Roadhouse Reds: Chapter 1

 

Sunbeams made the rich mahogany tones of the roadhouse seem just a little bit brighter; the light filling in the spaces between the people jammed into the crowded room. Laughter and conversation nearly drowned out the sounds of sizzling meat and the undertones of southern rock on the jukebox. Kids played on video game machines in the corners, shouting and groaning as they won and lost, hands slapping buttons and death grips on the joysticks, eyes fixed to the blinking blips upon the screen.  Orders ready for their intended tables were announced with the loud ding of an old metal bell and the bullish bellow of the cook hollering out “Order up!” It was enough to make folks wonder why he kept the damn bell around in the first place.

Bodies shifted positions on cracked leather seats, impatiently waiting for meals and refills, checks and change. Fingertips drumming on tabletops added to the rhythm of the room; a whirlwind of mismatched sound; lives briefly intermingled then drifting apart.

 

The older of the two waitresses, a large bellied woman whose smudged name tag read “Pat,” loomed impatiently beside a table, tapping the chewed end of her black ink pen in a rhythmic beat against her sweat dotted notepad.  She stood so close to the table behind her that the patrons there couldn't help but get a whiff of her grease and body odor stench every time she moved.  "Look are you gonna order or what?"

 

"We'd umm, like two steak specials with salads, lite ranch dressing, wheat rolls, and corn on the cobb,” the timid woman requested.

 

"What, he can't order for himself?" Pat asked with a raised eyebrow and a sneer.

 

The mousy woman worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment, her fingers rubbing the well-worn tabletop as she fumbled with her words. "We'll he's watching his cholesterol you see and. . . ”

 

Pat cut her off with a growl and a wave of her pen, "And we ain't got no wheat rolls, only white. No lite ranch either, this ain't the Sizzler, ain't Burger King either. Now how would you like those steaks?"

 

"Well. . .well done," the now startled woman stammered. Her eyes spoke volumes of the shock she was feeling, hands twisting her napkin into a wadded mess in her lap as she tried to meet the waitress’s eyes and failed.

 

"Sir, how would you like your steak?" Pat asked, giving the man some semblance of a smile. She had a nice smile, white even teeth; they were the only thing neat about her appearance.

 

The man seemed to sit up just a little bit taller, his slumped shoulders straightening, his unfocused eyes clearing as he gave her a small smile back, "Medium-rare.”

 

A quick peek at his wife’s frowning face wiped the small smile from the man’s lips and he went back to staring out the window while his wife continued to mutilate her napkin.

 

Pat just snorted, her eyes narrowing as she looked between the two, her face the picture of disgust as she focused on the wife.  "I'll be back with your drinks."

 

With heavy footsteps Pat marched away, ample hips swinging to knock into a table and spill a bit of a soda from its glass.

 

"ORDER IN!" she snarled as she smacked both hands down on the counter, "A tortured cow, some rabbit food and a real meal!"

 

Dan, the chef and owner, just shook his head as he glanced up from the grill to catch a glimpse of Pat’s furious face. He stared at her a moment before returning his attention to the grill, grumbling as he flipped a row of burgers, and then headed to the fridge for the steak.

Jason, the blond busboy and dishwasher, laughed, "A ‘tortured cow,’ that never gets old."

 

Dan just scowled at him in annoyance, and Jason shrugged, smirking.

 

"Get your ass in gear and clear some of those tables before I plant my old foot up your young ass," Pat snarled before she stomped away.

Jason just laughed all the way out the door, bus tub and cleaning rag in hand.

 

In the packed dining room the second waitress, Genna, balanced a tray as she wove between tables, her brown haired pulled back in a neat bun, sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. She stumbled as she tripped over the foot of a long legged trucker, a plate of pepper-jack chicken and refried beans skittering from the tray into the lap of a bald headed man in carpenter jeans and grayish brown t-shirt.

 

"Oh! I'm sorry." Genna said, trying to stop the rest of the tray from following it and failed. A glass of Cola sloshed over the edge and shattered on the floor, sending a spray around the ankles of everyone nearby. A plate followed, dripping mashed potatoes, gravy and pork chops onto the floor. Genna's foot hit the gravy and both feet shot out from under her, leaving her on her butt with food splattering her once neat apron and an ice cube sliding down her hair.

