We hung out at the counter nursing cups of bitter coffee. Outside in the darkness, past the mud-splattered plate glass, Highway 101 was a swollen river divided by logging trucks rolling down from Crescent City. It had been raining forever.
“So, are ya gonna do it or what?” Chuck asked, staring at the café's cash register.
“I don't know. If we get caught, we'll never get outta here. These good ole boys probably string hippies up by their balls.”
I scraped matted hair from my eyes and glanced sideways at Chuck. Rain from his poncho had dribbled onto the floor, leaving mud pools on the black and white squares.
“Yeah, but robbin' this joint's one way of beatin' the draft,” he cracked. “Get convicted of a felony and skip the trip to Vi-et-naam.”
“You need to steal at least a hundred bucks to make it a felony. You think this place has that much?”
Chuck slowly surveyed the empty café. “Naw, not tonight.” He shook his bear-like body and stared into his coffee cup.
We'd been hitchhiking for five months, had gone as far east as Montreal and Expo '67 and now were headed north from Santa Barbara to Seattle. But fall rains had marooned us in Eureka for most of the day.
“We gotta figure something out,” I continued. “At this rate, it'll take a week to reach the border.”
“We don' have enough bread to last that long.”
“No shit. Shut up and let me think.”
“That's your problem, too much thinkin.' Just do it, man.”
The lone waitress finished filling napkin containers at the far end of the counter. She limped toward us. Her round heavy body sported a tiny head with an absurd Barbie doll face.
“You boys want some more coffee? Somethin' to eat?” She sounded bored, had a low-pitched smoker's voice.
“Steak and eggs would be great,” Chuck said, grinning. “But I'll settle for a refill.”
“What are y'all doing around here, anyways?”
“Just passing through, trying to catch a ride to Seattle,” I said.
“You must be L.A. boys. Everybody knows it rains like hell around here this time of year.”
“Yeah, this was all Chuck's idea.” I dug him in the ribs.
“So where ya gonna stay tonight?” she asked.
“Right here, if you'll let us,” Chuck said.
“Sorry, buster. We close at midnight.”
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“You should try the Timberline Motel. Down two blocks on the left. Harold will give ya a good room for six bucks.”
“Can't afford it,” I said. “Think we'll be sleeping under a bridge…or maybe in somebody's car.”
A mighty gust of wind shook the café. Chuck and I jumped.
“I'd forget about sleepin' under a bridge,” she said. “The creeks will be up. Ya might try the abandoned sawmill about a mile north of town. The saw shed still has its roof.”
Another gust flung rain against the window. It sounded like gunshots.
I glanced sideways at Chuck. “I think we'd be washed away before getting there.”
“Sounds like you boys are pretty much screwed,” she said, grinning. “But at least ya got an hour or so more before getting wet again.”
“We appreciate that,” Chuck muttered, still eying the cash register.
She pointed at the battered case leaning near the front door along with our backpacks. “So which one of you plays that git-tar?”
“That would be me,” I said. “Do you want a song to while away these exciting hours?”
“Sure, but play soft 'cause the cook's snoozin' in the back. Fred gets mad when his beauty sleep is disturbed.”
My Gibson's bronze strings had already turned green from the dampness. I burnished them on the sleeve of my sheepskin jacket and tuned the guitar as best I could.
“Why don't ya play her that travelin' song, “Chuck said, yawning, “ya know, the one by Donovan.”
I nodded. My fingers still ached from the cold. I hummed and picked a few bars before singing. My voice took on a soft Scottish brogue; yet it sounded loud in that hard-countered and linoleumed café.
We stood in the windy city,
the gypsy boy and I.
We slept on the breeze in the midnight,
with the rain droppin' tears in our eyes.
And who's going to be the one
to say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
for I'm going to try for the sun.
The waitress flopped onto a stool, folded her arms and stared past me, as if waiting for Mr. Right to come pushing through the front door, some dude that could fill her life with something other than eggs over easy and a short stack on the side.
Mirror,
mirror, hanging in the sky,
Won't you look down
what's happening here below?
I stand here singing to
the flowers,
So very few people really know.
When I finished, nobody said anything. I played on, mostly Donovan and Dylan songs. The flash of headlights from the highway stopped and the rain slacked off, rolling now in quiet sheets down the window. Chuck slumped onto the counter and tucked his head between folded arms. Only the low gurgle from the stainless steel caldron of coffee broke the silence. I tiptoed to my gear and stowed the guitar.
“Looks like your partner needs his beauty sleep too,” the waitress said. “My name is Sheryl, by the way.”
“I'm John.”
“Did ya know that my name contains both female pronouns? One of my high school teachers showed me that.”
“Now that is somethin,' Sheryl.” I eyed the wall clock. She caught me looking.
“Oh for Christ's sake, it's almost closin.' I'll go check on Fred.”
She heaved herself up and pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
“Hurry, man. Do it now,” Chuck hissed.
I slipped from my stool and reaching across the counter, pushed the No Sale button. The cash register's drawer slid open. I snatched a ten-dollar bill and pulled the drawer shut. Sheryl backed through the swinging doors, carrying a pink donut box.
“Thought you guys might want ta finish these…they're too stale to sell and I'll just have ta throw 'em out.”
“Ah, ah, yeah, that's great,” I sputtered.
Chuck sat upright, groaning.
“You okay, John?” she asked. “Ya look kinda whipped.”
“I'm fine…but we…we gotta get going.”
“You sure ya got everything ya need - like the artist in that song?” She fingered the keys of the cash register, as if to open it.
I stared into her pink face.
She winked at me. “Just tell Harold I sent ya. He'll give you the best room in the place.”
“Ah, yeah, thanks.” I hustled to pull on my poncho and backpack. Chuck was already outside, hopping from one foot to the other, smoky breaths pouring from his nostrils.
“Come back and play me some songs if you pass through here again.”
“I'll do that. See ya, Sheryl, and…and thanks.”
I hurried out the door. Chuck and I walked into the darkness.
“So how much did ya get?”
“Ten bucks.”
“What was that all about with the fat chick?” We crunched our way northward along the gravel fringe of Route 101.
“She knew, man. She knew but didn't bust me.”
“Ya must have really got her motor runnin' with those songs.”
“Yeah, that's got to be it.”
I stared down the glistening highway at the reflected neon lights of the Timberline Motel. I thought of rain and strings and mirrors, and Barbie doll faces attached to aging bodies. Barbie, the doll that never grows old. My voice came up my throat like a cough.
“If we ever come back this way, I'm leavin' her a big tip.”
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one fat cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, an occasional play, and novels (that are hiding in his closet, awaiting editing). Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 85 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies (both print and online) including the Houston Literary Review, Storyteller, Boston Literary Magazine, and Underground Voices. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
story archived at http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/short/0709sanville-everything
