Page 3 of Chaos

As soon as the man’s hand wrapped around my wrist, I considered throat punching him and hated Gretchen a little for not serving her own food.

“Are you Dad or his skillet? You’re a saucy little thing.” He laughed as I pulled my arm from his grasp and gritted my teeth to keep from cussing him on the spot. I didn’t think I would have gotten in trouble for it, but there were a few kids in Marian’s section, and I didn’t want to be the one to introduce them to the word “fuck”. A few morals still resided somewhere inside me, but they weren’t found easily.

Sam loudly cleared his throat from behind me, and I knew this guy would soon regret ever touching me. My eyes widened, and the tip of my tongue found the inside of my jaw. This wasn’t going to be a pretty scene.

“Sir, another trick like that will get you a tour of the back. You don’t want that tour. Trust me,” Sam said, wiping his hands on his apron and cracking his neck. “Eat your food, leave a generous tip for both ladies for being less than a gentleman, and then be on your way.”

The man’s Adam’s apple jetted up his throat and quickly fell, followed by him nodding his head in agreement.

“Now, do you need anything for your steak?” Sam remained calm as his Southern drawl thickened in his words. Over the years, Sam’s accent had conformed to resemble something of the locals, but when he was drunk or upset, there was no denying he was from New Orleans.

Gretchen rounded the corner and stopped a few feet shy of Sam. She cocked her head to the side, shocked to see him out of the back of the house. The kitchen area of a restaurant is often referred to as the “back of the house” amongst the food service industry. “He wanted steak sauce.” Her voiced peaked as she shoved her cell phone behind her ordering pad, and her eyes flashed to Sam to make sure he didn’t see the movement. She was texting. I didn’t understand why she was trying to hide it from Sam. He didn’t care as long as the customers were happy. Excluding this particular one, obviously.

Sam headed toward the back of the house and then turned on his heels, swiping a bottle from table eight.

“Ketchup. You get ketchup. No one will be making a special trip for you.” He slammed the bottle in front of the man with such force it surprised me the bottle didn’t shatter. “Hope you never find out why this is my skillet.” Sam smiled and tipped his imaginary hat. “Enjoy your meal,” he sternly said and then loudly whispered, “asshole.” The volume of his voice was low enough to where the kids couldn’t hear, but everyone standing around did.

In the eighties, Sam and his wife moved to Blackwell and opened Dad’s Skillet together. Lorene passed away eight years ago from cancer, without the two ever having children together. He told me he had considered closing the restaurant, but knew she would haunt “his old ass” if he did. Secretly, I knew this restaurant to be his life. There were lifeless chain restaurants across the world, but Dad’s Skillet was alive. You could practically feel the history its walls collected over the many years it’d remained open for business. Every blemish in its construction, down to a few holes in the booths, told an epic tale. Every time I thought I had heard all of the stories it had to tell, someone told me another. I didn’t enjoy many things nowadays, but I loved this diner and most of the people who worked inside.

Sam was more of a father figure to me than he ever was a boss. I still was not sure what convinced him to hire me six years ago, but I was thankful he had. I’d just arrived in town, wearing a pair of filthy flip-flops, and was running from anything that resembled my past. Not the best shoe choice for running, but luckily, Sam put an end to my marathon. I’d bounced to and fro for around a year and was tired of wandering, but wanted to get as far away from the life I left behind, as it was too painful to remember. Forgetting was easier. Giving up the good memories with the bad was something I was willing to do to forget the pain. Those memories were unbearable; they clawed and pierced my soul, taking away irreplaceable pieces, and left the mangled person I was today.

Most days, I simply forgot everything and busied myself with work, along with whatever else I could find to fill my time and occupy my mind. I put up emotional and mental blinders, because I refused to give in to the throbbing ache I felt to remember. I missed Mom and Jaxson, my little brother. I often thought of them. Were they happy? Seven years was a long time to not speak to people you love. Too much time had passed to allow them to fill the space I left in their life with someone or something else. Too much time had passed for someone else to embrace them in the hugs I should have been giving them. I came from a long line of huggers, and it wasn’t until my move that I even questioned that fact. Now, I reserved my hugs for the very minute list of people I cared for, which was microscopic. If I had to find something positive in all of that, at least I wasn’t giving hugs to everyone anymore. If no other good outcome came from walking away from my past, I could be thankful I was no longer a hug whore. I could openly admit I used to give them out to any and everybody. These days, I gave a little more thought into whom I embraced.

Mom texted, almost daily, but I never responded. I couldn’t. I doubt they’d ever be able to forgive me. I knew without any doubt I would never forgive myself, but I wasn’t strong enough to stay. I was too young to have the strength I needed to face the nightmares I lived.

The bell chimed, saving me from teetering further into the past, letting me know seven’s food was ready. I picked it up with a nod to Sam in appreciation, never mentioning the incident that unveiled a short time ago. Everyone knew to go on working as if it didn’t happened. Sam was a great man who had a temper, but he rarely showed it. Generally, if he did, something happened to warrant his actions. Even if he was pushing seventy, Sam was extremely fit and not someone you wanted to mess with. His bullshit filter was short-fused. Rumors floated in hushed tones he had been a reaper for the Chained Rebels motorcycle gang in his younger days, but I wasn’t entirely convinced he still didn’t have his hand in the club. Either way, it didn’t sway my opinion of him.

As I approached the table, I watched the bearded man stare out the window, and then his eyes landed on mine. I noticed something I hadn’t before. There, in his eyes, lay an emotion I wished I couldn’t recognize. Loneliness. Feeling alone and actually being it were two very different things. Unfortunately, he and I were the latter. Lonely people tended to hold a beacon only other lonely people could identify, as if everyone else traipsed the earth clueless loneliness existed and were blind to the beacon that shone so brightly to the rest of us. It had become part of who I was, and I was comfortable with that.

“Hot blueberry stacks.” Mindlessly, I described the dish with a little too much pep in my tone, which was useless. Not enough time had passed to allow either of us to forget his order. Judging by his arched questioning eyebrow, I was confident he’d figured out I’d caught onto his secret of underlying loneliness.

“Thanks,” was all he said before unrolling his silverware and turning his attention back out the window.

Expecting to see the world ending or maybe a plane crash, I let my eyes wander where his seemed to be fixated. Perhaps a type of disaster. Something you didn’t see every day. A tornado. I made up my mind. A tornado seemed worthy enough to lure apart two wary, kindred souls such as ourselves.

When my eyes followed his, nothing extraordinary caught my attention, and I looked twice just to be positive I wasn’t missing something extravagant. I saw nothing at all that was even a little bit interesting. The Schwartzes were opening their flower shop. Cornel turned the wooden sign from closed to open and brought out their sale items for the day, petunias and bleeding hearts as the sign swung, indicating waves of a light breeze. Agatha passed him on his way back into the store; he tenderly kissed her on the head and cupped her cheek. She squeezed his hand and smiled as she continued out the door, sweeping the settled dirt from the sidewalk. The tender touches they shared were sentimental, if you were into that type of thing, but they were ordinary things. They happened daily.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected. He didn’t know me any more than I knew him, but I felt connected with him. Perhaps I did need someone in my life so badly I was desperately finding familiarity in a stranger. In that moment, I decided I would find a friend or maybe get a cat. Definitely a cat. Felines didn’t argue.

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