by JB Salsbury
Smacked right in the middle of town, the 87 Café isn’t your typical city diner. Trading in chrome and red pleather seating for wood and faux cowhide, old horseshoes nailed to the wall for decoration, and a signed head shot of Garth Brooks displayed proudly at the entrance. With a daily special of BBQ whatever, the place is a cowboy’s paradise. I’ve barely made it through the front door and my mouth is watering from the scent of smoked meat and sweet sauce, and it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.
“Hey, Dorothy— Oh!”
Her arms wrap around me in a tight hug and her plump little body seems to have filled out a little more since I last saw her. She pulls back and studies my face, her smile turning sad and her dusty brown eyes shiny. “You look so much like your momma.” She pulls me back in with such force it momentarily knocks the air from my lungs.
“Good to see you too.” I pat her back, hoping she gets the hint to release me.
After a few seconds, she does. “Come on.” She jerks her head to the counter that’s sprinkled with a few people. I feel their eyes on me, but I keep mine on Dorothy as I drop down on a stool at the far end. She pours me a cup of coffee without asking. “What brings you to town?” She props a hip on the counter. “And what in God’s name are you wearing?”
I rip open a few sugar packets, grinning. “It’s Dolce and Gabbana.” Or Dolce Gambino, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Dole-say what?” Her gaze roams my midnight-blue silk blouse. Trevor always loved this top. Said on-screen it really brought out my eyes. “Nash see you in that getup?”
“I’m a flatlander now, Dorothy.” I busy myself by stirring my coffee, a little nervous to acknowledge the flash of disappointment in the woman’s eyes. “Got a college degree, a real job…er had a real job.”
Her drawn-on brows drop low over her eyes and she leans in. “Heard ’bout that. Shame they let you go.”
Of course she did—the woman smells gossip like a wine taster does wine, shoving her nose right in it. Mmm…smells fresh with an aroma of assumptions and hints of half-truths, but it’ll make a good story, so let’s fill up the glasses and share.
I take a sip of coffee and straighten my shoulders. “Thanks, it was p-probably time to m-move on anyway. Figure I’d come home for a bit, um…r-regroup.” I rein in my stutter. No use giving her the real story littered with pathetic weakness I don’t need spread around town.
Her face breaks into a smile so big it deepens all her wrinkles. “That’s wonderful. I know your daddy must miss you. Be nice to have y’all together working the family business.”
I clear my throat and shake my head. “I don’t think Jennings is the best place for me.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s the perfect place for you; it has your name all over it. Literally.” She laughs and nods to an older man a few stools down when he flags her for a coffee refill. She fills his cup and returns to me, still grinning.
“I was hoping to, ya know, expand my résumé.”
She uses the pencil stabbed behind her ear to scratch her scalp, which is hidden beneath a helmet of graying brown hair. “Expand your…résumé?”
“Yeah, I thought you’d probably know if anyone in town is hiring.”
She turns and grabs a few plates heaping with eggs and a variety of breakfast meat, then drops them to a man with his nose buried in a newspaper and the man closest to me.
“I don’t understand.”
She wouldn’t. I shrug. “Are Deirdre and Sam still in town?” I cringe at her sharp look. I haven’t spoken to my two childhood best friends since before I left. I shouldn’t be surprised that Dorothy knows that. “College was busy and I… I just lost touch, ya know?”
She doesn’t respond to my lame excuse, her silence speaking volumes of displeasure, then turns to a steaming bowl the cook just put up in the window and places it in front of me.
“Deirdre moved to the valley…”
Oatmeal with a scoop of brown sugar, raisins, and a side of cream. She remembered.
“Thank you.”
“…got married and is pregnant with her second kid.”
I blink, shocked. “Wow, didn’t realize she was in a such a hurry.”
“How long has it been since you were last here?” She’s asking, but she knows. She just wants to hear me say it.
“Five years.”
She lifts a brow. “What else would she do?”
My inner feminist clenches her fists. “Um… I don’t know, go to college.”
“Not everyone is itchin’ to run away from their past, Shy.”
My spoon drops hard against the bowl of oatmeal. “That’s not what I’ve been d-d-doing.” I slam my mouth shut to avoid spewing the lies that threaten to burst free.
Her eyes go soft and she nods. “No one would blame you if you were. God knows after your mom—”
“What about Sam?”
She allows my subject change and blows out a long breath. “Sam’s been working at Pistol Pete’s. Still single, although she’s stickin’ like glue to Dustin Miller…” Her mouth twists as if she just sucked on a lemon. “If you know what I mean.”
“He’s like Payson royalty. I’m not surprised.”
Dustin’s family owns the feed shop here in town. We dated in high school and I had a feeling he and Sam were into each other. I wonder if they even waited for my back tires to cross the county line before hooking up.
“He’s doing well.” She makes a clicking sound with her mouth. “Got promoted after his grandfather passed away two summers ago.”
“Impressive.” Born into a family business and taking over the reins. Takes absolutely zero skill or motivation. And yet I’m the loser for leaving town to get an education. “I need to get ahold of Sam.”
