The Nomadic life

Richard

Chapter 19

Richard

Allowing my Sicilian temper to overpower my common sense, I now live a lie every day. Ted deserves better. Fifty dollars a month, that’s all he asks me to contribute to food, rent and utilities, and for now, I can manage my responsibilities. But come December, that changes. I refuse to be a charity case. So, it looks like I’ll be living in my truck soon. I wonder if I’ll have room for a Christmas tree, I chuckle inwardly.

Humor has always been my shield, my crutch. If I couldn’t laugh at life, I would have given mine up long ago. So, I push forward, searching for work and wondering what fresh hell tomorrow will bring.

I am a survivor. Always have been. But the world runs on money, and I need cash, and I need it fast. Ted is a sweetheart, but I refuse to keep crashing on his couch without pulling my weight. My stomach growls as I drive toward Kelly Temporary Services. Maybe a temp agency is exactly what I need, someone else helping me find work for a change. The thought of a typing test makes me nervous, though. I haven’t touched a typewriter since high school.

Rumble.

The audible and physical sensations I can no longer ignore.

Well, that settles it. I need food first. Before hitting I-55 North, I pull into the Waffle House parking lot. Maybe a decent breakfast will help settle my nerves and stomach.

The place is packed.

“Hello!” the entire staff shouts in unison.

“Geez, calm down,” I mutter under my breath, taking a seat at the counter.

Before the waitress even asks, I order a coffee, extra cream. As she sets the cup in front of me, the aroma alone is enough to give me hope for the day.

“What’ll it be, hon?” she asks, notepad at the ready.

“Two eggs over easy with bacon.”

I watch the cook at work, mesmerized. Orders are called, no tickets exchanged, yet everything flows like clockwork. He places the meats for each order the three waitresses called out only moments ago, on the grill, tossing waffle batter in the irons as he places stainless-steel rings on the grill, packing them with shredded potatoes. He then shouts that the grits won’t be ready for ten minutes.

Grits. One thing I’m glad we never served at the Steak and Egg in Tupelo.

As the morning rush thins out, inspiration strikes.

“You have to eat,” my brain reminds me. “You need money. And you have the experience.”

I hesitate. They don’t use tickets here; they call orders out. What if I can’t remember them all? And the paper hats, God, I hate having to wear anything on my head.

“Suck it up, moron,” my inner voice snaps. “Do you want to be homeless again?”

And just like that, Kelly Temporary Services will not be visited by me today as I now find myself employed as a short-order cook in a greasy spoon.

As I find myself in the south Jackson area and feeling better with a job in my back pocket, I decide to visit that bookstore I stumbled upon a month ago. Still uneasy about being in this seedy store, I fidget with the eight brass tokens I just purchased. Drifting through the aisles I eavesdrop on conversations as I walk past these strange men who seem to be at ease here.

Then, a voice I recognize. It is Randy, my ex-roommate. Loud, obnoxious and impossible to ignore. I don’t want to run into him, so I duck into a booth, avoiding the ones with carved-out holes in the walls. Those things disgust me.

“Well, you can’t just stand here in the dark,” I tell myself. I slide a token into the box, and the clatter of an 8mm film reel fills the tiny booth.

Three tokens in, I hear Randy announcing to no one in particular that he’s heading back to work. Relief washes over me and I seize the opportunity to slip out, leaving the film running. Someone eagerly pushes past me into the booth.

What the hell is that assholes hurry? He could not even wait for me to get out of the way?

With Randy gone, another voice emerges over the crowd, high-pitched, with the Southern twang of a proper debutant.

I round the next corner and spot the source. A tall, heavyset man chatting with, of all people, the owner of that white Monte Carlo. I slink past, hoping to remain invisible. The last thing I need is to be recognized here.

“Not sure who he is,” the large man whispers, “but he doesn’t seem interested in anything.”

“I think he’s some country bumpkin from Rankin County who wandered in by accident,” he adds.

“No one stumbles in here by accident,” the one I know as a kleptomaniac chuckles in response, with an accent I cannot quite place, but it certainly is not from the south.

For some reason, that comment pisses me off. I decide I have had enough of this place and its judgmental customers and head for the door.

Just as I’m about to climb into my truck, a voice calls out.

“Hey, stop! I thought that was you.”

I freeze. I don’t want to turn around. I just want to leave.

“Hey, you!” the voice insists.

Alright, I guess we’re doing this.

I turn, giving a half-hearted wave.

It’s him. The older guy who owns the white car that nearly caused me to wreck my truck a few weeks ago. He’s breathless as he reaches me. He looks… different. Something’s off. Then it clicks, his mustache. It’s darker, hastily dyed and it looks like a total mess. In the dim light of that back room, it wouldn’t have mattered, but here in the sunlight, wow. His vanity is almost endearing.

“You never called.” There’s disappointment in his voice.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry,” I lie. “I’ve just been busy.” That part, at least, is true.

“Well, my offer for dinner still stands.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know when I’ll have time.”

“How about lunch? Now?”

“I just ate breakfast.”

His face falls, the lines deepening with disappointment. Guilt creeps in. He’s just being nice. I make an assumption about him because of the kind of people who frequent this place. I think he may be gay, or bi?  Maybe being friendly and expanding my social circle isn’t the worst idea. He seems harmless enough.

“Tell you what,” I say, surprising myself. “I could go for some coffee and pie at the Shoney’s down the street.” If nothing else, this will end the need for him to feel as if he owes me anything.

His eyes light up. “Great! I’ll meet you there.”

I sigh. I just let this old man guilt me into a situation that will change my life in ways I never saw coming. Some good. Some... not so much.