So here’s what I found today online: Blues Brothers,Of Human Bondage, Wildhogs, Waitress, Terminator, Road to Perdition, Pulp Fiction, Mystery Men, Mildred Pierce, Mighty Ducks, Kill Bill, How Harry Met Sally, Diner, Five Easy Pieces, The Big Lebowski, and Back to the Future.

The experience of writing a story online over the last week or so (see last few posts for each draft of “Starkville”) has been exhilarating and I’m not finished with it yet. I only now have a complete rough draft. Some fun stuff has come out of this too. You have until midnight PDT June 9. That’s the Tuesday my Women-on-Writing interview.

Sarah Hilary said…
Hi there. There is so much I love in this story, and it’s been fascinating to see it unravel over the last week or so. Thanks for sharing that process with us.

Right, you asked for a brutal critique? (In fact it doesn’t need one, as I think you already spotted 95% of what needed doing with it as you went along, but here goes…)

I like how you root us in the place and the action, straight up. That Kerry is here where her mother was before her, with Beth to think about and this nebulous idea of escape in the front of her mind. We know she’s feeling a bit trapped, a bit flighty.

Then in comes Carl – great descriptions here and very nice dialogue and tension between them from the off.I’d get rid of “Huh… I feel weird.” I don’t want you warning us that way. I want to feel that slap Kerry feels when she realises who it is. The bit with the burn and the ice was perfect – we side with Carl a little here, he seems a good guy no matter how much he’s changed.

This prefaced Kerry submission for me. If you don’t want to preface that, then maybe you need to change how Carl reacts to the burn?

I wasn’t so sure about the second diner coming in. There’s a paragraph where Kerry starts to reminisce about Reno… I wanted that flashback. That would really give me what I need to judge Carl and Kerry and Beth as a possible family unit. The second diner and his watchful offer of help seemed like a distraction, a tangent – as if you weren’t quite ready to write the flashback just yet and so this guy interrupted it.

I think we need the flashback – some more clues as to how Beth was conceived. Kerry was in love with Carl, right? Was he in love with her? Why’d he leave? Without at least a hint at some of these answers I don’t think the ending quite works because we don’t know enough to guess at what comes next. I like to guess – I don’t need all the answers but I need enough to hazard a decent guess.

The quickfire conversation where Kerry and Carl agree terms for his seeing Beth does work well but I think we need a glimpse more of what’s going through Kerry’s mind. At the start of this she was feeling trapped (at least I read it that way), looking for a way out. Now she’s thinking of staying and letting Carl into Beth’s life. How does this resolve her worries over Beth’s adolescence? Or her desire for a wintery place?

It’s almost all there but it needs a little more layering, a little more resolution, I think.I hope these comments make sense. I’ve enjoyed following the creation of this – you write diner fic so damn well – and it’s been a privilege to be involved. Thanks. S.

Gay Degani said…
WOW! Sarah! Amazing.

Yes yes yes about the Reno scene. It is absolutely key to everything, the lynch pin to the story. That will be fun to write though I have no idea what I’ll say!!!

I wanted more flash backs–I wanted to do what Brenda Miller does in Blessing of the Animals weaving a present story with a past story, but I’m finding it hard to do that. Once I’m into a certain rhythm, I don’t want for anything to jar it.

Perhaps that is exactly what the story needs, that jolt. That may have been my subconsious setting me up. It does that sometimes.

Actually that was the purpose of the driver coming in, a delay tactic not to delay me from writing the Reno scene–I didn’t even know there was going to be a Reno scene (I swear) but to delay Kelly’s having to deal with Carl, to weaken her resolve since she couldn’t go at him right off the bat.

But absolutely I can make a move toward the weaving thing I want by writing that reno scene. I think…well, I’m not going to say what I think yet will happen. I’m going to leave that in the hands of the characters who have finally become their own people.

