Running on Empty

by Don Aker

  “Sweet mother of God,” muttered Pete behind them. “Was that stuff even physics?”

  Ethan turned, grinning. Given Pete’s problems with math, everyone had been surprised when he’d signed up for Beaker’s course that semester. In Pete’s favour, he was great at the hands-on stuff, which made the labs easier for him than for some of the other students in their section, but tests and quizzes threw him—which effectively made Beaker his nemesis.

  “You figure the guy lies awake all night dreaming up those questions?” asked Pete. “That vector crap, for instance. What the hell—”

  “Hi, Mr. Becker,” said Allie loudly.

  Pete and Ethan turned to see the physics teacher leaving the lab with a stack of papers under his arm. “Hi, people,” he said. “Can’t wait to mark these tonight.” He pointed at his armload.

  “Knock yourself out,” said Pete, and Ethan could hear the literal undercurrent in his friend’s voice.

  Apparently, so could the teacher. “I’m especially looking forward to yours, Pete,” Mr. Becker said. “Your approaches to the problems are always so—” He paused. “—creative.” He flashed Pete a big smile before continuing down the hallway.

  Pete looked as though he wanted to flash the teacher something in return, and Ethan snorted.

  “Come on, guys,” said Allie, “let’s go. I’m starving.”

  Earlier that morning, they’d agreed to a post-test lunch celebration at Perk Up Your Day, a coffee shop a couple blocks from the school. Not only did it serve slab-sized brownies, they were curious to see how much damage had been done there the day before. A video had gone viral overnight, and Ethan had watched it again and again, amazed by what a customer’s cellphone had captured: a deer crashing through the coffee shop’s plate glass window and stumbling around inside, disoriented, before leaping back out. No one knew how the deer had gotten so far downtown, but fear had clearly sent it scrambling for shelter and, seeing its reflection in the glass, the creature probably thought it was running toward another deer. Fortunately, its wounds turned out to be mostly superficial. Halifax police tranquilized it and released it far from the city.

  A few minutes later, Ethan and his friends found themselves standing in a long line of other customers who’d come to check out the mess. There wasn’t much to see. A new window had already been installed, and a guy was painting the coffee shop’s name and logo on its centre. The only evidence of the deer was some deep gouges on the shop’s tiled floor, probably made by its sharp hoofs.

  After the trio had gotten their orders and grabbed a table near the window, Ethan nodded toward the buxom redhead working behind the counter. “Anyone notice her tips?” he asked.

  “Ethan!” said Allie, feigning a punch to his arm.

  “Tips! I said tips!” laughed Ethan. He pointed toward the glass jar on the counter by the cash register. “She’s doing an okay job filling the orders, but you wouldn’t know it from the money in her jar.”

  “You tipped her, right?” asked Allie.

  He nodded. “I never thought much about it before, but now it’s a whole other story.”

  “Your tips getting any better?” Pete asked.

  Allie, who’d heard all this before, left to use the washroom while Ethan told Pete some of his latest experiences. “They’re getting a little better,” he said. “There are still assholes who don’t leave anything, though.”

  “That’s harsh,” his buddy commiserated. “How long do you think you’ll stay there?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Not sure. I’m hoping to use the experience to get a job somewhere more upscale.”

  Pete looked at him, his expression unreadable.

  “What?” asked Ethan.

  “I never pegged you for someone who’d be waiting tables. I’m seeing a whole new side of you.”

  Ethan suddenly felt defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hey, man, that wasn’t a criticism—” Pete began, but then Allie returned to the table.

  “Did you tell him about Boots?” she asked Ethan.

  “Boots?” said Pete.

  “A guy who comes into the diner every once in a while,” said Ethan. He told Pete what Lil had said about the little man, finishing with the part about the lottery tickets. “Crazy, huh?”

  Pete shrugged. “I think the old guy sounds kinda cool.”

  “That’s what I said,” agreed Allie.

  “He leave you a ticket?” Pete asked.

  Ethan nodded. “One. Didn’t win anything.”

