Tin & Spit

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Thursday, February 11, 2010

Veteran




Veteran


by Sam Ford



Lottie worked as a waitress at the Trail’s End Cafe in Coutell, South Dakota just off Interstate 90. It was a small diner, no more than thirty seats. On Saturdays and Sundays the Trail’s End was jammed with folks from as far away as four counties. During the weekdays there was an early morning rush of hunters and laborers on their way to work. Lunch had its own crowd of locals, truckers, gossiping housewives, and people passing through on their way out further west. The dinner crowd was the same minus the housewives. The place stayed open till midnight. Lottie favored the late shift because it allowed her to come straight home without having to figure out what she was going to do with her evening. If she did work an earlier shift, sometimes she’d drive to the Hilltop Drive-In in Gregory.

She lived in a small single story house on the edge of Coutell. She was 48 years old. She read pulp novels by her wood stove in the winter. In the spring and summer she tended to a decent sized vegetable garden on her property. Sometimes she’d sell the vegetables at the farmer’s market in Hayden.

It was a Tuesday in May of 1974 and Lottie was taking a smoke break in the rear parking lot of the Trail’s End. She pulled a Virginia Slim from her purse, struck a match, and lit it. Two truckers were talking shop by one of their rigs about twenty yards away. Lottie watched them share a laugh and shake hands as they parted. She liked truckers and had certainly known a few in the extra way.

Back inside the restaurant, the late night rush was long over and the place was dying down. It was getting on 11:00. A few stray loners sat at the counter drinking coffee, finishing their meals. A family of four got up from their booth and waved goodbye at Lottie. She waved back as she filled refilled a trucker’s chipped porcelain cup.

The cook, a Lakota named Luke, was starting to break things down. He moved the produce to the fridge along with all of the prepped items, the eggs, the meats, and the cheese. It’d been a fairly mellow night for the kitchen. A handful of burgers and other sandwiches. Maybe a t-bone or two. Luke was fifty-seven years old. He had long hair that he held back in a net. His face had canyons carved across it. He didn’t speak much. His assistant was his nephew, James. James was twenty and full of fire. He moved one hundred times as fast as Luke and talked one hundred times as much. He was a good-looking kid and he always had someplace to be.

The dishwasher was a Mexican kid named Carlos. He was sixteen; fresh eyed, fresh faced, and barely spoke a lick of English. He lived with his mother in a trailer one county over. He smiled whenever James said anything but when Luke spoke he did exactly as he was told.

Lottie put the glass coffee pot back on the warmer. There were three men sitting at the bar, each separated by three or more seats. She yawned and walked back to the kitchen. Carlos was scrubbing down a series of cast-iron frying pans and he looked up and offered a timid grin at the sight of her. James was on his way back from the payphone. He breezed past Lottie and threw an apron on.

“Any big plans tonight, Jamie?” she asked him

“I always got big plans, miss,” James said.

Luke and Lottie shared a look.

“You want somethin’ to eat?” Luke asked her.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lottie said.

“How many left out there?” James asked.

“Just a few at the counter. It’s coffee and pie from here on out. You guys can break it all down.”

Lottie made her way back to the front.

“I’ll take my check,” she heard a man say. He was long-bearded and stout; his gut hung over his brown leather belt with a brass Siskiyou buckle that read, “Ride The Wind”. Lottie tore his check from her pad. The fella’ threw down a five and two singles, lit a cigarette, and walked out.

Lottie stared out the window, watching the headlights fly across the interstate. Another customer dropped a five on the Formica and walked out without a word. Lottie watched him lumber off, his wallet chain clinking against his keys like spurs. There was one man left sitting at the far end of the counter. He was wearing a short-sleeve western style shirt, a mesh hat, and work boots that were beaten to hell. He appeared to be in his late 20’s. A week’s worth of stubble covered his face and his eyes were far away and tired. His skin was raw from the sun. Lottie’d seen a hundred like him. The wayfarers. The almost-hobos. A guy who’d be pumping gas one week, picking oranges the next.

He was sipping coffee and smoking a Lucky Strike. Lottie walked over to him.

“Get you anything else?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks,” the fella’ said, cracking a gentle smile. His teeth were pretty bad but the smile worked. Lottie allowed herself the attraction. “If you wanna’ get outta’ here,” he said, “I’ll pay up and go.”

