taking a dump. Either way, I knew I had at least a few minutes of quiet time and I intended to enjoy it. As I ate, I had a feeling that I was being watched. You ever have that feeling? It's a really creepy feeling like the air around you stagnates, making the hairs on your neck stand up. I looked around and saw a young woman standing in front of a beverage cooler, staring at me, or at least it looked like she was staring at me. I looked behind me to see if maybe she had made eye contact with one of the Mexican guys but they were all busy finishing their meals, not paying attention to her. I looked back at her and pointed at my chest, as if asking, "Me?" She nodded and began walking toward me.
She was a sight to see. She had short, pitch black hair that looked like a tornado had styled it and goddamn piercings all over her face. She was wearing a ripped t-shirt, a skirt, and combat boots. And instead of a purse, she had a messenger bag draped over her shoulder. The closer she got to me, the more I could tell that she was rather young (maybe in her early 20s) and that her pin-cushioned face was strikingly beautiful. Any woman that felt compelled to stick jewelry in a face like that must have had some issues, major issues. It was kind of like throwing darts at the Mona Lisa. It's true. She came right up to me, standing on the other side of the bar.
"Hey," she said.
"Hi."
She stood there for a few moments, looking at my food then looking at me. She was absolutely stunning, in a sour, punk rock kind of way. She exuded strength and fragility all at once. It was strange.
"Where are you headed?" she asked, glancing at my food.
"Dallas. Why?"
"Is that good?" she asked, grabbing my fork, poking at my food, and taking a bite.
"It's good."
She took a few bites and dropped the fork. I guess she didn't agree about the food.
"I need a ride to Norman but Dallas works for me. Can I tag along?" she asked.
"Well, I don't know. I'm kind of in a hurry and I have another passenger with me."
Just then, out of nowhere, Snaggle appeared, a massive bag of Skittles in one hand and his other hand deep in his pant pocket, giving his testicles another go. That bastard was shameless. How anyone could play pocket pool in the company of strangers was beyond me? But he did it. The sour girl looked down at his hand in his pants and started giggling. She giggled like what he was doing with his filthy hand was cute. It's true.
"Hi. I'm Ryan," Snaggle said, pulling his hand from his pocket and extending it to the sour girl for a shake. She pinched his hand with the tip of her thumb and index finger, as if she was picking up a hairball or some dried disgusting thing, and she shook it daintily. The touch from her fingers turned Snaggle into a blubbering mess.
"My name is Gina. Are you riding with this guy?" she asked, pointing at me.
"Yeah, that's Simon. We're going to Dallas for a funeral. His grandma died."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, turning to me. She had a genuine tone of condolence in her voice. Too bad they didn't know my grandma was still alive and kicking, probably drinking scotch right now and smoking a goddamn cigarette. It's true.
"It's OK. Thanks though."
"I was just asking Simon for a ride. I'm trying to get to Norman, Oklahoma but Dallas is a good step for me. It gets me a little bit closer."
"Sure, you can come with us," Snaggle said, happy as can be. I couldn't fucking believe it! Who did he think he was inviting her along on MY trip? What an inconsiderate, snaggly bastard. I was beginning to regret bringing him along in the first place with his inconsiderateness and his pocket pool and his maddening trivia knowledge and his rank breath and his sugar frenzies. It was enough to drive any sane person insane. It's true.
"Wait a minute. I don't know if we have any room for another passenger," I said.
"Room?" Snaggle blurted, hemming and hawing all over the goddamn place, spittle flying from his mangled teeth. "That Cadillac has plenty of room."
"I'll help pay for gas. And all I have is my bag here," Gina said. I felt like I was being ganged up on. It was a very uncomfortable position to be in. But she gave me a sweet look and I thought maybe she'd keep Snaggle busy so he wouldn't bother me and the idea began to sink in that maybe it wouldn't be so bad having her tag along to Dallas.
"All right," I said, relenting. "But when we get to Dallas, I'll have to drop you off somewhere. I do have to go to a funeral, you know?"
"Deal," she said. "Let me wash up before we go." And off she went to the ladies' room.
I turned to Snaggle and gave him an eat shit look that would have burned a hole through a wall.
"What?" he asked, looking down and kicking his feet like he was kicking around an imaginary tin can or a soda can or some kind of can.