 

Clyde rounded the bar to help her, leaving protesting customers still demanding their beers. Jason had rushed to her as well, the two men helping her to her feet.

 

"You okay Genna?" Jason asked, holding her elbow to steady her.

 

"Yeah, I'm fine!" she yanked her arms away from them, fixing a glare on the man whose foot she'd tripped over. "As if it isn't crowded enough in here, you can't manage to keep your feet under the table!"

 

"I'm sorry ma'am," the trucker said, tipping his hat at her and sheepishly moving his legs out of the aisle. "Hey man, sorry about the mess, let me pay for your dinner and another beer," he said to the bald man whose fury dimmed at the offer.

 

"Umm, yeah, sure," came the man’s astounded reply, situation diffused.

 

Genna sighed and went to replace the order, leaving Clyde to return to the bar and Jason to clean up the mess. Pat just tisked at them all as she crossed the room with a drink in each hand to slam them a little harder than necessary upon the married couple’s table.

 

"It is diet right?" the mousy woman asked.

 

"It's Pepsi!" Pat said before turning and marching away again.

 

"God, let's never come through here again," the mousy woman muttered.

 

"I rather like the place," the man responded as he watched a rowdy group gathered around a pool table across the room.

 

Dan rushed to the bar to help with the crowd, leaving the grill to be watched over by Jason, who was busier than normal trying to bus several tables at once. The meat smoked and blackened while Pam brought drinks out two at a time and Genna limped about, her ankle a bit sore from her tumble.

"God dammit!" Jason hissed when he noticed the kitchen filling with smoke. Desperately he scrambled around trying to open a grease stuck window while rescuing what food he could. He burned his hand on the spatula Dan had left on the grill, cursing even more at the stupidity of not replacing the wooden handle when it had first fallen apart. He salvaged some of the food and plated it, wrapped his burned hand in a cold towel and slammed his unburned hand down on the bell.

 

"PAT! COME GET YOUR ORDERS!" Jason bellowed as Dan rushed across the room to see what all the commotion was about.

 

Grumbling and lumbering Pat got the food and marched with added ferocity to her tables, all but throwing the plates down in front of the customers. Her face a glowering mass of rage; even the mousy woman didn't say a word when she was served a baked potato instead of a salad.

 

The chaos finally dwindled with the evening rush before dying off an hour before closing, leaving the exhausted employees to begin the evening cleanup.

In the dining room Pat and Genna swept, the two women singing as they worked, Pat’s soft soprano, a shocking contrast to her appearance, the melody beautiful and sweet. In the kitchen Dan and Clyde were scrubbing the pots, while Jason dried; his burned hand in a plastic glove to keep it dry.

 

“God I’m glad we’re closed tomorrow,” Jason muttered as he climbed the ladder to put one of the pots on the top shelf.

 

Clyde glanced at him and smiled, his blue eyes friendly and warm but when he spoke, his voice was deep and guttural, the result of a childhood accident that injured his vocal cords. “What are you planning to do with your day off?”

 

“Same thing I do every day off, I’m gonna work on that old Triumph, see if I can’t get her running again.”

Dan just snorted and dragged the Brillo a little bit harder against the steel. “It’s been six months kid. Give it up, you ain’t getting that old hunk of metal rolling again, you’d be better off taking a bus to wherever it is that you were going.”

 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere without my bike.”

 

“Well your bike doesn’t seem like it’s going to get you any further than here, so I hope you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Dan chuckled.

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“I can help you with it, if you want?” Clyde offered, not for the first time.

 

Jason just shook his head and declined the offer. The older guy made him nervous, no one offered something and expected nothing in return.  

 

“Suit yourself,” Clyde told him, “but the offer is always there.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

Like he always did, Jason turned his attention away from them and tuned the older men out as their conversation went to the cars they’d known and the small town around the roadhouse that they’d both grown up in. When they were finally done in the kitchen, they asked him to join them at the game of cards they played each night; just a few hands to unwind, but Jason always said no and headed outside to sit in the moonlight and smoke a joint or two while he stared at the stars.

 

“Give it up,” Dan told Clyde when the door closed behind Jason with a firm click.

 

“I just offered to help with the bike, I’m pretty sure I can get it running for him if he’ll give me half the chance to help.”