“You’re fine,” Lottie said. “I’m gonna’ go ahead and start closing the place but you let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” the fella’ nodded.

Lottie started breaking down the stainless steel blender, cleaning the countertops, bringing the cakes and pastries from their display cases into the kitchen. The fella’ watched her. He looked at her in her pastel pink uniform dress. He watched her and then he looked outside. He put his knuckle to his mouth.

Lottie started sweeping around the booths. She leaned back and stretched, blowing her hair away from her face. She looked over at the man at the bar. He was watching her. She leaned the broom up against the counter and moved toward him.

“You need anything?” she asked him.

“You know a place to stay in town?” he asked her.

“Where’re you comin’ from?” she said.

“Well...” the fella’s answer faded into a bashful smile.

Lottie looked at his neck, his forehead, his lips. It’d been a while.

“There’s a roadhouse,” she said. “Maybe you passed it. About a quarter mile down the highway. We could have a drink.”

James burst out from the kitchen, startling Lottie and the fella’.

“See you later, miss,” James said, and he was gone, out the front door and into his truck.

A silence fell on the diner. The hum of the neon sign whirred like a horsefly.

“I’m not lookin’ for anything,” the fella’ at the counter said.

“We’ll have a drink,” Lottie said.

“Are you married?” the man asked.

“No,” Lottie answered. He was even younger than she’d thought.

“You don’t know me,” he said. “I might be a bad guy.”

Lottie snickered. She turned and walked into the kitchen.

Luke was almost done shutting things down. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Carlos was hard at the dishes. Scrubbing the hell out of a cast-iron skillet.

“You let Jamie out pretty early,” Lottie said to Luke.

“I was young once too,” Luke said.

Lottie smiled. “I’m gonna’ finish sweeping. Do the receipts. Then I’m gonna’ get going. You okay locking the place behind me, Luke?”

Luke paused a moment. He took a drag and rubbed his bark-brown eyes. “Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Lottie said. She turned to walk back into the dining room.

***

The roadhouse was called The Range and it was pretty empty save the occasional trucker and local fly. Conway Twitty was crooning from the jukebox and it mixed with the shattering of pool balls from a billiard table. There was an empty stage straight ahead from the entrance. Peanut shells and cigarette butts were scattered across the hardwood floor and in between the planks. A neon Schlitz sign flickered some.

The bartender, Ralph, a beer-gutted crew-cutted man in his early 50’s made his way over to Lottie and the fella’.

“Fixing to shut ‘er down pretty soon, Lottie,” Ralph said. “I’ll give you one fer last call.”

“That’ll be fine, Ralph,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “What’ll you have?” she asked her companion.

“I’ll have a shot of rye and a Pabst Blue Ribbon,” the fella’ said.

“How ‘bout you, Lottie?” Ralph asked.

“I’ll have the same,” Lottie answered.

“You got it,” Ralph said. He placed two shot glasses in front of them, pulled a bottle from his speed-rack and poured the whiskey. Then he opened two bottles of PBR and sat them on the bar. “That’ll be nine altogether.”

Lottie laid a ten and two singles on the bar.

“Much obliged,” Ralph said, ambling off. Lottie and the fella’ heard the punching of the register, the drawer flying open. “Last call,” Ralph barked.

“What’s your name?” Lottie asked the fella’.

“Chris,” the fella’ said.

“Nice to meet you, Chris,” Lottie said. “I’m Lottie.”

“I heard,” Chris smiled at her. He pulled out a soft pack of Lucky Strikes, cracked open a Zippo, and lit one. He put the Zippo on the bar. Lottie picked it up and examined it. It was engraved: “VIETNAM / BINH LONG / 70-71 / If I had a farm / In Vietnam and / A home in hell / I’d sell my farm / And go home”.

A man in his early 70’s with a well-worn fedora and suspenders holding up dark blue pleated pants got up from the bar and staggered out of the place.

“Don’t ever get old,” he grinned toothlessly at Chris as he passed.

“I’ll do my best,” Chris said.

“What brings you to this town?” Lottie asked.