“She works the early shift during the week. They open at eight in the morning, so you should be able to find her over there, although…not sure why you’d bother looking for a job when you got familial ties to the most successful business in town, but that ain’t my concern.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Everything in this town is her concern.
I spoon a few bites of warm oatmeal into my mouth, and the creamy sweetness reminds me of my childhood, coming here on Sundays with my family. I sink into the memory and can almost smell my momma’s lavender-scented lotion.
Dorothy and I small talk about the past while I eat enough oatmeal to be polite, even though memories of my mom fill my stomach. I change the subject to the Payson job market. It seems my options for work are the local bar or mucking stalls at the local ranches. I consider Pistol Pete’s. It’s a bar, yeah, but it also hosts live bands that come up from Phoenix to play on the weekends and draws a pretty good crowd. Not the best of opportunities, but I need to keep my eyes on the goal. Save up enough money to move to the valley, get myself set up in an apartment with enough cash to live on while I beg my way back into broadcasting.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and practically sends me out of my seat. I fish it out and look to see Trevor’s name on the caller ID.
“Shit.” I hit ACCEPT and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, sorry I didn’t call you last night. I don’t get service out at my dad’s place.”
“Hey, honey. No biggie. Figured you’d be getting all caught up with the local hillbillies.” He chuckles. “What did you guys do last night? Cow tipping?”
What a dick. I mean, I make fun of Payson people, but I’m allowed to. They’re my people.
“Nah, just…” I dip my head and spot Dorothy across the diner, far enough away that she can’t hear me. “Got in a fight with my dad—”
“Did you hear about the redneck who got married?”
“What?”
“Yeah, he took his wife to the honeymoon suite, found out she was a virgin, so he kicked her out and had the wedding annulled.”
“Trevor—”
“Said, ‘If you’re not good enough for your own family, you’re not good enough for me.’” He cackles obnoxiously.
I pull the phone away from my ear. “Funny.”
“Right?” He sniffs and I’d swear he was wiping tears from his eyes. “You figure out when you’re coming back?”
“The station gonna offer me my job back?” Not that it paid that much, but that wasn’t the point. It was the opportunity to make a name for myself, to move on to a bigger and better market.
“Not likely. But still, I miss you. I mean, everyone at the station is giving me the cold shoulder since you left, like I had a say in your being let go, ya know?”
Typical Trevor only cares about how the end of my career affects him.
The bell over the door rings and there’s movement to my right as a man takes the stool next to me. His baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes, but he tilts his head and peeks in my direction. He’s young, my age, but I don’t recognize him as a local. I smile politely, then frown when he quickly turns away from me. My gaze slides down his arms to see his knuckles are pale from the grip he has on a thermos.
“Trevor, um…” I dip my chin, feeling uncomfortable with the present company and not wanting to be overheard. “I should go.”
“The usual?” Dorothy calls to the man while making her way toward him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls the lid off the thermos and places it on the counter.
“You sure you don’t want something to eat?” She grins and pours his coffee.
“No, thank you,” he mumbles.
His voice is deep, making him sound manlier than his baseball hat and shy demeanor imply.
Dorothy sighs and returns her coffeepot to its warmer, then turns with her hands propped on her hips. “Boy, you never eat. What would your momma say about you skipping a healthy breakfast?”
His frame locks. “I…I don’t have a momma—” The thermos drops to the floor between us, spilling its heated contents all the way down. We both jump up at the same time and I swoop down to grab the thermos, colliding with the guy’s shoulder.
He jerks away, as if my touch burned like the coffee would. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“No problem.” I put the rustic metal container back on the tabletop and dry my hand on a napkin.
Dorothy scurries around the counter with a handful of towels. “Don’t worry about this. Sometimes I think if we never spilled anything on the floor it’d never get cleaned.”
The guy grabs the towels and bends to wipe up the mess. “I got it.” He cleans the spilled liquid with a speediness I’ve never seen, as if he can’t finish fast enough.
Dorothy refills his thermos, screws the top on, and wipes it down. She looks at him, her lips turned downward. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know.”
He nods and slides a few dollars onto the counter, but I don’t miss how his eyes dart to mine before he quickly walks away.
He lost his mom too.
It’s then I realize I still have my phone in my hand. I press it to my ear.
“…so the redneck said, ‘Why would I do your cousin when I got my own?’”
“Trevor, listen, I’m sorry to cut you off, but I have to go.”
“If you get bored, call me. And really, honey, come on down for a visit. I miss you and—”
“Yeah, sure, sounds good.” I end the call and watch the guy who spilled his coffee move across the parking lot to a faded blue truck, the tires and wheel wells coated in dried mud. There’s an invisible string that connects us, a kinship in the pain of losing a parent, and although I don’t even know the guy’s name, he feels like a friend.
“Can I grab you a refill?”
I turn to find Dorothy smiling with her hot pot of coffee in hand.
“No, I’m good.” I pull my wallet from my fake Versace purse.
She places her hand over mine. “Don’t even think about it. Breakfast is on me.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
She nods and smiles sweetly. “I know, but I want to.”
