“Thanks, Joanne. I’ll get the front door. I can already see Officer Tawny ready for her early morning cup-of-Joe.”
I greet the small crowd as they scatter across the linoleum floor toward their booths and tables of choice. It’s the same every morning. Nothing changes. Even their responses to my welcome are the same. Sometimes this town leaves me feeling as trapped as I had been in the car – almost stagnant in the day-to-day motions.
But it’s the beginning of the summer, which means new Fish in town, the people that pop in and leave just as quickly. One of the things I look forward to each year – the season of travelers. Shady Pines lies on US-50, known as The Loneliest Road in America; the nickname stemming from a desolate part of the highway as it travels through Nevada, it’s not so bad here in Colorado. We’re not a main stop for many, but every once in a while we get travelers that halt their journey and take in the scenery of our picturesque town.
As I refill Officer Tawny’s cup with her second helping of coffee, I ask her if she thinks we’ll have more traffic this year than before. The dwindling crowds have been difficult for all of the businesses – mostly due to the highway adding a new welcome center about a mile away from us. But instead of offering reassurance, her head shakes slightly before she takes a sip of her beverage.
The remainder of the morning I spend in the back concocting the orders while Joanne runs interference for the customers. Many ask about Jeff and I hate having to stretch the truth by telling them that he isn’t feeling well.
It’s after the morning rush passes that I settle into my life. Shady Pines is a mix of young and old; people who have lived their entire lives in the area, never leaving the place they call home and the newbies, such as myself, that found their way here and haven’t left. The migrants that lose themselves in the splendor of smalltown America.
I plate myself and Joanne an early lunch of an open-faced turkey sandwich and hover around the front counter watching the people slip past the wide window overlooking the street. The meat is flavorless as I bite another forkful of local deli meat, not realizing that I’m staring into oblivion.
Some of our regular customers linger at the counter, requesting their coffee refills and I happily serve them, it’s still the breakfast hour for many. They’ve grown to accept me as one of their own, assuring me that I fit in here as well as anyone else despite the lingered stress and snickers from the Fish.
John, a man that reminds me of the proverbial Santa Claus – long white beard, rosy cheeks, and wire-framed glasses, takes a seat directly in front of where I’m perched against the counter.
Waving his hand in front of me, he laughs when I startle. “Mornin’, Larsen. What’s good today?” It’s the same question he asks every morning. And just like every other morning, I giggle against my better judgment.
“Same menu it’s always been, Mr. Turner. I don’t think it’s changed in the fifty years that Uncle Jeff has been running this place.”
“Ah, too right. What you got cookin’ up for today’s special?” He grins, knowing that I like to keep my daily specials a secret until the dinner crowd arrives. John is one of the many customers that come in for at least two out of their three meals a day. Many keep a running tab and coffee mug of their own ready and waiting.
“You know I can’t tell you that, John,” I joke as I fill a glass with Coke for him, little ice.
The routine. It’s something I’ve come to love and dread at the same time – my own Groundhog Day on repeat.
“Well, a little birdie told me that it’s your homemade beef stroganoff.”
Setting the glass in front of him, the corner of my mouth perks up at his assumption. “And what birdie might that be?”
“My nose knows.”
Shaking my head, I turn back to my lunch. “Sure, it does.”
“So,” he continues,” I’m surprised to see you here so early.”
“Well, school’s out for the summer and I figured I could help out a bit more.”
“You help out enough,” the old man grunts as he takes a sip of his drink.
Just as I’m about to rib him some more the door to the diner opens wide and a group of twenty-somethings ambles in discussing the heat outside. Cole catches my eye first. He always does with his clean-cut image – a walking Captain America.
Smacking John on the back as he passes, Cole asks him how he’s doing before the group takes a seat at a corner booth. I wish I had known that he was going to come in today, I could have at least tried to look presentable even though I know that he’s never looked at me more than once.
Cole is one of the teachers at the local elementary school. See? Captain America – shaping our youth.
I hurry from the counter and move toward the grill. Along the way, I grab a baseball cap from a hook and tug it low on my face.
“Hey, I need you to grab table twelve,” Joanne mentions as she snaps an order sheet with a clip and sends it my way.
“Why can’t you do it?” I ask, my hands shaking as I reach up for her order.
People and I have never mixed well. Not since my accident and I do my best to avoid any newcomers, and Cole.
“Tucker said he needs me to pick him up so he can work the rest of the shift. Said he got into it with his brother.”
Tucker and Tacker are notorious for their ongoing fights – usually leaving me in the lurch since they both work here. Tucker more often than Tacker, who travels with his freelance photography gig.