I added that “weird” line because I wanted the reader to feel comfortable with the idea that she didn’t recognize him immediately. I thought something would tug on her something about him would make her uneasy. I have to think more about this. I know someone who I knew 10 years ago who was strong, outgoing, healthy-seeming though he drank all the time and now looks like someone’s grandfather. That’s what I want to reproduce somehow. Yep this I need to think about. It happens but I want to make sure the reader believes it.

And the ending, you are on the money again. It needs to reflect her original attitude, what she’s thinking, how it works. I’m thinking that maybe this story will need to be a little longer. Perhaps have a scene later after he’s been there awhile and “obeyed” her requests. But I don’t want to tack it on. Hmmmmmm. Maybe if I do the flashback thing write a strong ending will come to me.

Sarah, as usual, you are amazing. Thank you so much and thank you for doing all this publicly. This has been a weird experience for me, but much less angst than I thought it would be. The story developed for me I think because I didn’t let it go, COULDN’T let it go because then I would look like a whuss. (sp). I forced myself to sit down to it everyday and just write not worrying about if it was good or not, just letting it develop. Diner fiction? Is this a sub-genre of restaurant fiction? Is there take-out fiction? You make me smile! Much grass.

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, instead of one of those gold-colored uniforms with the scratchy white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I can ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and already has breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of Manzanita.

I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the Formica. I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, moist eyes, thin flaky lips, a down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. Know it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“Didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, Huh, I feel…weird.

When I put the slice in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it.” He takes a bite of pie.

“How do you know my name?”

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, “You know, I’d die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs.”

And my head goes light. I know who he is. Double check his face. His faded green eyes, crooked front tooth.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. A jolt of pain goes through me.The old man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and tries to pull me away from the scalding urn. “What the hell? Are you nuts?”

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We’re standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Carl here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. “What–what happened to you?”

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says, “I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?”

The crunch of an eighteen wheeler sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies.

I glance toward the door and whisper, “I…I have to work.”

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset trucker with “Dan” embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to “closed.” Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Carl, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Carl I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should’ve seen it right away.

Beth’s at my mom’s, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire at the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

“Miss?” The trucker’s voice brings me back. He’s pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Carl who’s watching it all.

At least he looks sober. Breaks my heart he looks so old, only a few years older than me. I used to think he was sophisticated and being with him, I was same. We’d go over to Reno—

“Excuse me, Miss?”Again it’s Dan the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece. Dan looks at Carl, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“It’s okay. I know him.” I’m whispering, not sure why.

Dan beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Carl a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of Dan. Barely notice as he removes the veggies from the bag and places them on the burger.

Carl is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again my hand smoothes my hair, me thinking I haven’t done my roots in a while, then I realize what I’m doing. Turn to the trucker who’s wolfing down his food. He flashes Carl another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee cup.

After the trucker leaves, Carl comes over and takes the plate off the counter, walks it around, and into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down four-tops.

Carl says, “You still got your admirers, I see.”

I scrub harder, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me in case I have to go home and get my shotgun and shoot you. “

“Hold on.” He holds up soapy hands. “I’m not going to mess up your life. I promise.”

“Well, if you’re here, then that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you get back on that road and go on back to California this minute.”

“I didn’t come to make things hard for you. “

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“I don’t have any place else to go.” He turns his back, continues with the dishes, says, “And you’re here. And Beth.”

“I knew it.” I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. “You want Beth, don’t you? You’re going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need anything from you. And you’ll just mess her up.”

I’m shaking so hard, it’s like I’m not going to be able to keep my feet. My nose is running, my eyes swimming.

Carl turns around. Says with a soft slur in his voice, “Sit down, Kelly, before you fall down.”

I back away, bump a chair, and fumble into it. Put my head down on the table top, the smell of onions and 409 greeting me like a friend.

His hand is on the back of my neck. Gentle. Brief. The chair opposite scuffs the floor and Carl lets out a little umph as he sits down.

“I’m not going to ask anything of you, Kel. You don’t owe me a thing.”

