Page 11 of Draft Pick
“Comin’ right up.”
It’s nearing five in the morning, and after spending most of the night tossing and turning, I couldn’t lie in bed any longer. Let alone settle in a new place.
I needed to move. To get some fresh air and let my mind breathe. Somehow. Some way. Before the sun rises or not.
Taking a walk around my new neighborhood was probably not the best idea this early, but it sounded good at the time.
It brought me here, after all.
I take in the half-lit sign through the window of my booth that once read “House of Bread” but now says “Ho of read.” Kinda sounds like a slutty bookshop.
Reason enough for me to love it here.
The diner is deserted, aside from me, a mom-and-pop duo manning the kitchen behind a wall that reminds me far too much of home. Not that it’s not clean inside. From what I can tell, it is.
I receive all the confirmation I need about this side of Atlanta being purebred Strikers country from the dated player memorabilia on the walls.
Team photos dating back to the early 1900s cover most of the drywall surface, with jerseys displayed in shadowbox frames and number patches plastered along the trim of the bar seating.
Ho of read must be a generational diamond in the rough.
Because, if I’m being honest, this place is dated. Clean with care, yet hella aged in build. Upon entering, I instantly noticed the clanky door covered in rust. Rust that WD-40 couldn’t hold a candle to. It’s small in size, reminding me of the restaurants you see in old horror movies where you just know the main character will make it a point to go inside. All signs scream that it’s a bad idea, yet they do it anyway.
Kinda like me, I suppose.
The leather booths making up the main seating area seem to have once been black but look gray from years of fading and wear. There’s a bar top along the opposite side of the entry door with spinning barstools. It’s eclectic and timeless. Homey in a way, but could also feel frightening depending on who’s observing.
Call it a gut feeling, but I get a strange sense of peace here. I know if my father ever knew I was venturing to a run-down diner a few miles from home, he’d have a conniption fit. The little diamond caught me by surprise. And I live in a nice neighborhood. A really nice one, actually. But I suppose one street off the beaten path can lead you anywhere.
I can pretend my being drawn here is a coincidence, but it’s not. It’s exactly like the diner mom and I used to frequent before school every morning. Before she gave up on herself and life. It’s one of the few times throughout my childhood I can recall nothing but positive memories. Where it was just her and me, bright and early, before everyone else in the world was awake,talking about our day to come and all the reasons we were grateful to have each other.
My dad was a truck driver—still is—traveling across the country more often than not. So, most of the time, it was just me and mom. Solo trips to run-down diners were our thing. Well, in our case,onerun-down diner.
Broken Egg.
Maybe House of Bread will bemynew place.
I’m nervous about this new start, no matter how equipped I feel to be here. I’m a damn good doctor. I know this and don’t need the reminder. I’ve received Early Career Physicians Awards, public recognition for my bedside manner, and have the ability to act quickly under pressure. But I think knowing I’m leaving behind a life that shaped me in more unfortunate ways than good scares me more than it should.
I’m not even sure it’s the new job that intimidates me.
I think it’s the place.
There’s a questionable lure of the unknown in Atlanta. A threat that change is coming, and maybe it’s in something unexpected. Something I hope to all things holy, I want. Maybe I just don’t know it yet.
I’m already dressed and ready for my first day of work. I picked my lucky, teal sea turtle scrubs, the same ones that have stood the test of time throughout the toughest obstacles in my medical career. A dark contrast compared to my typical all-black wardrobe. My lucky trinket is tucked safely in my pocket, ready to bring on all the good juju of new beginnings.
I wouldn’t exactly call my personality colorful, much like my job description. It’s wild behavior for me to be the vibrant pediatrician, yet dress like an emo adult by night. Not really emo, but I feel most like myself in dark colors, aside from my cat-eye reading glasses.
It’s around the little rugrats that I break out the bright colors and disorderly prints. It’s fair to feel comparable to Hannah Montana, living the best of both worlds. I’m two people at once.
Except, I plan to fight the somberness right out of me, ready to cultivate new challenges and experiences that better myself. I need the drab side I cling to out of anxiety and restless fear to go away. Stepping into a place that’s familiar, whether exact or replicated, steadies me.
I have a new house, and a gorgeous one at that. I bought it with my hard-earned money, and I deserve to appreciate it. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet new friends and host weekly dinners or bonfires during the winter? Or maybe I’ll finally start dating. God, I’d love to meet someone. A stable man with enough confidence in what we have to handle being with a busy doctor.
Does he even exist?It’s like the second a nice guy learns about my career, he gets little-man syndrome and dips.
Theniceguy could be the problem.