"Why did you invite her along without asking me first?"
"I don't know but she's hot!"
"That's beside the point."
"Who wouldn't want her to ride with us?"
"Uhhh..." I didn't know how to respond to that. I really didn't. Besides, she offered to help pay for gas and Clint the Caddy wasn't necessarily the most fuel-efficient vehicle in the whole goddamn world. It all made sense in a snaggly, idiotic kind of way. I felt I couldn't win. It's true.
"It'll be fun, Simon."
"I guess," I said, pushing
my plate of food away. "I need to go to the bathroom before we go."
"I'll be waiting in the Cadillac," he said. He skipped away, probably to pay for his pound of goddamn Skittles, and I made my way to the men's room.
Inside, the men's room smelled like bleach and turds and some kind of moldy stank that made my stomach turn. It was all I could do to keep myself from vomiting all over the goddamn place. I found any empty urinal and began to relieve myself and I thought of how I was going to have to be vigilant about the lie my road trip was based on and to keep my story straight for my two weirdo passengers. It was almost too much to take. I closed my eyes as the urine drained from my body and all I could think about was seeing my sweet children's faces and hugging them and kissing them and bringing them back to Austin. I was in a dilemma for sure now that I had a couple of knuckleheads riding along with me. For some reason, I thought that it would all work out and that everything would be fine. Snaggle was a big boy and I was certain that he would understand once everything played out the way I had hoped. Plus, I knew I would be dropping Gina off at the first convenient place. It was all going to work out, I thought to myself. It would be just fine. It's true.
I must have been in a deep place of contemplation because I didn't realize that the urinal was clogged and before I could react, the stinky toilet water was spilling out from that filthy bowl and was draining on to my pants and shoes. The cold, dirty water snapped me out of my state of contemplation and all I could say was, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
Or as my son good ol' Sammie boy would say:
Shmit.
15.
Recently, I considered changing things up for my next book and writing something completely different than I've written in the past. As I mentioned before, I thought of writing a memoir that was 100% fiction. That seemed to me to be a pretty entertaining project but I also considered writing a children's book. It's true. So, the thing is, I've read a LOT of children's books with my kids and they are all complete crap. With a few notable exceptions (they are all quite old and considered classics but I'll get to that later), every book given to my children as gifts or whatnot were terrible, absolute, abysmal hack jobs. I mean, who thinks writing a book about a mother explaining to her daughter that she is a lesbian is a great children's book? What author thinks writing about coping with "grumpiness" will inspire your kids? Reading these types of books to my own children was enough to make me want to blow up a Barnes & Noble book store with a handful of grenades and a box of TNT! It's true. Where were the Dr. Seusses of our time? Nowhere, I tell you. Dr. Seuss didn't write rhymes about why mommy and daddy got divorced or couplets about Little Johnny Smith growing prepubescent moustache hairs on his upper lip. It was all just a goddamn shame. Dr. Seuss is turning over in his grave this very instant, no doubt.
To me, Dr. Seuss wrote magical books. They were filled with immense imagination, wicked humor, fantastic artwork, and valuable lessons. You know what other book I liked? Eloise. That book not only made my kids laugh but it cracked me up as well. Little Eloise was a riot, running around the New York Plaza Hotel without any supervision whatsoever or her parents around to tell her to do her chores or worrying about school work to be done. She liked to hang around the guests of the hotel who smoked and drank too much and wise-cracked to Eloise about things they thought she wouldn't understand but that girl was a lot smarter than any of them could ever imagine. It was a brilliant children's book. Compared to the dreck in stores now, Eloise was a goddamn masterpiece. It's true. I'm still considering writing a children's book. Little Jessica and Sammie Boy would be so proud of their good ol' dad, don't you think? Anyway, it was something I was considering.