I’m facing away from him with a sideways view of the front door. The windmills up on the hill beyond the highway gleam in a strand of moon light. A pick-up passes. Then some kind of sedan slows. I haven’t flicked off the neon. I lift my head enough to turn it toward him, keeping it down on the table.

“You left me,” isn’t what I meant to say, but these are the words that come from my mouth. I leave them there.

His hand strokes the back of my head. I can barely feel it.

“Why did you leave me?”

He leans close so our eyes meet again. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you back.”

“I figured that.”

“I don’t want Beth hurt.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

As I lift my head, his sits up too. I say, “I make the rules.”

“Okay.”

“You have to earn it, the right to see her. Know her.”

“Okay.”

“Where you going to stay?”

“Up at my dad’s, I guess, if he’ll let me.”

“He’ll let you. But you can’t see Beth yet. Not until I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to have to earn it. I mean it.”

“I know.”

“It may take a long, long time.”

“Kelly, that’s all I got now, is time.”

_______________________________________________________________

I think this is a kind of ending. Not yet the perfect ending but I am beginning to see what’s got to happen in this particular story. Now it’s time to have someone read it. I’m asking my friend, Sarah Hilary, to comment on what works and what doesn’t work here. I’ve asked her to let me have it. Be brutal because I’m too close to it to really see anything right now. Right now I’m a little surprised at Kelly’s submission. I had no idea.

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and already has breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of Manzanita.

I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the Formica. I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, moist eyes, thin flaky lips, a down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. Know it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“Didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, Huh, I feel…weird.

When I put the slice in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it.” He takes a bite of pie.

“How do you know my name?”

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, “You know, I’d die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs.”

And my head goes light. I know who he is. Double check his face. Damp faded green eyes, crooked front tooth.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. A jolt of pain goes through me.

The old man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and tries to pull me away from the scalding urn. “What the hell? Are you nuts?”

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We’re standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Carl here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. “What–what happened to you?”

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says, “I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?”

The crunch of eighteen tires sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies.

I glance toward the door and whisper, “I…I have to work.”

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset trucker with “Dan” embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to “closed.” Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Carl, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Carl I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should’ve seen it right away.

Beth! At my mom’s, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire on the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

“Miss?” The trucker’s voice brings me back. He’s pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Carl who’s watching it all.

At least he looks sober. Breaks my heart he looks so old, only a few years older than me. Come back here because he’s lost everything. No place left to go except Starkville.

“Excuse me?”

Again it’s Dan the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece. Dan looks at Carl, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“No, he’s fine. I know him.” I whisper this. Don’t know why.

Dan beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Carl a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of Driver Dan. Barely notice as he removes the veggies from the bag and places them on the burger because Carl is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again my hand smooths my hair, me thinking I haven’t done my roots in a while, then I realize what I’m doing. Turn to the trucker who’s wolfing down his food. He flashes Carl another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee cup.

After Dan the Driver leaves, Carl comes over and takes the plate off the counter and walks it around, and puts it into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down the four-tops.

Carl says. You still got your admirers I see.”

I don’t say anything. Scrub hard, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me if I have to go home and get my rifle and shoot you. “

“Hold on.” He holds up soapy hands. “I’m not going to mess up your life again. I promise.”

“Well, if you’re here, then that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you get back on that road and go on back to California”

“I didn’t come here to make things hard for you. “

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“I don’t have any place to go. And you’re here. And Beth.”

“I knew it.” I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. “You want Beth, don’t you? You’re going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need anything from you. And you’ll just mess her up.”