“I’m passing through,” Chris drew from his cigarette. “I’m trying to get out to Los Angeles. I’ve got a friend there who works building movie sets. Says there’s a job, he’s got a job for me if I want. So. I dunno. Figure I’ll get out there and do that for a while.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Originally from Indiana.” Chris drank his shot down. He exhaled and took a slug from his bottle of beer.

Lottie took her shot. She winced a bit. Chris looked at her in her waitress uniform. It was pink and seersucker and it had some lace along the collar and it buttoned in the front. It had a few stains on it and her shoes were big shoes like the ones nurses wore. He noticed a tiny bit of grey in her light brown hair. She had a few freckles on her face. Her breasts were full and he caught their shape pretty good under that pink seersucker waitress uniform.

“You live close by here?” he asked her.

“Why?” Lottie said.

“’Cause I wanna’ take you back to your place.”

“And do what?”

Chris felt his mouth get dry. He stole another sip from his beer and dragged long on the Lucky. Conway turned into The Stones. Chris shut his eyes for a moment.

Lottie touched his arm. Chris slowly opened his eyes. Lottie looked in them. The smile he tried to muster made them sad in the dim bar-light.

“I’m not looking for anything,” Chris said. “Just a place to stay.”

“I’ve got a place for you to stay,” Lottie said.

***

They pulled into Lottie’s driveway around one in the morning. The house was small. One story with a small front yard. Chris followed behind her as they made their way to the front door. There were a billion stars in the sky. Crickets were piercing the night with their song.

Lottie flipped on the kitchen light once they were inside. Chris sat himself at a little table by a window. There were flowers on the table and Chris leaned in to smell them. They didn’t smell like much to him but they looked nice. He noticed some assorted pieces of junk mail mixed with a small pile of photographs.

“You want a beer?” Lottie asked, making her way to the fridge.

“Sure,” Chris said.

The kitchen, and as far he could tell, the whole house looked as though it hadn’t left the 50’s. The wallpaper was peeling in places and in other places the wood was showing through. There were assorted trinkets and souvenirs in places. Tiny porcelain animals lined the kitchen windowsill. Chris picked up a lion and examined it. One of its ears had chipped off.

“Where’d you get these…little critters?” Chris asked.

Lottie turned and looked at him. “They come from all over, I guess,” she said.

She handed Chris a bottle of Budweiser. She had her own and she sat down across from him at the kitchen table. They looked at each other a moment. Chris felt nervous and he sipped his beer. Lottie got up.

“I’m gonna’ put on some music,” she said. “Is there anything you like?”

“Whatever’s good,” Chris said. “I’m not picky.”

He watched Lottie move to another room. He picked up one of the photographs and saw Lottie, some 20 years younger, holding a baby in her arms. She was smiling at the kid, ignoring the camera. Her hair was straight and long and she wore a summer dress. Chris put the picture down and reached for another. There was a teenage boy holding an old Daisy BB gun. The kid had a guilty grin on his face, his eyebrows curled like trigger-fingers. Chris stared at it a moment. Then he heard a man’s voice from the other room. It was music and it sounded pretty good. The man’s voice was soulful, Chris understood. He put the photograph back on the table and Lottie walked back in the kitchen.

“What’s this you’re playin’?” Chris asked.

“Charlie Rich,” she answered, sitting down across from him again.

“It sounds pretty good.”

“Where’re you from in Indiana?” Lottie asked him.

“Umm…little town called Farleigh. Ever heard of it?”

“Nope. I’ve got a cousin in Indiana though.”

“Where?”

“I think the town’s called Taylorsville.”

“Never heard of it.”

They came to another silence. Chris took a long drink of his beer. Lottie shut her eyes and leaned back in her seat.

“You got any…whiskey or anything else?” Chris said.

“Nah,” Lottie answered. “Let’s go to bed.”

She led him to her bedroom. It was dark and Lottie turned on a lamp beside the bed. Chris could make out a lot of dark wooden furniture and rocking chair in the corner. He saw a closet and a painting of some sort of flowers in a field or something. They were different than the flowers on Lottie’s kitchen table. Chris looked at her moving in the narrow light. He stared at the floor and tried somehow to know her better.

He felt her move close to him. Her hands touched his ribcage and then across his back. She put her hands on his ass and held on. He looked into her eyes. She smiled at him. She moved her hand to his collar and pulled on it, pulled him closer to her.