 

Dan gave Clyde a knowing look, one eyebrow arched as he watched his longtime friend. “Yeah, and what else do you want to help him with? You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him? He’s probably thinks you’re some lecherous old man.”

 

“You make me sound like Old Man Potter.”

 

“Yeah and you’re forever staring at him the way Old Man Potter used to watch us play baseball in the park.”

 

Clyde laughed and took a long drink off his beer before flipping Dan off. “We ain’t that old you bastard.”

 

“Old enough to be considered old by a young punk like him. If he’s a day over twenty-three I’ll eat my hat.”

 

“Better start eating, Dan,” Trajin quipped as he walked past, “His driver’s license says twenty-four, twenty-five in a few weeks actually. But yeah, I wouldn’t have guessed either if I hadn’t sneaked a peak, he looks younger than that to me.”

 

“And what were you doing looking in his wallet?” Clyde asked the roadhouse’s final border, his voice deepening even more, a hint of protectiveness creeping in.

 

“Oh relax, will ya? He told me to grab a ten out of his wallet and go pick up some beers, and I did, but not before peeking at the license first.”

Clyde’s eyes narrowed a little, a curious spark coming alive in them. “Yeah, so where’s he from?”

 

“License said Michigan, had a Detroit address on it, but who knows with him. Maybe he was just passing through.”

 

Dan just snorted but Clyde sat there, looking thoughtful as Trajin headed out the door.

 

“I know that look, what the hell are you up to Clyde?”

 

“I’m taking a load through Detroit next week is all, maybe I’ll do some digging, see if I uncover anything.

 

“You starting to sound dangerously like a stalker my friend,” Dan told him.

 

“I’m just curious is all. He’s been here six months; how much do we really know about him. I want to know more is all. Just wanna make sure you’re not harboring a fugitive or something.”

 

“Uh-huh, more like you’re looking for something that might help your chances.”

 

“Hey if I find that too, more power to me, right?”

 

“What the hell is it with you and that kid?”

 

“I don’t know, but I sure as hell want to find out.”

 

Dan grumbled and finished his first beer before cracking the top on his second. “Deal the goddamned cards.”

 

Clyde got to dealing, while outside, Trajin found Jason sitting in his favorite spot, smoke curling around his head as he stared into the night.

 

“Why do you smoke that shit?” Trajin asked.

 

“Why do you always ask?”

 

Trajin laughed as he shoved Jason over so he could sit on the rock beside him, ignoring the smaller man’s grumbles rather than responding back with his usual quips.

 

“Okay, so spill, what’s got you so down tonight?” Trajin asked.

 

Jason glanced at him and took another drag, trying to pick out constellations as he let the smoke fill his lungs. “Nothin’”

 

“Uh-huh, sure. Tell me another lie.”

 

“What the hell do you want, Trajin? I’m not in the mood for another sanctimonious lecture about the evils of smokin’ up.”

 

“I didn’t come out here to lecture you, Jay. I just wanted to talk.”

 

“Okay, so talk.”

 

“Damn, do you always have to be so difficult?”

 

“Do you always have to ask so many questions?”

 

“Touché.”

 

Jason took another long toke off the joint and resumed admiring the stars. Trajin just silently sat beside him, waiting and glancing up every now and again himself.

 

“I used to think that if I stared up at the stars long enough, I could find the answers to all my questions written there,” Jason said softly. “But I never found any answers, just stars and airplane lights.”

 

“Then why keep looking?”

 

“I’m just stubborn, I guess. “

 

“Yeah, you are. Especially if you turned down Clyde’s offer to help you with your bike, he’s a damn good mechanic.”

 

“So am I; I’ll get her running.”

 

“uh-huh,” Trajin muttered, “you don’t like him too much, do you? I see the way you avoid being around him and cut conversations as short as you can whenever he talks to you.”

 

“I hardly know the guy. I’m just not much for conversation, only some people just don’t get the hint.”

 

“Ohhh, do I detect a not so subtle barb?”

 

“Detect whatever you’d like, Trajin. Just do it somewhere else, will you, please?”

 

“Must be some pretty serious brooding you’ve got planned, if you’re actually saying please.”

 

Jason sighed heavily, even as Trajin nudged him again.

