Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,37

with a huff, I find that there’s no second act. I’ve confessed all of my sins to John Miller, every dirty deed I’ve done since we hit the road, and now as he stares at me expectantly, over a steaming plate of eggs and bacon and fries, I find I’ve got nothing left to tell him. There’s a deflating moment of silence. My omelet quivers slightly on my fork. John Miller wipes the tears from his eyes and exhales deeply.

“Shiiiit” is all he says.

We eat our meals quietly, much to the relief of the skinny manager, who still watches us suspiciously from the cash register. The tiny jukebox on our table makes me think about the first night I met Her . . . that time in Chicago so many years ago, back when we were young and unafraid, sort of like John Miller. How we kissed on the street, held hands beneath the table. How I traced the small of Her back with my fingers. And, oh, how much distance we’ve covered since then, how much we’ve changed, two arrows shot in opposite directions. She’s still writing me love letters and I am unmoved by them. They’re just words. I realize I do not love Her. I wish I hadn’t told Her I did.

I drop a quarter in the jukebox, summon the ghosts of ducktailed rockabilly cats and tousled-haired teen idols, sweet-voiced doo-wop singers and yelping young Negroes with wild pompadours. They were the kings of their era, the Imperials and the Belmonts, the Diamonds and the Del-Vikings. They were the savages of the decade, pounding the piano, and thumping the upright bass. Pulling pints of whiskey from their back pockets. Groping girls. Having wild times. None of that mattered in the end; they’re all dead now. Time always wins. Suddenly, I can’t bear to look at their names. One time, when I was a kid, my dad took me and my brother to a diner like this, with the same jukeboxes on the tables, and he let us each play a song. He gave us quarters and helped us scroll through the selections. My brother chose Buckner and Garcia’s “Pac-Man Fever.” I don’t know why I remember that.

This place has a sadness, an indefinable, intangible dread. John Miller doesn’t notice. He’s too busy shoveling food into his mouth. Watching him eat is disgusting, just a blur of elbows and french fries. Belching. He never comes up for air. I stare at him with a mixture of admiration and disdain. I get the feeling most people look at him this way. He doesn’t notice that either.

“Whas the matter?” he asks, his mouth full of yolk and potatoes. “You not hungry?”

I shrug.

“I gonna tell you something, man, based on my observations, and I hope you don’t git too mad or take it th’ wrawng way.” He reaches in his back pocket for his can of Skoal. “You promise me you won’t take it th’ wrawng way now, right?”

I nod.

“See, th’ thing with you is, man, you jess seem so sad. Like, sadder than prolly anyone I ever met. An’ from what I heard, you ain’t got nothing to be sad about. Now I may not have th’ whole pitchure, and I may not know you all that well, but based on what I’ve observed, on watchin’ you look around th’ place, not eatin’, lissenin’ to you talk about all those pretty girls you been with . . . you jess seem sad, man. It’s in yer eyes. Shit, but if I’m wrawng, jess tell me. Don’t git upset.”

He is not wrawng. I begin to worry that he can see right through me, that he can tell I’m a gigantic phony, perhaps the phoniest person alive. So I tell him the story of Her, the whole story, from when we met to that time I left Her crying on the bedroom floor, picking up pieces of Her shattered cell phone. That time when I was so unbelievably cruel. I tell him how she used to make me feel, how I opened myself up to Her and how she let me down more than anyone else has ever let another human being down. I tell him about the brawl with the philosopher and the trip to the emergency room. And finally, I tell him about the love letters she’s been sending me, and how they make me feel . . . like I’m snared, being pulled back down again. The waitress comes