Some Off-Ramp Town
Outside it's bright and blue and open like the ocean. But isn't.
This is Exit 118 in Southern Arizona. Just off I-10. Out there, beyond this windowpane, is the country and it rolls like waves in some dream I think I've had.
A cup propped before my face, the steam rising, my nose drowns in coffee smell. It's comforting like putting away groceries. This cafe, it nostalgic. It caught the 50s decor plague that rampaged cafe's throughout the nation. Checkered tile. Chrome barstools. Shotgun set up.
With the iPod plugged into my head, I watch:
I'm interrupted by a waitress. She's pushing forty, a buck and five feet. Petite is the optimum word. She says, "That's just terrible." She's watching the HD flat-panel that's above the bar. She asks, "Honey, you've heard this?"
On the television, there's a man from Bangladesh. He looks like a fisherman. He cries.
"No."
"Oh, it's just awful. Especially for this time of year."
The television's saying, "Lost his wife and two children."
She says, "Sometimes that TV's just too much to look at."
"Watch Nickelodeon."
"Honey, please, look around." This cafe, it's filled with men pushing 250 wearing hats and boots and look just how you'd think. As I've said before, stereotypes exist for a reason. She says, "You're funny."
The television's saying, "Many people haven't eaten in four days."
"Gonna be just the coffee? Or do you want to try our peach pie? It's good."
On the counter, behind her, multiple pies sit in a warmer. The red heat lamp makes them glow like candy to a child's eye.
"No, thanks. The coffee'll be just fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." I notice her eye my bag. My bag, this green backpacking bag that sits tall in the bench across from me. My inanimate companion. I notice her eye it and, for just a moment of a moment, I see that familiar look.
The television's saying, "Their location is isolating them from aid."
The waitress, she's over at the counter talking with another worker. A man pushing forty as well. They both eye me.
That look, that look she gave me in that moment of a moment, I've seen it before. Being on the road with my green companion garners that look often. And it means: time to go.
I fish out a couple dollars and heave my bag to my shoulders and I'm stopped by a hand.
"Leavin' us?" She holds a peach pie in her other hand.
"Yeah, just — you know."
"Now, I don't believe for a minute you don't have time to eat this peach pie." She's smiling like a comforter on a cold night. She puts the pie on my table.
The television's saying, "There was such relief when the aid helicopters arrived."
She says, "Happy Thanksgiving."
I sit down at the table and say, "Thank you."
0 comments:
Post a Comment