A Dubious Drive: Part I

Part I of VI

It must have been past midnight when I arrived. In a city that supposedly never slept, I didn’t think it’d be too hard to find a quaint little diner to have some coffee and a quick meal. I was starving and dead tired. Vegas was exactly what I needed.

I didn’t want to go near the strip. The food was probably better but the stop lights would kill me. Instead, I moved east of the strip, the type of place my parents would tell me to avoid. It was the type of place that Creed would place himself intentionally just for the sake of being there.
I didn’t know where I was but I did know that given the amount of melanin in my skin, it probably would be wise to turn down my music when driving through this part of town. Finally, I came up on a diner that was exactly what I wanted.

As I pulled into the gravel driveway I could hear the little pieces of earth crackling under my car.

Just as I was about to park, I noticed that the Atmosphere song I had been listening to was about to end. I was hoping for the bass to peak out as I pulled into the spot and for the song to end entirely as I turned off my car. I was too late and the next track started, maybe next time. It could happen one day – music was always playing in my car.

The lot was nearly empty but I still locked my car and walked in.

The diner was more barren than the parking lot. I sat down in a booth in the corner and removed my hat. I looked at where I was sitting.

The booth was made of thick red cushion. I could feel the grease everywhere. I don’t think it had been spilled directly onto the table, just built up over the years instead. I could feel the fat and oil in the air. It filled my lungs.

While I waited, I played with my hat’s brim. The waitress approached me and read me instantly, “I’ll get you a coffee.” I didn’t even ask. She came and left the pot. I liked this one. She left me alone too, only came by to fill my coffee up.

Just as I was finishing up an older man walked in.

He was either a veteran or just out of prison – maybe both. The messy, salt and pepper stubble growing out of his cheeks and under his chin didn’t agree with the figure of his muscular and imposing body. He was rigid and well-built, like a lineman, yet he had a frailty in his more sensitive features. To one degree, this man looked as though he’d been hurt; to another, he looked like he had done the hurting.

For some reason, I felt the desire to talk to him. I never felt something like that before and I don’t think I ever felt it again. As if he sensed what I was feeling, he walked over and sat down next to me.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Aron.”

“Mind if I sit down with you?”

“Not at all.”

“How was the drive?”

I was surprised but responded quickly, “No cops all the way from LA to here. It was fantastic.”

“I made that drive a few times myself,” he said as he looked down at the pot of coffee on the table.

The waitress looked over at him and brought a cup. He looked at me. I looked back at him.
Up close, he looked almost as bad as me.

He looked over and asked, “What happened?”

I shook my head and looked down at my plate, “Who are you?”

- Adam T. O'Neal