Page 21 of Chasing Stardust

All the Young Dudes

The sky belches out a loud boom of thunder as the storm rolls in for another round. I have two choices: Stay outside in the rain and hope Ernie realizes my bag’s still in his truck before he reaches Memphis, or go inside where it’s warm and dry and get something to eat. My stomach growls, making the decision for me. After all, woman cannot live on Doritos alone.

The scent of burned chili and greasy french fries greets me the moment I walk through the door. A smaller version of the guitar from outside hangs above the long counter, where the after-bar crowd sits shoulder to shoulder on a row of red-vinyl-and-chrome stools, conjuring the sour smell of liquor and cigarettes from my imagination. The whole place—from the matching red-vinyl booths lining either side of the room and the framed rock and roll prints covering almost every square inch of the neon-pink walls, to the old-fashioned black-and-white linoleum tile floor—is coated in a thick layer of grease.

A middle-aged waitress delivers a juicy burger and a chocolate shake to the nearest table, and my mouth waters. But after the night I’ve had, I have other matters requiring my attention.

“Great Balls of Fire” blasts from the jukebox as I follow the sign to the restroom, praying it isn’t occupied.

A lady changing her baby in the booth adjacent to the ladies’ room smiles at me. “If you can hold it, I would.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” She folds the discarded diaper into a stinky burrito and shoves it into an outer pocket of her bag, then scoops up her baby and holds him to her chest.

“I think I can hold it.” Mom once said I was part camel . . . time to prove her right.

“Good idea.” She lowers her voice and tosses a quick glance over her shoulder. “The night manager, Rob, doesn’t give a damn if the ladies’ has TP, or if the toilets are clogged. And he doesn’t give a shit if some drunk takes a dump on the floor or pukes in the sink.”

My mouth drops open, and I quickly snap it shut.

“Now, the morning shift manager, Becky . . . she’ll be here in like”—she checks the neon clock on the wall—“an hour . . . two tops. She won’t put up with that shit. She cracks the whip, and those boys jump. Rob included.”

“I think I’ll wait for Becky.”

“You’ll be glad you did. Oh, and here.” She smiles and pulls a wad of wipes from her bag. “You might wanna clean up before sitting down.”

“Thank you.” While I scrub my face and neck, my stomach releases a loud rumble.

“Somebody’s hungry.” She pins me with a serious look. “Don’t eat the tuna. Stick to the burgers . . . or the chili. It’s pretty damn good.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Go get you a seat over there.” She nods toward the opposite side of the diner. “The smell can get pretty ripe over here by the restrooms, and you don’t wanna ruin your appetite. And do yourself a favor and steer clear of Travis,” she says as I walk away. “That boy is nothin’ but trouble.”

I slide into the only clean booth, which also happens to be the one directly next to the jukebox, and place my tote with Mom’s ashes under the table. Other than me, and the couple making out in the back, the only other person not sitting at the counter is a guy with dark floppy hair two booths away. Nose buried in a tattered copy of On the Road, he seems completely oblivious to the world around him.

Travis.

As if plucking his name straight from my thoughts, his head snaps up.

Picking at the loose thread on my shorts, I bury my face in the dirty menu in front of me, avoiding the dark eyes glaring at me from behind a pair of black-framed glasses.

I jump as a throat clears loudly at my side. Roughly the same age as me, the waiter—T. J., according to his name badge—isn’t tall or particularly good looking. His sandy-brown hair is too short, his nose bends too far to the right, and his muddy-brown eyes are too close together. But he has a nice smile.

“Hey, beautiful.” He grins down at me. “Ready to order?”

“No,” I blurt without thinking, too focused on Travis still watching me over his book. “I mean, yes. I’d like a cheeseburger—medium well, no pickles, extra onions—with a side of fries and a Diet Coke.”

“Sure you want those onions?” T. J. winks.

Two tables away, Travis’s eyes dart to T. J., and he snorts.

With no witty comeback at the ready, I mutter, “Yes, please.”

The guy behind the counter beckons T. J. to pick up his next order, mercifully putting an end to the awkward moment.

“Comin’!” T. J. yells, then leans in and dials up the charm again. “Be right back with that Coke.”