As soon as we left the monstrous gas station / restaurant combo convenience stop, I realized pretty quick that Snaggle was outmaneuvered by our new travelling companion and was given the short end of the stick in the seating situation. She single-handedly destroyed the Snagglepuss in a game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" and declared the front-passenger seat hers and banished the stinky bastard and his pound of Skittles to the back seat. It was nice having a female passenger in the front with me even though she was covered from head to toe in leather and piercings and every punk rock accessory available at the nearest outlet mall. She was like a female version of Grant the Rockstar except a lot less spastic and a lot sexier. I had considered giving her a nickname too, something like "Pin Cushion" or "Porcupine" or "Hellraiser" or "Cactus Face" or some other ridiculous name to match her otherworldly, prickly goth appearance. But after thinking about it more and more, the name Gina seemed to suit her just fine, short and sweet just like her. It's true. The only annoying thing, so far, about our new passenger was her propensity to fuck with the radio / CD player. The minute she got in the car, she was poking buttons here and pushing things there and pretty much making herself a real nuisance. Literally, after five minutes, I considered throwing her out on the side of the highway. It's true.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Trying to find something good to listen to," she said, jamming more buttons then rummaging through her backpack for something.
"What do you want to listen to?"
"Punk or hip hop or reggae or ska. Something good."
"I see. I can't help you there."
"That's obvious."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing," she said, pulling a CD from her backpack. "Here we go."
She put the CD in and some midtempo reggae music started playing. Bob Marley. I could tell. I may be a nerdy writer masquerading as a help desk tech but I know Bob Marley when I hear him. He had the voice of a goddamn angel. It's true. I could see Snaggle in the rear view mirror, bobbing his head to the music, popping Skittles into his grotesque mouth, looking out the window, quiet for once. A smile appeared on Gina's face. She seemed content.
"Simon, do you know who this is?" Snaggle asked. That was the end of the silence.
"Bob Marley."
"Did you know Bob Marley died from melanoma?" he asked, popping candy in his mouth like it was the last bag of Skittles on Earth. "He was only 36 when he died."
"I knew that," Gina said. "He was so young. Did you know he performed at a massive concert just a couple of days after being shot?"
"Yes! I did know that. And did you know..."
"All right, you two," I said, putting an end to the goddamn madness. If I hadn't of stopped it, then I would have had to listen to trivia bullshit all the way to Dallas and I wasn't going to stand for it. Listening to two idiots banter back and forth in a question and response frenzy was just too much to take. It's true. "If you're going to barrage me with trivia then you both might as well sit in the back seat together. There is plenty of room back there."
"Well, look who put on his grumpy pants today?" Gina said, punching me in the arm. She was really starting to get on my last goddamn nerves. It's true. "We're just trying to pass the time. Why don't you tell me about you guys? What do you two do for a living?"
"We're computer techs," Snaggle said, rudely interjecting from the back seat. "Oh, and Simon claims to be a writer but I've never heard of his books."
"You're a writer?" Gina asked, looking at me, surprised.
"Yes, I'm a published writer."
"How fucking cool is that?!" she said. And in an instant, she didn't seem to be such a babbling bore anymore. It's funny how telling people that I'm a writer sparks some kind of strange fascination in them, like I'm some kind of alien or something. It's true. Deep down inside, people have this weird sort of reverence for writers. It's the strangest thing. It's not like it's the most difficult thing in the world to do. You just write down a bunch of words, words, words and hope you make some semblance of sense in the end. Policeman. That's a hard job. Soldier. That's hard too. School teacher. Fuck, the hardest of them all. But a writer? Ha! She still gave me this weird look like something about me was different than five minutes before. "Did you write something I would know of?"
"My novel The Rise and Fall of a
Titan was published last year but it didn't do very well."
"But you wrote a motherfucking book. That right there is something to be proud of." She was right about that. I was very proud of that book even though it hit bookstores like a goddamn cement turd. I was kind of ashamed of its dismal sales performance but I was also proud to have published it. There was something to be said for starting and then finishing a book, a small something. "You should be proud of yourself."
"I am, I guess."
"You guess? Can I get a copy?"
"I'm sure I have a copy somewhere I can give you."
"Cool. Will you sign it for me?"
"Can I have a copy too?" Snaggle asked.
"Maybe," I said, ignoring him. "Sure, I'll sign it for you. What do you do for a living?" I asked Gina.
"Nothing now. I'm a student. I go to the University of Oklahoma in Norman. I'm studying journalism."
"So you're a writer too?" I asked.
"Yes, but not like you. Writing fiction is a whole 'nother animal compared to writing news articles. It's apples to oranges."
"Well, my book wasn't all fiction. It was based on reality."
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 12