  “Like that’s a shock,” Pete commented dryly. He drained the last of his coffee and set his cup on the table. “My old man’s been playing the same 6/49 numbers since before I was born and never won more than a few bucks and some free plays. Even somebody as bad at math as me knows a losing game when he sees one.”

  Ethan laughed, but Allie was strangely silent, and their conversation moved on to other things.

  “You finished with these?”

  The three turned to look up at the redhead standing beside them and pointing toward their empty cups and plates. From this angle, her ample breasts were even more spectacular.

  “Yeah, we’re done,” said Pete. “Thanks.”

  The redhead leaned over the table collecting their dishes, her upper body inches from his buddy’s face, and Ethan looked forward to the comment Allie would no doubt make later about their friend ogling those impressive boobs. But Pete seemed to look right through her as if she wasn’t even there before turning to Allie and chatting about the physics test again.

  Ethan’s eyes widened. Son of a bitch! Before this moment, he’d never suspected a thing. He probably should have, he supposed, since Pete hadn’t dated a girl for months, and never longer than a couple weeks. Should I tell him that I know? he wondered as the three got up to leave. Or do I just wait for him to tell me himself? The idea of a Palmer asking someone to open up about his personal feelings almost made him laugh, but Ethan wondered if Pete would ever bring it up on his own. After all, they’d known each other for years. If you couldn’t tell your best friend you were gay, who could you tell?

  Beyond his immediate surprise, Ethan really didn’t know what to make of his discovery. He felt detached from it somehow, like his brain hadn’t processed it yet. He couldn’t picture Pete with another guy. Not that he wanted to. Christ!

  But why hadn’t Pete told him? They’d always shared everything, hadn’t they? Even the stupid stuff, like all the shit with Ethan’s dad. He couldn’t imagine not having his buddy to talk to each time his old man pissed him off. Didn’t want to imagine it. Pete could always cheer him up, could make him laugh no matter how bad he felt.

  And suddenly Ethan thought about someone else who could make him laugh—Seth, with his jokes about faggots. And hadn’t Ethan told a few of those over the years? More than a few. He couldn’t remember Pete ever telling fag jokes, but then Pete never made fun of anyone, queer or straight. Were those jokes the reason he’d never told Ethan he was gay? Was he afraid their friendship would be over? That was something else Ethan couldn’t imagine. As hard as it might be to accept that his buddy was a homo, it’d be a hell of a lot harder to lose his best friend.

  As he followed Allie and Pete toward the exit, his thoughts turned to Ike. The cook had obviously gone through his own coming-out process—a guy didn’t tattoo a man’s name in a heart on his neck without making it obvious to everyone—so wouldn’t he have some advice to offer a teenager who was still in the closet? By the time they reached the street and were heading toward their afternoon classes, Ethan had almost convinced himself that the next time he worked at The Chow Down, he should just come right out and ask Ike how he got the courage to tell people he played for the other team.

  But then common sense returned, along with his memory of Ike’s face as he’d snarled, “Wha’choo lookin’ at, dipshit?”

  Yeah, he’d wait for Pete to bring it up on his own.

  Chapter 13

  “You born stupid
or do you hafta work at it?”

  His face on fire, Ethan gritted his teeth as he held out the plate, the potatoes with the Roast Turkey Special silently mocking him. “Look, I forgot to ask, okay? He wanted fries instead of mashed. Sorry.”

  Judging from Ike’s reaction, sorry didn’t cut it. The cook snatched the plate from him, scraped the potatoes into the garburator, and dumped a serving of fries between the turkey and the cranberries while behind him Rake examined the ceiling. “Try not to drop it!” Ike growled, shoving the plate into Ethan’s hands.

  Ethan fumed as he returned to the dining area. Business was slow, probably because it was Hallowe’en. Even the university students who were always looking for cheap food had stayed away. With just two customers there, at different booths, Lil had taken a half-hour off to run some errands, and the only sound in the diner was the scrape of cheap cutlery on even cheaper plates. There was no way the customers hadn’t heard Ethan getting ripped a new one in the kitchen, and the grins on both their faces when he came out confirmed it.