 

“Why do we always have to play this game?” Jason grumbled, looking away from the stars at last to focus on the other man. Trajin’s honey brown eyes were watching him, a smirk on his lips as he plucked the joint from Jason’s fingers and flicked it aside.

 

“Maybe because you’re too stubborn to do anything else,” Trajin commented even as he leaned in and brushed a kiss across Jason’s lips. That was all it usually took to melt Jason’s resistance, but tonight was different. Jason kissed back, briefly, before pushing him away.

 

“Not tonight, Traj. Just, go away. Okay?”

 

“Damn. Okay, now I know for sure something’s up. What’s wrong Jay?”

 

“I just, something isn’t right tonight; I don’t know, I feel nervous, edgy and restless, so just leave me alone, okay?” Jason said his eyes still locked on the sparkling lights in the sky. He ignored the feel of Trajin’s hand on his shoulder, the soft brush of fingers through his long hair, and the other man’s muttered goodnight before his footsteps headed back towards the now silent roadhouse.  Jason sighed and slid down the rock so he could rest his head against the smooth, hard stone as he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, sucking in another lungful of smoke.

 

It wasn’t just the uncomfortable way Clyde made him feel that made him refuse his offer of help. It was the secret fear that Clyde really was a much better mechanic than him; good enough to actually fix his bike. That would leave Jason without an excuse to stick around the roadhouse and the tiny hillside town around it that he’d come to both love and hate.

 

With another sigh Jason closed his eyes, inhaled again, wishing he knew what it was about this place that was leaving him so torn. Restless, yes. Tonight he was very restless, but still not enough to want help on his bike. He just didn’t want to go, not yet; and that was a first for him and it scared him too because whatever was drawing him to stay would be something he couldn’t handle. Torn, yeah he was, so very, very torn; so tomorrow he’d get up early and sit with a six pack and the pieces of his Triumph, and he’d fiddle with the bike but he wouldn’t fiddle very hard. And next week he’d do the same, until he had his answers, or was finally compelled to leave. 

 

Inhale, exhale, he melted against the rock in peaceful oblivion while inside the house Trajin lay on his bed, eyes closed and breathing evening out, wondering if tomorrow would finally be the day Jason fixed that old pile of metal and left town for good. Wind from the open window blew the curtains against the wall, rattling the rosary he’d hung there. Maybe he could convince Jason to let him tag along when he left; it didn’t matter where the hell they went to as long as it was far away from this town and the green and gray house on Main Street where his mother still glared down from the bay window of the room she never allowed him to enter. Just that gaze was like a shadow cast on everything he even thought of doing, and as he slipped into dreams he wondered what it would be like to finally be free of her dominant and micromanaging ways.

 

A streak of brilliant red light raced overhead. Jason watched it plummet and crash into a nearby field in a shower of earth and red sparks. Before Trajin could blink, Jason was sprinting towards it and Trajin was racing to catch up, all while thinking this was the stupidest thing that he’d done in all his twenty-three years.

 

Trajin watched Jason vault the wooden fence at the edge of the property and sprint into the cloud of dust. Somewhere behind him, he was sure he heard Dan’s booming voice calling both of them fools, but Trajin didn’t slow down, though every instinct he had screamed at him to stop. He could see a shadow that he hoped was Jason and followed it into the heart of the cloud.

 

A deep furrow was etched into the ground, smoking and smoldering, adding soot to the cloud of dirt.

 

Trajin looked around wildly, frantically searching for the shadow that he’d been following, but there were shadows everywhere now, “Jay! Jason! Where the hell are you?!”

 

Standing beside a glowing red crater, Jason coughed and backed away from the heat radiating from what looked to be a large rock, a meteor maybe, Jason couldn’t tell. The smoke and dust made it hard to breathe, the heat made it almost suffocating, but he couldn’t back away. Shaking, he could only stand there, his restless energy turned into nervous anticipation as a voice seemed to echo all around him, telling him everything was going to be all right.

 

Jason stopped believing it when the red stone cracked. A large, looming figure rose from the halves, flaming wings extended, eyes swirling red and gold as they focused in on Jason.  Its mouth opened to reveal a wicked set of fangs as its clawed talons extended with a loud, metallic sound. Jason started to move, but the weight of its gaze froze him in place, even as it pointed one of its talons at him and spoke a single word.

 

“Mine.”