The Reason I Stay (4 page)

Before he has the chance to open his trap and say anything else, I retreat to the waiter’s station to calculate his bill. The two minutes it takes to do so provides me little relief from his presence.

He looks up at me when I return. It seems as if he’s about to open his mouth to say something, but I slap his check on top of the table. In a lucky play of fate, the Johnsons are waiting at the hostess stand, giving me the perfect excuse to walk away.

I greet them as best as I can in my angry state, pick up two menus, and direct them to their favorite booth. From the corner of my eyes I can see the asshole’s gaze following me, but I make a point in ignoring him. With the couple seated and looking at the menu—something completely useless, if you ask me, since they always ask for the same thing—I go get their pitcher of sweet tea.

On my way back from the kitchen, my eyes fall into the empty seat of booth nine, and I can’t help but to feel relieved. I deliver the tea to the Johnson’s and write down their usual Friday night order of shepherd’s pie and house salad.

Before walking back to the kitchen to place the order, I make a pit stop to collect the money for douchebag’s meal. For the forth time today, this man makes me feel one of the most uncomfortable sensations a person can feel. My breath hitches at the sight of the fifty-dollar bill lying on top of the check.

That’s the moment when I forget all about the Johnsons’ order, and that I’m working. All I can think about is that his total was eleven dollars and thirty cents, which means he left me thirty-eight dollars and seventy cents for a tip. Although in normal circumstances I’d be shooting fireworks out of my ears, this time, after all the bullshit and belittling he put me through, I’m completely outraged. I’m not a fucking charity case, or susceptible to bribery to make a little rich ass-clown feel better about his shitty self. Fuck him!

My head pounds with the amount of anger I’m feeling. I grab the money from the table and run outside. I’m not sure if I’ll find him, and I’m even less sure of my future actions if I do. All I know is that I’ve never, ever been this pissed.

T
he road in front of me is nearly empty, and the scenery is beautiful. That’s pretty much all I know at this point. I have absolutely no fucking clue where I’m going. None whatsoever. I’m just driving and staring at the most vibrant sunset I’ve ever seen.

The good news is I’m no longer thinking about being stuck in small towns. The bad news is that I’m now thinking about my life. Dennis’s words telling me to do just that come back to me, making this moment so much worse. It may be childish of me, but doing what he tells me to do physically hurts.

It’s been one hour since I paid for my meal and left that diner. One hour since I climbed in my car, angry as hell, and burned rubber away from Jolene. And one hour of hoping that every minute and every mile would put the many mistakes I made today behind me, but it hasn’t. In fact, it’s having the opposite effect. I’m remembering them more. As insane as it may sound, I blame the sunset, the trees, and the radio for that.

The problem with the sunset and the trees is that they surround me with colors that are all beautiful and aggravating just like
her.
I see the green of her eyes, the red of her lips, the purple of her fingernails, the gold of her hair, and the blue of her dress. They are all there in the sky and trees, all above and better than the black in the pavement, which is the only color that reminds me of myself. I want to close my eyes to avoid looking at those colors and forget, just as much as I want to keep them open and remember.

And then there’s the radio. The motherfucking radio. The very sucker that put me in this mess in the first place is now playing Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again”, a stupid song that seems to have been written for me, my life and this moment. So not only do I blame the radio for this mess, but I hate it. I want to break it into little pieces even as I crank up the volume, and against my own conscious will, start singing along with David Coverdale. My singing and the loud volume do little to distract me though, and my mind drifts.

I have this knot in my stomach and throat, my head feels heavy, and it’s all very uncomfortable. It is also hard to understand why I feel this, way and why I can’t stop thinking of all the times I’ve spoken to waiters and waitresses the way I spoke to Lexie. Although she didn’t spit in my food, she wanted to. That poses another problem I start to overthink: how many plates of spat-on food I’ve had in my life. If that messy reasoning wasn’t bad enough, I start to contemplate the real possibility that whatever number it was, I had it coming.

Throughout life, I’ve convinced myself that I wasn’t a jerk, and that I was just honest in a way people couldn’t take. Now I’m not so sure.

I spent my life saying what I thought, doing what I wanted, and never giving a damn. The weirdest part is that everyone around me always took my shit, and some even encouraged me. But Lexie didn’t, and it was fucking annoying and aggravating, and I hated it. It was also refreshing.