  “Sorry again for the mix-up,” he said as he set the plate in front of the customer who’d asked for the fries. It was the long-haired guy with the tattooed arms and eyes that seemed to bore holes through you. He looked to be in his thirties, which was unusual. Except for university students, most of the people who came to The Chow Down alone were older types, many of them senior citizens on fixed incomes. Guys in their thirties who ate there usually dragged a pack of bickering kids along with them.

  “No problem,” the guy said, pulling a well-chewed toothpick from the corner of his mouth and laying it on the table. He nodded toward the kitchen. “Ike’s still Mr. Congeniality, huh?” He ran his hands through his black hair, pulling it behind his ears, and the cuffs of his leather jacket slid back to reveal his forearms. The ink encircling his arms was intricately patterned, and Ethan thought again of snakeskin.

  “You know Ike?” asked Ethan. He’d only made six bucks in tips so far that afternoon, and he was hoping some conversation might translate into cash later.

  The guy grinned—more a smirk than a smile, Ethan thought—and said, “Yeah, me ‘n’ Ike go way back.” He reached for the ketchup bottle and slathered the red sauce on his fries.

  Ethan wondered if the guy was just bullshitting him. Ike had to be a lot older than him. “Way back?”

  “Far enough,” the guy said.

  “How’d you two meet?”

  The guy forked two of the fries into his mouth, then spoke around the gooey mass as he pointed the fork at Ethan. “You ask a lot ‘a questions.”

  Ethan felt himself flush. “Sorry. It’s just hard to imagine Ike with a life outside that kitchen.”

  “Oh, he’s got a life all right.”

  The comment hung in the air making Ethan feel weird. Was that a remark about the cook’s gay life? “If there’s anything else I can get you, just let me know, okay?” he said, moving off to refill salt and pepper shakers.

  Later, coming out of the kitchen, Ethan was annoyed to see the guy had left without paying, and he bit back a curse at the thought of having to cover the loss out of his own pocket, especially on such a slow night. When he cleaned off the guy’s table, though, he found a ten-dollar bill under his napkin in addition to the money for the meal. It was the biggest tip he’d gotten from a single customer so far, and he suddenly felt like he’d reached a turning point—maybe the time had finally come for him to start applying at better restaurants, like he’d told Pete a few days ago. Of course, he grinned to himself, even Kenny’s Café would be more upscale than The Chow Down.

  He thought again about the guy’s arms, wondering if that was his connection with Ike—buddies who got their ink at the same shop. He began wiping off the table and idly wondered what it was like to be permanently marked in such an obvious way. Seth had a tat on his right shoulder, a Harley-Davidson logo that bled into a burst of flames, and he was considering adding an image of his dream machine, a Harley FXSTSB Bad Boy, to his left shoulder. Seth had tried to convince Ethan many times to get a tattoo of his own, but Ethan had seen enough tats at the pool to realize very few looked good for the long term. He did a flash-forward in his head and imagined the ten-buck tipper fifty years from now in a seniors’ home, those inked arms like ruined sticks dangling from a wheelchair. He shuddered.

  “Someone walk over your grave?” asked Lil, back from her errands and coming through the batwing doors carrying a large package of paper napkins. She grinned. “A little Hallowe’en humour, honey.”

  Ethan grinned back at her. “You ever see a guy with sleeve tats come in here?” he asked. “In his thirties maybe?”

  “Sleeve tats?” she asked, picking up the napkin dispenser on the table next to his.

  “Tattoos that cover the whole arm. This guy had full sleeves on both.”

  “Long black hair?”

  He nodded.

  She looked down at the metal dispenser in her hand and pressed a thick wad of fresh napkins into it. “Link Hornsby. Comes in every once in a while.”

  Ethan thought he detected something in her voice, an undertone he hadn’t heard before. He showed her the ten-dollar bill. “Good tipper.”

  “Mm,” she said. She put the dispenser back on the table and moved on to the next one, taking the large package of paper napkins with her. She separated a wrist-thick bundle from it, then hesitated as if unsure what to do next.

  “What’s up?” he asked, shoving the tip into his pocket.