Saved notes: So now the two of them have had their initial encounter, she’s in a state of confusion and fear?? Not sure yet myself if he’s a threat or not . Probably has to be. But it should be obvious. Hmmm. Don’t know what kind of threat that would be, but there is forward progress here. We know there’s a past relationship that probably wasn’t healthy and he’s lived a ruined life. His life now casts her life in a good light. I just realized that. Hmmmm…

But when he started working in the hospital–all that access to pills–things took a turn for the worse. He was a medical technician, something that seemed promising. An attempt to be a husband and a father…

About Michael– if that, indeed, turns out to be his name. Michael always was a drinker, in high school and after. Starkville has always been a drinking town, still is. But when he started working in the hospital–all that access to pills–things took a turn for the worse. He was a tech guy or a nurse, something that seemed promising. An attempt to be a husband and a father…

By nature, Michael is a crazy maker. He likes drama or at least he did. Now Kelly doesn’t know for sure anymore. He looks so different, could he be any different? He is, of course, Beth’s father. How could he not be? I have to decide whether they ever got married…yes, because that makes him more dangerous, gives him a legitimate claim on Beth.

What does Kelly think about when she’s handing that burger to the trucker and trying to stay focused on his conversation. She thinks about Beth first. What she’s doing right at that moment over at Kelly’s mom. They would be practicing Italian because Beth wants to speak Italian and Kelly has gotten her Rosetta Stone tapes to help her. Beth wants to go to Italy and Kelly wonders if there’s snow there. She wants to live in the snow. Cleaner air she thinks.

First off, I hate Micahel’s name. I can’t spell it so it’s got to go. Who is this guy? What name works? Carl hit me. Okay for now he’s Carl.

So there they are in the diner, unable to speak to each other yet because the trucker’s come in and wants to eat a burger…

Oh last night in bed this part bugged me. How many diners just have one person there, especially at night? Doesn’t seem right so I’ve got to give her a cook or at least a helper. I do need to make sure it’s one of those diners that doesn’t have a kitchen in the back, but one with the grill right behind the counter. It’s a small place. We have one like that in Pas so I know that idea is authentic.

But still would she be alone and if I have someone else there, what other part would he or she have in the story. Or maybe it’s close to closing, and she’s forgotten to lock the door??? Doesn’t matter yet. Not even to the end of the story so I can worry about that later.

What else did I think about last night? I read the blessing of Animals by Brenda Miller in Pushcart antho–wow what a strong story! I don’t know if it’s fiction or memoir since most of the fiction stories say the are fiction. What I liked about it is that it worked equally on two threads, the thread of the present=taking her dog to church (DOGS IN CHURCH!) and on a memory level= which began with the loss of pets to the illness of her father. The weaving was so smooth and the revelation or epiphany or whatever at the end made me cry. And made me realize I don’t work hard enough at this.

Anyway. My point. The weaving of the past. Some semblance of that might work in this story because she has a past with Carl that I’m not one hundred percent certain about yet. And she has to see this visit from him as a threat so I’ve got to figure that out. So things she can think about in this time when the trucker is distracting her from Carl is 1) her daughter 2) her past with Carl and 3) what does Carl want.

I think last night the part I lost was a discussion of what Carl might want. He’s here because he’s lost everything and he has no place to go except to the one place that holds something for him: Starkville where his wife and daughter are. Man I just realized I lost a lot…

Carl could want to stake a claim on Beth but I think I dismissed that idea last night. I decided he now states that all he wants is to be around the edges, to be a part of Beth’s life in any little way that kelly will allow, but Kelly might see this as a burden.

She’s been planning to leave town to take Beth and try someplace new. Does she have an obligation to stay now that Carl has shown up after all these years. what is he to her now. I remember I decided that there needs to be a good memory of Carl and Kelly for her. A memory that cannot be prom, or graduation, or anything that seems to be an event. It needs to be a quiet memory, one of those fleeting moments we all have that we know won’t last but we soak it in as the climax of our lives so far…

Oh and Starkville. I need to figure out what I want to do with that. So far all I’ve done is put it in the desert.

That’s all I can remember. There was more. But I need to cogitate.