She is beautiful in a natural, confident way most girls aren’t. In hindsight, I’m kind of glad that the sarcastic thought about her name slipped from my mouth, because it made me remember it, and as bizarre as it is for me to admit, I want to remember her name. But the damn backwards woman got all mad, which made me angry, and then, just like the rules of my life, the shit hit the fan.

I’ve always thought that the worst part of the shit versus fan dilemma was having shit all over the place, but it’s not. The worst part of the dilemma is realizing that you are the shit that hit the fan. For the first time in my life I care. I care that all the things that I am, all those tiny pieces scattered by the fan, are made of shit.

I cared enough to get angry when Lexie made that point very clear. I cared enough to try and calm down. I cared enough to leave a big fat apology tip. And now, I care enough to think that just leaving the tip wasn’t enough and that I should apologize, not only for Lexie’s sake, but for all the other waitresses I have been a jerk to.

“Fucking mother of all the stupid decisions made by dumbasses trying to find a conscience,” I blurt out the moment I see a return sign. I hit the heel of my hand on the steering wheel just as Greta finishes the sharp turn. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t fucking believe that I’m doing this.”

A
fter my stupid decision to return to this insignificant speck of coast, I found myself following the suggestion of my gas station “dad” and rented a room at Sally’s.

The room is the best I have had in the past four months. It has a king-size bed, a living room and kitchenette area, and a tub I can actually fit my six-foot, three-inches body into. In addition to that, Magnolia, the girl at the front desk, informed me that a continental breakfast is included in the fee. However, since no good thing is ever perfect, this inn has two big problems. The first: the overstuffed floral furniture, along with the impression I get that this is the final resting place for every sheet of pastel wallpaper ever produced. The second is Sally Whitman.

Twenty minutes ago, just as Fatima, the inn’s cook, placed a heart-attack inducing plate of breakfast yumminess in front of me, Sally Whitman, the mayor’s wife—as she keeps telling me—and the inn’s owner, parked her boney ass in the chair across from me. I made the mistake of wishing her a good day, and she hasn’t stopped talking ever since. Considering I barely slept a wink, and that all the whiskey I downed last night has now turned into a dull but insistent, pounding headache, it’s safe to say that my mood is at a record breaking low, and therefore, not being a jerk to her is challenging.

“It really is a shame you’re not staying until next month, Mr. Rogers. I’m telling you, the carnival this year will be
something
!” She slaps her hand on the table so hard that everything, from the silverware to the table itself, shakes.

My eyes are instantly drawn to her face and then, unfortunately, to her hair. The slapping movement was brisk enough to make her thin body shake, however, the helmet-shaped mass sitting atop her head hasn’t moved at all. I stare at it in utter horror and shake my head, mostly to get my attention back to the conversation, but also to give her an idea of how normal hair should behave when a head moves.

“Yeah, it’s a shame,” I say.

The sarcasm in my voice completely eludes her. Her thin lips turn into a smile, and her eyes soften, which makes me think I just gave her the reply she wanted, and that I’m about to sit for another twenty minutes listening to all the reasons I should stick around. I fork a bit of the most delicious scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted—not that I’m really hungry anymore, but it’s either forking that or my eyes—and stuff it into my mouth in an attempt to avoid yelling profanities at her.

Her mouth opens and a doomsday chill runs through my still mildly intoxicated body. I can feel that I’m about to lose my shit, and that’s when a pocket-sized, messy miracle with matted sandy hair, red sportswear and dirty tennis shoes hops her way to my table.

“G’morning, Grandma,” she greets, and though her voice is all chipper, the smile she offers Sally is about as real as the one I’ve been offering the duration of my breakfast.

She’s the first normal looking thing I’ve seen since stepping foot in this town, and for that reason, she makes me smile. Sally, however, cranes her face to the side and runs her gray eyes up and down the girl’s body, her smile fading into nonexistence. “Good Lord, child, you’re a filthy mess,” she hisses.

I’m not one to be around many children, and my childhood is certainly nothing to compare normal children’s to; however I think that, despite my predisposition to jerkish behavior, the harsh tone Sally just used is not how grandmas should talk to their grandchildren. And though I don’t care to look at the two of them, mostly because I don’t want to see the kid cry, I can’t help but to feel even more animosity for Sally, and a greater gratitude that I’ll be out of this town soon.