Sectionals

I sit in the smoking section for the smell. Everyone is so conscious of the nervous and seductive imitation death that the smell is usually consigned to bars and pool-halls now, where the written word has no place but as a curiosity. 1

Can anyone tell me how many late-night diners exist anymore? Where waitresses seem like lap-dogs with more bite, all bland smiles and teeth, saying "glad you came by" until they question whether they might mean it now, when at the start they knew they didn't. And today, I wouldn't know about yester-year, we have waiters too. Charismatic mother-fuckers who bend rules for favorite customers or cute girls, and keep their shifts alive with gossip and an acidic sense of humor. They feel like they should be posturing for a sales job in an electronics store or trying to sell door to door life-insurance, but the white collar is sort of gray, light blue, and the cigarettes they smoke while on break are Marlboros, or Camels, or something equally mid-priced, leaving the dive-eaters and regulars to the cheap-shit and the yuppie cigs that taste like bourbon or margaritas.2

"What do you do?"3

"Huh?" And I look up with red-eyes turned to jerky and a soured stone-face from too much coffee.4

"What do you do?"5

"Well I'm a writer,... sort of"6

"You publish?"7

"No. That's the sort of part."8

"We got alot of writers here in the evenin'. All order the coffee and water just like you did."9

"I know. I'm a regular here; since it opened," and as if to prove my point one of the other waitresses smiles and waves hurriedly as she passes. The girl is not impressed.10

"Are you going to eat tonight?"11

"What time is it?"12

"Eight o'clock."13

"Charles coming in tonight?"14

"No."15

"Will?"16

"No."17

"Jennifer, Lauren, or Betty-Sue?"18

"No."19

I squint at her name-tag briefly and say, "Then I guess we're stuck for the night, Randy. Nice to meet you," extending my hand in the same second that I say, 'Nice to meet you'. She's not impressed.20

"They're not worth it y'know," she says with a sardonic smile, a private joke, personal power phrase.21

"Pardon?"22

"Those girls who come in here, the hipster ones that wear the tight jeans and spaghetti-strap tops." She glances side-long over to a corner booth populated by four girls. Two bottle-blondes, a brunette, and an asian girl with gorgeous raven hair. "They're trouble. Most of them jail-bait looking for lust, a little danger, something to happen." She clicks her tongue.23

"Oh I know."24

"Then why look?"25

"Is this a coffin?"26

"Sort of," she supplies quickly, damn-well grinning.27

"Well, even the dead envy the living. Just pick my tab from the evening guy and we'll see if I want to eat in a couple hours. How long have you been working here?"28

"Couple months."29

"A.M.?"30

"Yeah."31

"You look tired."32

"M'not."33

She walks away in her black Dickies, some black chucks, and a metal studded leather belt, and I wonder briefly who would name their girl Randy.34

I can smell onion-rings, and the lilting chorus of an Eagles song teases my ears. Some of the regular hipsters file in. Gangs of twenty-somethings seeking separation with band-shirts, bad haircuts, Parliament cigs and flasks in their pockets; sometimes chains that are supposed to be reminders of the 'punk' movement. Sometimes they make me sick. Their slattern attitude toward this town, toward national politics, hell, toward politics in general. What really galls me though, it fries my proverbial bacon, is that they're smart. Intelligent kids doing all the dumb-shit their grandparents would have rolled over in their graves about. If you listen carefully you can hear it, and when you watch them there is a certain slink to their walking gait and a slump to their sitting posture that is the weight of their pride. But I have to smirk privately, remembering something a single-serving friend once said to me, "If you're not a Liberal when you're young then where is your passion for life? And if you aren't a conservative when you're old then where is your concern for the future?"35

I have to admit he was right. So my grudge is always momentary, but my concern is always constant. The future. I have to worry. Someone has to infect them with the ideals that make them into adults right? Or perhaps these kids are only burning chaff. Embers in the night. Sparks that are seen lost in the wind. The subconscious dream of the responsible adult held in substance by the progeny of another parent and adults dread nightmare. Images that fade.36