I hide a few bucks under my bowl when she’s not looking. “Thank you.”
She comes around and pulls me in for another hug. “Don’t be a stranger, okay, Shy?”
I nod into her shoulder, feeling a little awkward. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve been hugged like this. It feels maternal and makes my chest ache.
Just another reason why I hate this town.
Everyone here makes me miss my mom.
* * *
“Well I’ll be dipped in dog shit and crowned prom queen.” Sam stares at me, her arms crossed under her chest, plumping her breasts up to her neck and accentuating her already extreme cleavage. Judging by the scowl twisting her pretty face, I wonder if I should’ve taken a day to think about how I’d approach my old friend rather than coming directly from the diner. It’s pretty obvious she’s not happy to see me.
Her heavily lined and painted eyes roam the length of my body and her thick lips purse with disgust. “What in the hell happened to you?”
Note to self: Dig out some old jeans and flannels from my closet and pray they still fit.
“Good to see you, Sam.” We give each other a quick hug that lacks the warmth of friendship.
Her tiny cutoff denim shorts and cowboy boots make her look like every dime store cowboy’s wet dream. She doesn’t look to have changed much since high school except for maybe a little sluttier, which is saying something since she already took the prize for most likely to end up pregnant at eighteen.
“You look good.”
She waves me off. “This place makes me dress like a whore for my shifts. If I were home, my shorts would be, like, a half inch longer.” She winks. “You in town for the weekend visiting the boys?”
“Eh…I mean, yes and no. I’ll be staying for a while.”
She tilts her head, the mahogany corkscrew curl of one of her pigtails dipping down between her breasts. “No kidding, you’re back?”
“It’s temporary. But um…” I swing my gaze around the dark bar, the stench of booze-stained wood and dry roasted peanuts competing with Sam’s pungent perfume. “I could use a job.”
Her eyebrows pop. “Here?”
“What can I say? I’m desperate.”
She chuckles low and throaty, like maybe those years of sneaking off to smoke cigarettes when we were sixteen became more of a habit for her. “City life made you bitchy.”
I can’t help but grin. “Huh, and here I thought I was just being direct.”
She ties on a short apron and shakes her head. “I’ll talk to Loreen and see what she says. We might be able to use you for backup on the weekends, but during the week we’re already fighting for hours.”
Shit. A few weekends here and there, it’ll take me twenty years to save enough money to leave town. I drop my chin and ignore the tiny voice that whispers I’ll end up at Jennings eventually.
“Hey, Sam?” I shift on my ballet flats, feeling the mud between my toes from the mix of dry earth and sweat. I really need to find some more appropriate clothes. “We should grab a drink sometime. I need to get caught up on what’s been going on the last five years.”
“Ha!” Her once-cocky expression turns almost sad. “Like you care.” She shoves past me and walks away.
I don’t really care, but I miss my friend. Hell, she’s the only real friend I’ve ever had. “Sam.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
“Look…I’m sorry, okay? I…” Probably should’ve called or tried to reconnect. I don’t blame her for blowing me off. “I am a bitch.”
“I get off at four-thirty.” And with that she disappears into the back.
Great. An awkward drink with an old friend who practically hates me. This should be fun.
Before heading back to my dad’s house, I swing by the bank and withdraw the last of my money. It’s not much, and I’ll be lucky if it’ll get me through the next week even with living at home. I’m almost out of gas, have no job, and my dad’s just waiting for me to come back begging.
Six
S
hyann
It’s almost four-thirty when I pull into the single paved parking lot outside Pistol Pete’s. After a quick pass through the tiny ten-car lot up front, I hit the dirt lot that’s used for overflow.
Pretty busy for a Thursday. Must be the happy hour crowd, or it could be the larger part of the labor community that can’t end the workday without a cold beer.
I find a spot at the far end and I’m grateful for the old cowboy boots I found in the back of my closet. They’re a half-size too small, but the black leather is so worn and soft, slipping them on felt like coming home. But this time in a good way.
I check my face in the rearview mirror. Wanting to look somewhere between trying and not giving a shit, I’d put on a light layer of makeup, straight ironed the fuzz of humidity from my hair, and threw on a kickass pair of skinny jeans, pairing it with a tank top and an old flannel.
Just enough to look like the old me but with a big-city-girl flare.
The sun dips below the pine trees enough that although it’s still light, it’s muted and comfortable with a soft breeze that reminds me fall is on its way. A song about a lost lover and a pickup truck filters through the big barn doors as I kick up dirt through the lot. I push through the double doors and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Voices at all levels, from murmurs to obnoxious yelling, round out the audio-intrusion and the heavy scent of booze and dirty boots mix in a way only a country bar can.
I scan the room without lingering too long on faces, and don’t see Sam, so I take seat at the bar.
A woman with unnaturally red hair that’s shaved in a buzz cut on one side tosses a cocktail napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be.”
I lean in. “I’m looking for Sam. She still here?”
Her eyes narrow and she turns to the guy beside her who just showed up with two six-packs of Heineken under each arm. “Monty, you seen Sam?”