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and already has breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

This is the introduction. “Who” is the waitress, “when” is night and “where” is Starkville which now has relocated to the desert in an unnamed state so as not to get any details wrong by having people assume it’s Starkville Mississippi about which I know nothing. “What” seems to be a woman worried about her daughter. Two generations of this family so far living in Starkville have been waitresses and this woman wants more for her daughter. Thinking about a different kind of world for both of them. Still need to remember all that could stand in their way. “How” is will she get what she wants? We don’t know but the appearance of the old guy coming through the door probably means something. And so far that’s happening. “Why?” Don’t know yet, haven’t come up with a sentence yet to represent the theme because I don’t know what it is yet.

I know the theme possibilities have to do with the past coming to haunt the present, escape, changing one’s life, things like that. So far though, for now, this intro does what it needs to do to get me at least to the end of the story.

I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, his moist eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn’t drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Me seeing them every day now, more and more.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me smile. An alkie. Know it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“Didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, weird. Something’s going on…

When I put the pie in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

Okay to this point these two have checked each other out and now they are about to reveal secrets. This works. Maybe there should be more but I don’t know what it is yet I need to add.

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it.” Takes a bite of pie.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’d die and go to hell for a good piece of pie,” he says cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips. “And a long, long pair of legs. ” He drops his eyes as if he can see mine hidden by the counter.

And I know who he is. Damp faded green eyes, crooked front tooth .

I step back and my arm bumps the hot coffee urn. I swallow hard and feel like a jolt the burning pain from the hot pot on my arm.

The old man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away from the scalding urn. “What the hell? Are you nuts?”

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.We’re standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

Can’t believe it. Queasy with the thought. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face.

“What–what happened to you?”

But I know. Booze, probably drugs. He’s been skidding since he left.

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

Finally he says, “I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?”

So now the two of them have had their initial encounter, she’s in a state of confusion and fear?? Not sure yet myself if he’s a threat or not . Probably has to be. But it should be obvious. Hmmm. Don’t know what kind of threat that would be, but there is forward progress here. We know there’s a past relationhip that probably wasn’t healthy and he’s lived a ruined life. His life now casts her life in a good light. I just realized that. Hmmmm…

The crunch of eighteen tires sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies.

I glance toward the door and whisper, “I…I have to work.”

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset trucker with “Clancy” embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to “closed.” Serve him coffee, put a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Michael I used to know. His white hair that used to be black, the dip of his right shoulder, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should’ve seen it right away.

“Miss?” The trucker’s voice brings me back. He’s pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Michael who’s watching it all.

Then I freeze. Think of Beth. He’s gonna wanna see Beth.

This can’t be good for Kelly. But what’s going to happen? Is he going to threaten her? So I guess now the question is what does HE want? What is the worst thing he could want? How could he–this pathetically ill man (that’s how I see him damaged and aged by booze and dope) threaten Kelly and Beth. Is that what he wants? What’s the card he has to play?

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and already has breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.

I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, his moist eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn’t drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me smile. An alkie. Knew it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“I didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, weird.

When I put the pie in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is?

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it .”

“How do you know my name?”

“Good pie,” he says cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips. “I’d die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs. ” He drops his eyes as if he can see mine hidden by the counter.

And I know who he is.

I step back and my arm bumps the hot coffee urn. His damp eyes are faded green, front tooth crooked. I swallow hard and feel like a jolt the burning pain from the hot pot on my arm.

The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away. “What the hell? Are you nuts?”

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.We’re standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

I can’t believe it. I’m queasy with the thought. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.

“What–what happened to you?” But I know. Booze, probably drugs. He’s been skidding since he left.

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us. Finally he says, “I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?”

The crunch of eighteen tires sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. A moment.

I glance toward the door and whisper, “I…I have to work.”

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset guy strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to closed. Serve him coffee, put a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Michael I used to know. His white hair almost black, the dip of his right shoulder, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should’ve seen it right away.

“Miss?” The trucker’s voice brings me back. He’s pointing to the crackling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Michael who’s watching it all.

