On Interstate 75 Sits a Diner
By Benn Jeffries
The booths are red vinyl with a faint dusting of glitter. It is summer and exposed thighs stick to the seats. Leaving customers are announced by the sound of sweaty skin peeling away from vinyl. The spilt ketchup and breakfast syrup wipes away cleanly though, and the regulars here know not to wear short shorts. A juke box sits in the corner of the diner, but the Elvis album that is playing comes from a phone behind the long bar. Bottles of syrup and cordial are lined up beside a milkshake machine and a soft drinks dispenser. A customer with a wiry mustache and a belly that stretches his wife-beater asks for more coffee. Angel gives him a practiced smile and tops up his cup.
”You new here?” the man asks.
”I been here ‘bout a month and a half,” Angel replies.
”Yeah, it been ‘bout that long since I last drove through here.”
Angel walks off between the booths, she can feel the man’s eyes on her ass as she tops up the coffee cups of the other customers. She stops by a woman with a white curly perm that makes her look like a poodle.
”Oh thank you, sweetie,” the woman says as Angel pours the steaming black brew.
”No problem. I love your hair,” Angel lies.
A bell sounds from the back and she leaves the poodle woman and pushes through the double doors to the white and silver kitchen. The chefs are speaking Spanish to each other. Sometimes it sounds to Angel like they are fighting, but they are really just excited about something. Jose taught Angel how to say you’re the best, in Spanish so when he makes her an extra pancake on a morning shift she can thank him with the phrase. Sometimes his family comes into the diner and Angel slips his kids a slice of cheesecake to share from the cabinet. They always seem to have room for cake.
”That creep hit on you?” asks Emily, the waitress who showed Angel the ropes when she started. Emily smokes a lot and looks about sixty but could be forty, no one really knows. She gets away with doing very little because she knows everything there is to know about the diner and when anybody has a question, they ask her.
”Which one?”
”The weirdo with the seedy mustache. He used to be a regular when Blondie worked here but stopped showing up as much after she moved. I reckon he was in love with her. Got a thing for little girls probably. Fucking sicko.”
Angel balances a stack of pancakes on her forearm and a breakfast quesadilla in her hand. “This whole highway moves sickos,” she says and backs out through the double doors with the plates.
”And so I said ‘fuck him, if he ain’t gonna step up then he ain’t getting none—’”
The two women stop their conversation as Angel places their plates down before them. Outside, through the large windows, Angel sees summer rain clouds gathering. The air is thick.
”Y’all got hot sauce?” asks the woman who ordered the quesadilla. She is a large woman with fingernails as long as her fingers. Angel digs into the pocket of her apron and produces a bottle of tabasco.
”Thank you, sweetie,” the woman says and turns back to her friend. “Anyway, you know for sure that motherfucker ain’t doing half those things he said he was gonna do. When was the last…”
Angel goes back into the kitchen and the double doors silence the two women.
”Angel, what do you think, huh?” asks Jake, the dishwasher. He is only fifteen but wears tight black t-shirts to show off his arms and thinks of nothing but girls.
”What do I think about what, Jake?” She is too old for him but she gets a kick out of flirting and watching his boyish excitement overflow.
”You think I should give that girl my number?”
”Which one? Table four?”
Everyone in the kitchen turns to look at table four through the two porthole windows in the double doors. At table four the poodle-looking woman is lapping up her coffee.
”Hell no. You see table nine? That fine looking Russian.”
They all looked through the windows to table nine. A straight-haired woman in her late twenties with fake lips.
”How the hell do you know she’s Russian?” asks Sam, a lanky boy who wears black nail polish and a staff shirt that shows his pasty white belly button.
”Oh she’s Russian alright. Rushing for my dick.”
The chefs both snort and say something in Spanish. Jose brandishes a spatula at Jake. Angel and Emily laugh and shake their heads.
”Honey, you got no chance,” says Sam.
David, the front of house, comes through the double doors and slumps into a metal chair. “I’m never drinking again. I swear it,” he says. “Angel you can have half my tips if you take on bathroom duty today. I swear to god I’ll vomit if I have to clean another shit off the floor.”
The sound of the Interstate reaches their ears and they all look through the portholes again to see a cowboy-looking fella walk into the diner.
”Oh shit,” says David and hurries out to greet the new customer.
”Don’t take his money Angel,” says Emily in her harsh smoker’s voice. “He’s hungover every goddamn day. He needs to learn his lesson.”
”Well, I’m not his momma. I’m taking his damn money. He can learn his lesson some other time.”
”Yes! That’s my bitch,” says Sam and high-fives Angel.