"More coffee?"37

"More creamer, actually."38

Vanessa Carlton and late-night chatter. I'm finally getting my coffee and second-hand buzz, but the paper lines that are rapidly filling feel more hollow than my rumbling stomach. A cell-phone goes off. Someone laughs very loud and dishes sound their ceramic bells from the buss-boy plastic box being wielded by the waiter who tends another section adjacent mine.39

"Actually, no more crème. I just want it black. The ulcer is starting to heal over." Randy's eyes, big and black and attractive, flash mirth. Score one, finally.40

"How old are you anyways, wait let me guess... twenty-two. Which means you've been coming here since high-school."41

"Correct-a-mundo Senorita."42

"Too young for ulcers."43

"You'd be surprised. We're probably the same age, don't you feel old enough to have an ulcer?"44

I can tell that for a split-second all the remembered images of ex-boyfriends, late-nights of beer, family shouting matches, and day after day of stale work environs, plus the pallor of "this town" flash unbidden across her eyes.45

"No."46

My mouth twitches a smile. Spiteful bitch.47

"And I'm older than you."48

"How old is that?"49

"Twenty-five."50

"Then I'm just a young-pup I guess."51

"Uh-huh," she answers serenely, filling my cup and walking over to the hipsters, apparently friends of hers. How fitting. Dammit. I was going to order too. My phone starts to vibrate.52

"A-hoy-hoy?"53

"Sup dude?"54

"Just at Jims, getting coffee."55

"You writing?" - what the hell else do I do here?56

"Couple pages."57

"You want to chill tonight?"58

"Anything in mind?"59

"Lift weights, hang out and watch BET or something."60

"Maybe, what time?"61

"Late."62

"I'll give you a call if no one else tags me."63

"Coo. Peace."64

"Laters."65

Sometimes I remember that college life has its perks. Home is just a place to sleep, drinking is mostly free, parents are usually supportive when your grades are good, and the fast pace of time outside a lecture makes up for the droning and sometimes sleep inducing torment of actual school.66

I wonder if Animal House is playing somewhere. 67

Frat boys don't come here. I don't have any classes with them either and haven't since my second year of school. They spend their time in business classes or Admin seminars, Econ and Marketing. Nights are spent at places more popular or populated, that serve alcohol and exist along a major high-way so they have a straight shot to the apartment or a better chance of racing another Mustang or sup'ed up Silverado. Bean and Cheese tacos are great for sopping Vodka and Shiner soaked stomachs. Whataburger too. I have friends that do that. They call me at odd times or leave voice-mail you can barely understand. Music and voices in the background shattering the foreground of, "Dude, ... drinking,...... piece of ass... munchies."68

There's no click anymore to separate the end from the silence. Did they stop talking or just accidentally drop the phone? I don't think I care.69

"Hey man, what’s up?"70

"Oh hey." A friend of mine sits down across from me. Must have spotted me from the door. I didn't see her come in. "Who you here with?"71

"Britt. Emily. The usual."72

"Girls Night?"73

"Just Oot and Aboot," she says with a toothy grin. She's not usually this peppy.74

"Been drinking?"75

"Yeah, Eric and Nicks place." - douche-bags.76

"Fun?"77

"Some." - you got nailed.78

"That’s cool."79

"Workin' on the book still? I'm in it right?" she winks at me and flashes another smile playfully.80

I say maybe in a tone-less hipster imitation of the latest pop sensation, Napoleon Dynamite. My stack of used sugar-packets collapses.81

"I'd better be," she says confidently and I think about a girl, a beautiful girl I've never met. She pops into my head because of this blue-eyed blonde that sits down in my line of sight. She reminds me of her. Shannon. Not as perfect but still. She's talkative and sounds intelligent and I am reminded of long nights with cell-phone sweat on my ears and the rambling husk punctuated by cigarette silences. I am plagued by women.82

A girl literally howls into her cell-phone and the masses turn to look at her. The section pauses, and everyone either 1) takes a drag, 2) takes a drink, or 3) turns to their companions to comment cleverly.83

"Well I'm gonna go back. You look busy."84

"Later."85

"Laters."86

I pop my elbows, knuckles, wrists, neck, back and then the lower hidden joints of my thumbs. Not everything pops, but I wouldn't expect it to. It's just the routine that matters. My coffee is cold, but it doesn't matter either. 87

I only came here for the smell.88