“Touch me,” she said.

Chris caressed her face, running the back of his fingers beneath her cheekbones and down across her chin. He put his hands on the small of her back.

She kissed him. Chris felt her tongue in his mouth and he gave her his and they stood there. Chris could feel his heart pounding in his stomach, his knees, his throat. They kissed and then he kissed her neck, running his tongue from the crook to the earlobe. He heard Lottie’s breath quicken. She moaned.

Chris stepped back and they looked at each other again. Lottie moved against him and pushed him against the wall. She tore his shirt open and her mouth was on his chest, licking and biting through wisps of hair. Chris pulled her away and ripped her dress down across her body, the buttons popping off like skipped rocks. Lottie’s eyes widened and she leaned in and kissed him again. Chris picked her up and moved her to the bed. They fell there together. Lottie’s bra came off and Chris kissed her breasts, seeing the stretch-marks and a scar above her bellybutton. The whole dress was off and Chris got her cotton panties off and his face was between her thighs and she pulled him into her, her fist full of his hair.

Chris was sweating and gasping when Lottie pulled him up against her. She reached her hand down and got his pants unbuttoned, unzipped. She had her hand on him and Chris grunted and pulled her hand away.

“Wait wait wait,” he groaned.

He pushed his pants down across his legs, got his underwear down and felt himself inside her barely a second after. She arched her back underneath him and Chris tried to gather himself. He mustered five thrusts before he wailed out a curse and his body shook. Lottie was giving something back in his ear but Chris sensed it was more the reaction to his orgasm than her having her own. He collapsed on top of her like a sledgehammer, her legs opening to receive him. She folded her arms around his back and felt the tide of his breath, heavy as a coffin.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered.

“For what?” Lottie said.

Chris rolled off of her. He ran his hand over his forehead and it was like he’d dipped it in a river. He thought about answering. He thought about an answer and couldn’t find one.

Lottie turned and stroked his stomach. She could see his tanned skin. Her skin was so pale compared to his, she thought.

“You tired?” Chris asked.

“Not really. But you go ahead and fall asleep whenever you want.”

Chris liked her hand on him. She was on her side and she moved her hand to his chest. He felt her fingertips tracing maps across him. Chris saw the maps in his mind. He’d looked at so many maps. He shut his eyes and understood that reading a map was one thing he could do really well.

***

Lottie’s body tore itself awake when she heard the scream next to her. It was the sound of horror like she’d never experienced. Like someone being burned alive. She looked at Chris and he was crying out, his face twisted like a broken limb, snot and spit pissing out of it. His breathing reached a frantic pace and suddenly he was upright, his eyes bursting open, tears filling them like blood in a syringe. His arms swung out with the desperation of a child being taken away. He screamed and screamed.

Lottie realized he didn’t know where he was and her lack of familiarity made her anxious. She feared comforting him. She sat there watching him fight his way through himself.

He put his face in his hands.

“I wanna’ go home,” he wept. “I wanna’ go home…I wanna’ go home…I wanna’ go home…I wanna’ go home…” He cried and cried.

She finally touched his shoulder and the feeling of her hand sent a jolt through him. His neck went limp and his head collapsed as he sobbed. She laid a blanket across him. She put her arms around him and he plowed himself into her embrace.

She held him until the sun came up.

***

When Lottie awoke, she could tell from the light through the blinds that it was getting on the afternoon. She rubbed her eyes clear and turned and Chris wasn’t there. She put a robe on and walked out of her bedroom. He wasn’t in the house and Lottie sat at the kitchen table. She saw the photographs sitting there and she picked one of them up and stared at it for a moment.

She peed and brushed her teeth. She ignored herself in the bathroom mirror.

She made coffee, lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Her neighbor, Tom Easley, had the hood of his pick-up open and he was fiddling around under it. He was in his 60s, wore a tobacco-stained tan hunting vest and had big waterproof boots on. He slammed the hood shut and stared up at the sun. His front yard had five cars on it, three of them with “for sale” signs in the window. There was also an old basketball hoop attached to the garage, a dirt-bike, and a rusting pole stuck in the grass, its flag hanging motionless in the non-wind.






Seattle, WA (2/10/10)