Are You Sitting Down? (37 page)

I spotted a plane in the air.
It’s blinking red light way up above took me back to my own days of Santa Claus.
Our grandparents would offer to take the five kids out looking at Christmas lights
after dinner
.
Mom and Dad were supposedly in the car behind us following along.
Grandmother would point out a blinking red light in the sky and tell us it was Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
It’s funny how the
magic of a child’s Christmas was built on little white lies.

Mom and Dad magically beat us back home and waited on the front porch for us to drive up, knowing we wanted to race inside to see if Santa had come.
Boot tracks of snow were still fresh on the carpet.
The cookies had been eaten; the milk glass was empty.
And an array of toys and wrapped gifts, ones that had not been there when we left, were now nestled by the tree.

White lies.
The though
t
of it made me laugh.
The White Family lies.
I didn’t know what was worse, lying about som
e
thing or not saying anything at all.
No lies had been told about Calvin,
but
Mom’s silence
wa
s as
bad
as a fib.
At least, i
t was to me now.

I pulled into a gas station that was lit up like a casino.
Si
t
ting in my car at the pump, I waited a few seconds looking for an attendant to move around on the inside.
I wanted to make sure they were open.
Not seeing anyone, I got out of the car and walked up to the entrance.
With hesitation, I pulled on the door expecting it to be locked but it opened.
A curly headed lady chewing gum stood up from her stool behind the counter.
She was watching a black and white Christmas movie on a small ten inch screen.

“Hey ya’ll,” she said, vaguely looking in my direction.

I turned to see if someone was coming in behind me who I had not spotted when I was outside, but there was no one.

“Hi.
Just came in to see if you were open.”

“Yep.
Twenty-four, seven, three sixty-five,” she said
,
sign
i
fying they were always open.

“You traveling through?”
s
he asked, smacking her gum.

“I guess you could say that.
Do you have any coffee?”

“Sure don’t.
Not too busy tonight, so I didn’t make any.
I didn’t want it to sit and go stale.
If you wanna wait, I’ll make a pot.”

“That’s okay.
I’ll
just fill up and be on my way.
Can I use your
rest
room?”

She
pointed to a door in the back corner.
It whined on its heavy hinges as I pulled it open.
It was dark inside, so I flipped on the light and expected to see the horror which is a public gas station toilet.
Surprisingly, this one was as clean as my own and smelled of lemons.
The floor shined from a nice wax job and there was no writing on the walls.

I didn’t need to use the restroom.
I just felt the need to splash some cool water on my face.
The sink had cold and hot water, and both worked.
There was one of those public res
t
room vending machines on the wall next to the mirror.
I gazed at its contents: cough drops, aspirin, cheap cologne, and co
n
doms.
The advertisements for each were crude drawings of a stick man coughing or holding his head, except for the co
n
doms.
A bright colored scantily clad pin up girl stood above the crank to buy those.
She towered over the stick men like a giant.

As a teenager I had always been intrigued by the tiny boxes these condoms came in.
It was like those quarter m
a
chines ou
t
side the grocery store for gum or small toys, only for grown-ups.
I dug in my pocket for two quarters to buy one
now
.
I had not bought anything like this in years.
Justin and I never pra
c
ticed safe sex.
We had an unopened box of condoms from the pharmacy in the nightstand that remained there for the whole ten years we were together.

I turned the crank and a tiny matchbox size pack slid out i
n
to the tray at the bottom of the machine.
I picked it up and admired the same pin up girl on the machine
also
printed on the little box.
I undid the flap at the top and checked inside to find the pinkish balloon rolled up and sealed in a small pla
s
tic bag. I closed the flap and tucked the box into my pocket. I don’t know what kind of protection I thought
it
could give me now.

“If you got time, I know where you can go and get a nice cup of coffee,
maybe a piece of pecan pie too,”
the woman
said when I returned to the front counter.

“Lady, I got all night.”

“Name’s Peggy.”

“I’m Travis.”

“Hi, Travis.
You know where Cozy’s is?”

“I don’t think so.”

“
It’s d
owntown.
Take the strip to the courthouse and it’s on the south side, opposite the
veteran’s memorial. I can write it down for you if you want,” she said grabbing a pen and a na
p
kin.

“I think I can find it.
You sure they are open tonight?”

“Twenty-four, seven
…”

“Three sixty-five,” I finished.

“You got it!”

“Thanks for telling me.
Merry Christmas, Peggy,” I said paying for the gas.

“Same to you, Travis, and you be careful out there.
If you see
Ricky down at Cozy’s, tell him Peggy sent ya.”

“I’ll do that.”

I pumped the gas and then drove downtown.
All of the shops along the perimeter of the square were lit with strands of white lights bordering all of the windows.
Cozy’s was easy to find as it was the only business lit up on the inside.
A blue neon sign blinked OPEN in the window.
A strand of large co
l
ored bulbs—red, orange, green, and blue—blinked around the door.
There were
two
other cars and a truck parked in the front.
I pulled in next to them and went inside.
The clang of a cow bell announced my arrival.
It reminded me of the bell Mr. Greer had hanging on the door
at the
grocery.

A large bosomed lady was crocheting in one of the booths.
She never looked up from her work, and seemed to be talking or singing to herself. An old man on a barstool at the counter feebly turned his stool to look at me.
He was as skinny as a walking stick and raised his hand for a slow painful-like wave when I came in the door. His tobacco stained grin was unus
u
ally reassuring.

A
clean
young man behind the counter gave a nod
.
He was skinny and pale with fire red short hair peeking out from under a trucker’s ball cap.
He had a soul patch of hair down his pointy dimpled chin, and large almond brown eyes.
I had a
l
ways had a strange attraction toward red heads.

“Sit anywhere you want to.
I’ll be right with ya,” he said in a deep southern twang with a smile from ear to ear as if I had saved him from the misery of his geriatric customers.

Cozy’s was a daisy yellow room with checkered picnic t
a
blecloths and silk holly branches in fruit jars on the table next to disposable salt and pepper shakers.
Faded newspaper cli
p
pings were framed on the walls next to copies of old menus signed by politicians and celebrities who had passed through over the years.
Black and white photos of the courthouse and the days of horse drawn wagons and dirt roads hung hapha
z
ardly over each booth.
The guy behind the counter brought a cup of coffee to me
with
a menu.
I noticed the name tag on his
bleach white
apron said Tate.

“Cook’s gone home to play Santa, but should be back in about fifteen if you want something from the kitchen.”

“Coffee should be fine for now.
Can I
have
some cream and sugar?”

“Sure,” he said stepping behind the counter
again
.
He filled a small pitcher with cream and brought it back to the t
a
ble with a
set of silverware and a
bowl of packets of sugar and swee
t
ener.

“Thanks,” I said clearing my throat.

“How ‘bout a piece of pie?”

“What kind do you have?”

“Pecan, cherry, apple, pumpkin, chess, chocolate, coc
o
nut, and banana cream,” he r
ecited
.
“Pecan is the best.
My mom makes it.”

“Pecan it is then.
Can you warm it
up
?”

“
No problem
. How ‘bout a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side or some whipped cream?”

“Ice cream sounds good
right on the top so it melts
.”

“Coming right up
.
I eat mine the same way
,” he said
with a wink.

Behind the counter again, h
e cut a slice
from the pie chest
and popped it into the microwave for thirty seconds, then do
l
loped it with a scoop of ice cream.