”Angel’s a hustler,” pipes in Jose. “She only speaks money.”
They all laugh and Angel rolls her eyes. “Yeah well, I’m gonna go do this thing called work y’all never seem to have heard of.” With that, she pushes through the double doors and disappears amongst the booths.
”She saves all her money too, I never seen her spend a dime,” says Jake to whoever is listening.
”She wants to go to college. That’s why,” says Emily.
”College,” echoes Sam. “Huh.”
The cowboy-looking man takes a seat across from the mustached creep. Angel stands before them both and asks the newcomer if he wants to order anything. Even sitting, the cowboy is almost eye level with Angel.
”No, just coffee will be fine,” the man says as he removes a hat stained with sweat and dirt. “What’s your name honey? I thought you ladies were meant to wear name tags.”
”It’s Angel.”
”Angel,” the man echoes and nods to himself. He mulls the name over, tasting it on his lips. Angel looks down and sees his enormous hands spread flat on the table. They are rough and his fingers are squared at the ends like metal tools. She moves her eyes across the table and sees that the man with the mustache is sweating. A dark V has formed around the collar of his singlet. He seems to have shrunken before the Cowboy.
”Angel you got fresh coffee? I only want it if it’s hot and fresh.”
”We got fresh coffee alright,” she says and walks away to fetch a pot from the back.
The doors swing closed behind her and Emily eyes Angel with her arms folded across her chest. Her jaw is moving rhythmically, the faint sound of gum between teeth just audible.
”Who’s the cowboy?” Emily asks.
”Don’t know, don’t care.”
”Kinda handsome don’t you think?”
Angel looks out through the porthole. The Cowboy is old enough to be her father, but there is something pleasant about his worn features and sense of calm. A cool confidence you only get from being used to winning something. Whatever it was he did, you knew he was good at it.
”You got no shot,” says Jake from his sink full of bubbles.
”You speak to your mother with that trap?” barks Emily.
Angel laughs at them both, then looks back out the porthole again at the two men. The Cowboy is talking, his lips moving in a slow way that matches his drawl. His beady, black eyes watch the mustached man with something like loathing.
”We got fresh coffee?” Angel asks, looking away from the window.
“Be done in a second,” Emily says, gesturing to the machine. She pulls a cigarette from her apron pocket and walks to the fire door that opens out into the lot. She props it open with an extinguisher and lights her cigarette, blowing the smoke outside. Angel slides up next to her and offers her lips. Emily gives her a drag.
It has started to rain outside. The daily summer storm. That smell of warm soil turning damp rises from the earth. The coffee machine clicks to announce it has finished its task. Angel picks up the jug and pushes through the double doors. Sam is over at table five collecting dirty plates. A receipt and cash tip now sit on the table where the poodle-looking woman had sat. Three dollars. Cheap bitch, Angel thinks and drops it into her apron pocket.
”Why don’t you put your hands like this, John,” the Cowboy is saying just as Angel arrives at their booth. She fills up the Cowboy’s cup with the steaming hot liquid and the mustached man spreads his hands on the table like the Cowboy’s.
”Good, now keep them just like that John. That’s a good man.” Then Cowboy takes his cup of coffee and pours the boiling liquid over John’s hands. Angel takes a step back and bumps into the booth behind her. John winces from the pain but he keeps his hands glued to the table. His jaw locks and sweat covers his forehead.
”Angel would you be a doll and get us some napkins,” the Cowboy says calmly. “I spilt a bit of my coffee.”
For a moment, Angel is frozen and then her mind comes back to her and she moves between the booths and pushes her way through the double doors. Emily is sucking the last drag from her cigarette. She looks over at Angel and sees her face has gone pale.
”Call the police,” Angel says as she gathers a handful of napkins. Emily nods and pulls her phone from her pocket. The chefs follow Angel to the double doors but they stop before passing through them. Angel carries on, moving through the booths towards the two men. The Cowboy has stood up from his seat. He has his hands on either side of his waist, his enormous thumbs tucked into his belt. John is shaking, whimpering.
”Please,” he stutters.
Angel stops still in the aisle, the pile of napkins in her hand. Elvis sings a slow song, a song a band might play at the end of the night for a room full of lovers. The Cowboy looks over at Angel and smiles a handsome smile. Then he reaches down to retrieve his hat from the table and places it on his head, adjusting it so it sits just right.
”It’s raining outside, John, think about that for a second.”
The Cowboy draws a gun from the back of his belt. No one screams or moves. All the customers are frozen. Angel feels her breath catch in her throat. The cowboy puts the gun to John’s head and shoots him. John is still. The ceiling fans whirl.