Page 119 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits
I’m so proud.
I take a moment to become aware of my surroundings. There isn’t much to see. It’s all just flat desert with the occasional cactus popping up out of the ground. Even in February, it’s hothere in the day, but at night it’s far cooler than I expected. Mina’s not wearing her jacket so I take mine off and drape it over her shoulders.
“Admit it, you just bought this so you could wear it.”
She smiles at me and pulls the leather tight against her.
How a diner this far out in deserted bumfuck stays afloat is anybody’s guess. But it was the only food stop for miles and miles on that patch of highway, and the sign from the main road makes it seem like it’s much closer than it is. I guess Laney is betting once you’ve started down the road to the diner, you’re committed so you may as well see it through and get something to eat while you’re out here.
The diner itself is floor-to-ceiling glass windows all the way around except for the back where the kitchen is. It feels like we’re about to eat at a car dealership. The roof is all weird jutting angles, making me think this place may not just be mimicking a 1950’s aesthetic, but may actually have been standing here this long.
The door chimes when I open it for Mina.
“We’re on a date on Valentine’s day,” she says.
“It is not a date,” I grumble.
She punches me in the arm and winks. “You know it’s a date, Brian. And just in time, too.” She points up at the clock over the counter that, if correct, tells us it’s 11:47. Only thirteen minutes until this disgustingly sweet love holiday is over.
There are red roses on all the tables to celebrate this day of saccharine sweetness. Large pink and red paper hearts hang down from a water-damaged ceiling. The hearts sway lightly back and forth from the air vents.
An elderly woman with long gray hair pulled back into a bun and a light blue dress with small white polka dots and a white apron greets us with menus. “You can just sit wherever you wantdoll, I’ll get ya in just a minute. We serve breakfast all day and all night,” she says to Mina.
She’s a transplant from some southern state, and has a thick drawl.
She doesn’t make eye contact with me or even acknowledge my existence, but I know she just had thathairs standing up on the back of your neckfeeling with me. She feels me, even if she won’t look at me. Well, that at least makes me feel a bit better about myself. I’m still me, and stranger danger still means something in the world.
Mina takes the offered menus and guides us to a booth at the back.
“This okay?” she asks me.
I nod and take the seat facing the door. I know we’re in the middle of nowhere, far from the danger of opportunists who know me, but old habits die hard. There’s only one customer entrance. I imagine there’s an emergency exit next to the bathrooms and if there isn’t one there, there’s definitely one back in the kitchen.
From what I can tell there’s a cook and two waitresses working tonight—the older woman and a younger redhead taking care of the other side of the diner. A lone man sits at a table between the front door and an old-fashioned jukebox that thankfully isn’t playing. Maybe it’s just decorative.
A few tables down directly between our booth and the exit sit two large men. I assume the two semi-trucks out in the parking lot are theirs. They’re wearing old blue shirts with a white patch and thick red embroidery that has their name stitched on it.
Floyd and Mack. It’s anybody’s guess if these are their real names or if they got the shirts at Goodwill.
There’s an older man in a tattered brown coat slurping on a bowl of soup. He’s sitting at the counter directly across from us and just a few feet away from Mina, which I don’t love, butI’m not going to relocate us over it. Besides his proximity, our location is perfect, and it’s not as though he’s a threat to anyone.
A few minutes later, the older waitress returns. She sits a nearly full coffee pot on our table that she just used to pour refills for the truckers. She wipes her hands on her apron and pulls out a pad of paper and a pencil. Her name tag reads, “Dottie.”
Given the clientele of this diner, it’s immediately apparent how they stay in business even staying open all night in the middle of nowhere. It seems to be a popular place for truckers.
“Now, what can I get you two?”
She’s looking at Mina, still avoiding my gaze, but I speak first. “Dottie, I’ll have a T-bone, medium rare, hash browns, two eggs sunny side up, and a coffee. Black.”
She furiously scribbles down my order. “And for you, darlin?” She looks at Mina a little too intently, as though she’s looking for signs I’m beating her.
“Blueberry pancakes, the famous ones, and coffee,” Mina says, tossing her a disarming smile.
“Cream and sugar?”
“No, black.”
“Coming right up.” She’s barely stepped away from the table when she yells: “Hank!” and proceeds to take the order back to a cook who just appeared in the window as if by magic. He was probably taking a nap back there. She clips our order to a creaky metal wheel and spins it to the large guy in the kitchen who looks at it, grunts, and then gets to work.
