the shutter. My brain does it anyway, framing each take mentally.
An old guy, wrinkles lining his eyes and mouth, the edge of a bottle of beer paused at his lip as he stares at the television over the bar. Snap.
A group of five guys wearing neon vests, work boots, and dirty jeans crowded around a table, looking like their day has already been enough to make them weary. Snap.
A bell rings out, drawing my attention to a cutout in the wall framing a middle-aged, heavyset woman who’s setting a plate in the window. “Order up!” she calls out. Snap.
I intentionally ignore the man behind the bar and make my way to a corner table, hiding in the slight shadow offered by a couple having a leisurely lunch, judging by the number of empty beer glasses that decorate their tabletop. To further disguise myself, I pick up a menu from the holder by the wall and duck into my shoulders.
“What can I getcha?” a voice asks from right beside me, the sentence all run together like it’s one multi-syllable word.
I startle at the direct question, but the waitress is looking at her notepad, not me. “Oh, uh . . .” I stammer, so caught up in my own mental games that I haven’t really looked at the menu. I hate being unprepared, but I make the quick decision to play it safe. “A cheeseburger.”
“Howd’ya want it cooked?” Her blonde ponytail swishes impatiently, her lashes dark against her cheeks. She’s young, at least a few years younger than me. Twenty-one or two, I’d guess, to my twenty-five.
Was I ever that young, though? Even as a child, I was an old soul. Not sure what that says about me now.
“Medium.”
“Ell-tee-oh-pee and fries?” Olivia asks. Olivia. That’s her name, according to her nametag. I have no idea what she’s asking, other than fries, and the confusion must show on my face. “Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, fries?”
“Sure.” She scribbles on her notepad before hustling away. I realize a moment later that I forgot to order a drink. But as I watch the goings-on around me, Olivia saves me by bringing a glass of water with a lemon wedge.
“Let me know if you want a beer or soda or anything.”
A shot of whiskey, I think but don’t say out loud. Instead, I smile politely and nod.
I take my time squeezing the lemon and unwrapping the straw just for something to do. But once that’s done, I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.
I look at the bar. More specifically, I finally look at the man behind the far end of the bar . . . Hank Davis. He’s over seventy now, but the leathery skin peeking out of his short-sleeved T-shirt is covering lean muscles and etched with old tattoos. The scowl on his face is familiar, gut-punchingly so, but I swallow the bile that tries to rise, helping it down with a sip of water. His eyes are blue and bright, clear as a summer sky, and full of sharp intelligence even from here. If he’s anything like I remember, I’ll have to be careful or he’ll figure me out in an instant.
He’s talking with the old guy watching the television, but I can’t tell what they’re saying, only that they seem friendly. Hank is mindlessly drying a beer glass with a white towel, which he sets on a shelf beneath the bar before grabbing another glass. I imagine the two men are giving each other shit over the ball game playing. Maybe they have a bet on who’s going to win. I do that a lot, create entire scenarios for the people around me, giving them personalities and backstories. I like the real stories too, but when I don’t know, I fill in the blanks for myself.
The lady in the window calls out for another order and Olivia grabs the plate. Not needing to check her ticket, she brings it directly to me. “Anything else?”
Having decided against the whiskey for real, I answer, “No, thank you.” I bite into the burger, moaning at the unexpected deliciousness. It’s fresh, hot, and stacked with the crispness of fresh veggies. A pickle falls out, and I snag it, crunching it alone. I think it’s home-canned. Oh, my God, I could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. I want to go peek in the cook’s window and tell her that I appreciate the life-changing flavor of her food as an accompaniment to my day.