Page 9 of On Dry Land

The inside of this one is cold when I pull open the heavy metal door, but it doesn’t smell like shit, and there isn’t any standing water or soggy toilet paper on the concrete floor. All signs pointing to this being a win, so far. Closing the door, I rest my backpack on the ground and take a much-needed morning pee. Washing my hands, I hiss when the frigid water touches my dry, already cold skin. I hadn’t been expecting heated water, but it’s a shock to the system nonetheless. Resigned, I dry my hands and reach for my bag, pulling out the small Dopp kit I carry with me.

There isn’t a full shower in here, and I probably wouldn’t have braved it in the cold even if there was, so a sponge bath at the sink is the best I can do. I go through the motions quickly, giving the important bits—groin, butt, armpits, and face—a quick, thorough wash. I’m shivering by the time I’m done, even though I didn’t spend longer than needed with my clothes off and covered back up the moment I was done washing each area. It doesn’t matter. The cold air and water combined after a night spent out in the elements means no measure of care would get me through this practice warm.

Teeth chattering, I zip my coat back up and pull my beanie back on. I need a haircut, and I need to shave my face. I can’t stand having a beard. It’s the thing I hate above all else about living on the road. Slinging my backpack over my sore shoulders, I open the door and step back out into the morning.

It’s light enough now that I can see the dark curl to the clouds, and there is an accompanying chill to the wind. Gloved hands shoved into the pockets of my coat, I hunch my shoulders and walk back the way I came. Pretty Porsche man made it seem like the diner would be easy to find if I merely walked that direction, and I’m hoping he wasn’t having one on. People have strange senses of humor and will occasionally err closer to cruel than funny. I hope that guy isn’t an asshole and didn’t send me on a wild goose chase for cheap greasy food.

But, as promised, a walk down Bluefin Street eventually brings me to the Sand Dollar Diner. The sign flickers in the early gloom, neon faded in half of it. A bell tinkles over the door when I walk inside, pulling off my beanie and clutching it in one hand as I look around. It’s surprisingly busy, and I forget about how cold I am for half a second when I gaze around at the patrons. I think maybe I found some of the lobster fishermen I’d been so hoping to run into. Grinning to myself, I stuff my hat into my pocket, tug my gloves off and tuck them away as well.

“Sit anywhere you want,” a blond woman with dark rings of eyeliner painted around her eyes tells me as she passes, coffee pot held aloft. “I’ll be with you.”

Not feeling quite ready to approach any locals after my run-in with the Porsche driver this morning, I slide into one of the only open booths, tucking my backpack under the table and hopefully out of sight. Looking around the room, I relax a little bit when I see a general sort of scruffiness on many of the other patrons. I’m not the only one with out-of-control facial hair, nor cold-bitten cheeks. Nobody is looking at me.

“Hey, sweetie,” the waitress says, shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as she walks up and slides a plastic Coca-Cola water glass over the table toward me. Dropping a straw down next to it, she smiles. I smile back, finding the gesture easy. Her name tag says “Wendy.” I’m pretty sure in every diner across the country there is a woman named Wendy working there, ready to kick ass or make you feel special, depending on what’s needed.

“Hi, Wendy. Busy morning?” I ask. Rule number one for living on the road: be fucking polite. You never know when the kindness of a stranger will mean the difference between life and death.

“Oh, not too bad. We’ve had an exciting couple of days ’round here. Everyone’s having a lie-in today.”

I raise my eyebrows at that. The room is almost full, only a handful of seats remaining and a low hum of noise as everyone chats. It looks busy enough to me.

“Get you started with some coffee while you look?” Wendy offers, plucking the menu off the table and holding it out for me. I take it, the plastic sticky under my fingers.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

I glance at the menu as she strides off, stopping at three tables between mine and the swinging kitchen doors. Scanning the offerings, I bite my lip as I look for the two-fifty deal Porsche guy promised. I don’t have money to spend on fancy restaurant food, and even the two fifty is going to be pushing it. But there, on the back cover, is a cartoon lobster looped around the words: LOBSTERMEN SPECIAL. Indeed, it’s a full breakfast for the promised amount, and even the coffee is included. I set the menu down, and less than a minute later, Wendy is back, white coffee mug in one hand and pot in the other.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she pours it for me, steam rising from the cup. As soon as she finishes, I reach for it, skin dry and painful from the cold, tight as I curl my fingers around the mug. It’s too hot to drink, but exactly hot enough for me to borrow some of the warmth for my hands.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart? Need a little longer to look?”

“I was wondering if I could order the lobstermen special? Or is that only for…lobstermen?”

She smiles, revealing a single missing canine. “’Course you can, love. How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled, please.” It’s not my favorite way to have eggs, but some sort of dairy product will be used to scramble them, and I need all the extra calories I can get.

“Toast? White, wheat, sourdough?”

“Wheat, please.”

“Sausage or bacon? We’ve got pig and turkey.”

“Bacon, please. The kind that oinks. Crispy, if possible. Or if you have any extra fatty pieces, I’d take those, please.”

She nods at me, jotting everything down. “Home fries are grilled with onions and peppers, that okay?”

“Perfect,” I enthuse, and get another smile. Lifting my mug to my mouth, I enjoy the warmth of the steam on my face and take a careful sip.

“Anything else to drink? Juice?”

Glancing down at the menu lying flat on the table in front of me, I scan the special. It doesn’t list any drink as included other than coffee. Shaking my head, I smile up at Wendy.

“Coffee and water are perfect, thank you.”

Plucking the menu off the table, she slides a roll of silverware in its place. “Be out shortly. Let me know if Fred gives you any trouble.”

She winks as the man in the booth next to mine—Fred, apparently—grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “nosy woman.” Ducking my head to avoid making eye contact with Fred, whom I really don’t want to give me any trouble, I pull my cell phone from my bag. The Sand Dollar’s Wi-Fi isn’t hidden behind a password, which is another thing I’ll make sure to remember. If I needed to, while I was in town, I could sit outside and connect to it without having to adhere to the paying-customer rule most establishments have.