  She turned to him. “This is none ‘a my business,” she began, then stopped.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “My parents always told me if you can’t say somethin’ good about a person, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

  “Okay,” said Ethan, intrigued. “You gotta give me more than that, Lil.”

  The waitress turned to the single remaining customer sitting on the other side of the diner. “You okay, Benny? Need anything else?”

  Benny, a tall man about fifty with stooped shoulders, looked up from his Bacon Burger Deluxe. “Maybe some more water when you get a chance, Lil. No rush.”

  Lil walked to the sideboard next to the batwing doors and grabbed a pitcher of ice water, then carried it to the man’s table and topped up his glass. The clink-slosh of water and ice cubes seemed louder than usual.

  Ethan moved toward the sideboard and waited for her to return with the pitcher.

  “You need anythin’ else, sweetie,” Lil told Benny, “you just sing out, okay?”

  “Thanks, Lil,” the man said.

  The waitress didn’t speak to Ethan right away, busying herself first wiping the sides of the pitcher with paper towels. Then, lowering her voice, she said, “I’m not one for givin’ advice. Woman my age waitin’ tables in a place like this probably ain’t the best person to be tellin’ somebody else how to live their lives.”

  Her comment made Ethan think how different she was from his father, who could definitely learn a thing or two from Lil about offering advice. Jack Palmer subscribed to the Give It Whether They Want It Or Not approach, followed closely by the Repeat Often methodology, although lately he had been too busy with gearing up the campaign machine to harass his son.

  “You aren’t telling me anything, Lil,” he said. “I’m asking.”

  Her next comment came in a muted rush. “I wouldn’t be too impressed by anythin’ Link Hornsby does.”

  Ethan raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “Just rumours. Don’t know if any of ‘em hold water, but I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you.”

  “He left me a tip, Lil. He didn’t ask me out.”

  She shrugged again. “I’m just sayin’, okay?”

  “Okay.” He glanced at his watch and was relieved to see his shift was just about over. “Anything else you need me to do before I go?”

  “Nah, it’s dead tonight.” More Hallowe’en humour, and they grinned at each other. “I got it covered,” she said
. “You take off.”

  “Thanks.” He went to the register and began cashing out. When he’d finished, he retrieved his jacket from the kitchen—and was floored when Ike actually grunted a goodbye—then went back to the dining room. “See you Friday, okay?”

  “You bet,” she said, refilling more napkin dispensers.

  Outside, the street lights were beginning to wink on, their pink glows easing into white, and the trees around them cast weird early-evening shadows on the pavement. Seeing the lacey patterns of bare branches beneath his feet as he walked to his bus stop, Ethan thought again about the guy with the freaky tattoos. Link Hornsby.

  I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you.

  No problem. Ethan wasn’t exactly eager to strike up a friendship with someone whose skin made his own crawl. But he couldn’t help wondering about the connection between Hornsby and Ike Turner. Former boyfriends maybe? The sudden thought of the surly cook enjoying a passionate moment with anyone—man or woman—made him laugh aloud, drawing quizzical looks from a couple walking past him.

  But he was still thinking about the two as he boarded his bus a few minutes later. And wondering whether that person named Mike knew the guy with the sleeve tattoos.

  Chapter 14

  “Here!” Ethan thrust the money into his father’s hand. “Satisfied?”

  Jack Palmer’s fingers closed around the wad of bills. “This was your doing, Ethan, not mine,” he said as he looked up from his desk in the study, another Jackson Browne song playing through hidden speakers. Ethan recognized the track as “Running on Empty,” one of his old man’s favourites, and felt a fresh flash of annoyance; that title summed up his money situation perfectly now. His father’s voice softened. “Now that you’re all paid up, I hope we can finally put this behind us. What do you say?”

  Ethan glared at him. “If you’re looking for another apology—”

  His father shook his head. “Over and done with. Time to move on.”

  Over and done with, thought Ethan. For you, maybe. After working all those gruelling shifts at The Chow Down, he still had no car and, as of ten seconds ago, had no cash again either. Hard to move on when I don’t have wheels to move on with. But he kept his mouth shut. What was the point, anyway?