Then I freeze. Beth. He’s gonna wanna see Beth.

I like to read through a piece I’m working before I head off to bed and change what I can, but usually my brain is dead. More important for me is reminding my subconscious that there’s a story developing.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and already has breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita. I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.

I let my eyes flick to his wrinkled, face, his faded green eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn’t drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me smile. But my back’s turned so he can’t see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“I didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, something’s weird.

When I put the pie in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is?

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it .”

“How do you know my name?”

“Good pie,” he says. “I’d die for a good piece of pie…and a pair of long, long legs. ” He drops his eyes. And I know who he is.

I step away from the counter and my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn. The creases around his eyes, the crooked front tooth. I swallow hard and burning pain jolts through me. The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away from the coffee pot.

“What the hell? Are you nuts?”

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.

We’re standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me. I can’t believe it. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.

“What–what happened to you?”

“You still look great in a pair of jeans.” The ragged thread of his voice hangs between us.

The crunch of 18 tires outside, the spit of brakes, the cold drip of melting ice on my hip, his hand dropping the dish rag into the sink. A moment.

I glance toward the door and whisper, “I have to work.” He nods and moves out from behind the counter as a heavyset guy strides in.

I serve coffee, put a hamburger on the griddle, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms. I can see it now. The white hair less wavy than it used to be still holds the familiar shape, the dip of his right shoulder lower than the left, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should’ve seen it right away.

“Miss?” The trucker’s voice brings me back. He’s pointing to the frying burger right in front of me beginning to smoke. I flip it and glance back at Michael who’s watching.

Now I’ll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.

***Okay so this is where I have to think about exactly who this guy should be.

He could be her brother, her lover, her son, her husband, her father, her uncle, a stranger who just reminds her of someone. Okay so if this story is about wanting to blow this town, what would the worst thing be for her? That his appearance might force her to stay.

And who would do that? First thought that he is Beth’s father of course. Come back to see her, perhaps even to lay claim to her. And if this is true, wouldn’t she immediately recognize him.

Oh. What if he looks like an old man, done in by drugs and living on the street? She doesn’t recognize him because his hair has turned white and he’s rail thin and gaunt. She’s hated and resented him for years but here he is in front of her pathetic? Try this.

_________________________________________________________________

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on the Desert Highway, just down the road from Clancy’s Oil and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder what I’m going to do about my daughter, Beth. She’s twelve and she’s already got some breasts. I think it’s time we get out of town, , head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I’m wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a tattered plaid jacket and polyester pants. I didn’t hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

“Hey,” he says. “You got pie?”

“Lemon meringue, no berry.” I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

“Lemon’ll do.” Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.

I let my eyes flick up to his wrinkled, sun-burned face, fading green eyes, crooked front teeth. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn’t drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck old geezer. Seeing more of them every day. “Coffee?”

“Don’t drink the stuff. You got whiskey?”

This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can’t see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea and place it in front of him.

“How ‘bout some herb tea?”

He digs through the assortment, triumphantly holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

“I didn’t hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“I been there, done that. Got my pie? “

I turn away to get that last piece for him and think, huh, there’s something about this guy.

When I put the pie in front of him, he’s staring at me.

He says, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is? He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he’d have that prison grip thing going on.

“Kelly, com’ on. Think about it .”

“How do you know my name?”

“Good pie,” says the guy. “I’d die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. ” He smirks and our eyes meet.

And I know who he is.

I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn’t penetrate to my head.

I swallow hard and then the burning pain jolts through me.

The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. “What the hell? Are you nuts?”

My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my arm, I scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I’d expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me to ice maker near the sink. Grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with crushed ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We’re standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

I can’t believe it. This is an old man with white hair, a network of wrinkles across his gaunt face, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

blah blah blah here is where they confront and reveal and she decides what her course will be.

Now I’ll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.

_______________________________________________________________

Have a lunch day and need clean hair. More later…