Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,140

or what?” Rob inquired.

“Yeah,” she said. “I just started about—sixteen years ago.”

“Sixteen years, and you don’t know Pat Webb—Spider Pat?”

“Night shift,” she informed him. “If you wanna talk to someone on night shift, you might wanna come at night. We don’t got dorms in back.” She lifted her pad to her chest. “Now, what’ll yas have?”

Rob ordered a turkey club with fries, Eddie M. got pancakes with sunny-side eggs on top, I asked for a grilled cheese, and Rourke pushed the menu toward the table rim. “Burger, medium rare.”

“Coffees?” she inquired, taking up menus.

Rourke said, “Yeah, for everybody.”

Rob pushed some quarters to the little jukebox suspended at the end of the table. He told Rourke to find something decent.

Eddie M. chuckled. “Find him ‘Stayin’ Alive.’”

“Fuck you, Eddie M.”

Eddie M. said, “You jellyfish. You love the Bee Gees.”

“You jerk off to Gordon Lightfoot.”

“Lightfoot’s a genius.”

“Genius!” Rob snorted. “Let me ask you something. ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’—what is that?” Rourke and I laughed, and Rob stated dryly, “I’m totally serious. What is that?”

“I’m telling you, he’s a poet,” Eddie M. muttered.

Rourke flipped the jukebox pages. He had the inside seat across from mine, so I couldn’t help but notice how his forehead was square and his cheekbones were prominent. His eyes had a black and avaricious clarity. The diner’s windows were coated with enormous transparencies to mitigate the view of the highway and to tenderize the inclement glare. The sapphire cellophane light gave the impression of things Mediterranean, of him where he naturally belonged, southern France, northern Italy, a village with battered streets along the coast of Spain—with me, in white, by his side.

“Want some?” Rob asked, gesturing to me with the ketchup.

I said no, thanks.

Eddie M. popped his eggs. “Seen Tommy, Harrison?”

Rourke said, “Yesterday.”

“At the gym?”

“Outside it.”

“I heard he got a fracture.”

Rob laughed. “A fracture? Some fracture. He looks like he got hit by a wrecking ball.”

“That’s right, and he’s still standing,” Eddie M. said. “Better watch your back, Harrison.”

Rob chucked a napkin at Eddie M. “You know what, Eddie M., shut up. And wipe the yolk off your mouth, for Chrissakes.”

Rourke put the money in the jukebox and Marvin Gaye came on. When the music started, we retreated, each of us, picking through the wilty last halves of fries and gazing into the theatrical stillness of the diner.

Mother, mother, there’s too many of you crying.

Brother, brother, brother, there’s far too many of you dying.

The dessert carousel stood sentry at the door. It was like a phosphorescent obelisk, twirling sleepily. The pastries marched around in a demented parade—towering meringues, tilting cakes, mammoth pies and puddings, balloon-like jelly rolls, surreal mousses. An older couple loitered at the register as they paid, satisfied and distracted. He was cleaning his teeth with a matchbox; she was straightening the vest of her peach summer suit. Past the window on the other side of the highway was another mall.

Everything looked different to me; everything was different. I felt an acuteness of being, a lonely fury of connectedness. It was as if I’d set off from home and its false promise of security and accidentally found sanctuary in the arms of my generation. Though I hadn’t gone far, I was worlds away. And being there was like occupying a place you have long feared, but in which you suddenly find yourself, and you think, This is okay, this is really okay.

C’mon, talk to me, so you can see

What’s goin’ on. Yeah, what’s goin’ on.

Rob’s fingers drummed the tabletop. He and Rourke looked at each other. Something passed between them, something dark but not newly dark. It was as if they were each privately thinking the same thoughts, sharing the same concerns.

“You headin’ out?” Rob asked.

Rourke reached for his wallet. “Yeah, right now.”

Rob lifted his hand. “I got it.”

“Me too?” Eddie M. asked, somewhat surprised.

“No, you bastard,” Rob said. “You pay for yourself.” Then he reached over and slid my sunglasses from the top of my head. He cleaned them carefully, using the soft corner of his sweatshirt. “I’m gonna have to teach you how to take care of these things.”

“I spent a weekend in Jersey once too,” my mother reminisced as she filled two coffee mugs with cold Chablis. Rourke had dropped me off just hours prior, though the two had not met. I’d called her the day before to say that I was safe and with friends. “At Princeton. Very memorable.” She handed me a cup. “Sorry about the mugs. I’ll do the dishes