20
Bang! Eyes light up and drowsiness skips me for some other man. Today’s the day, illustrious plans. Prince, Leon, and I are heading to meet with Saul at noon to try and buy the bar of our dreams. I smile wide as hell just imagining the three of us sitting across from tired Saul and making demands.
Saul Saul Saul, do not be scared, ole boy. Today is your day too! I have fashioned a plan so sweet it will make your eyes water. I’m going to spin him a dream about Texas, Florida or some other alluring place of sun offering him the grand chance of new beginnings. A fresh start. I’m going to sell him on the power of ambiguity and freedom, all the potential that will come his way just by getting up and going somewhere new. I’ll look him in the eyes and assure him nothing in the world matters to me like Jimmy’s Place does. I’ll give him the lines of it being my forever place, my destiny. I’ll remind him how I’ve loved it there since I was just a boy, just like him, how I’ve been there from the start. He’ll know it’s in the best of caring hands. God, go in for it, Saul! Go in!
Through the window I see a few squirrels battling ground over acorns and black hawks circling above, hungry like me. All together now.
I’m looking in the mirror and realize my dark blond hair has grown long past my ears. There’s some fight in my blue eyes now and the layers of ice shine off the bathroom lights. What a good ass morning I’ve stumbled upon here. I’m clearing out and resetting and I think I may never drink-smoke-fight-yell again. I am bound for some sort of heaven, I must be. I will trespass no longer. All these sweeping romantic fantasies of goodness are calling. I’ll fly on the feeling and guzzle my black coffee. I pull my jeans on one leg at a time and my iron St. Christopher chain sways down to my lips. A kiss of potential, of all things possible. I walk to the kitchen and see the creatures playing outside. They are oblivious to it all, right in the heart of their own morning plight, each wrestling for the day. There is not a worry to be found, not here, not for miles.
Windows down in the Saturn, I make my way to The Pit to meet with Leon and Prince. We’ll say hello to lovely Morene who will already be on hour six or seven of her shift. Patti Smith sails through my speakers and I’m singing and on fire. She’s going on about high walls, black barns, babes in her arms and the sky splitting, planets shifting and existence stopping. And through the windows comes the smell of old Johnston. Through manure fields and tiny properties, I smell prophecy. It is the scent of settled ground, sweat and tough work. Brisk in its fresh, ongoing nature.
The streets are slow and clean as I start rolling through town. Each evening the dew settles, cleansing the streets and the homes and the gardens. The Pit is on the southwest corner of Johnston, well positioned off the highway, the only avenue that sees any real traffic in Johnston. Travelers go from bigger city to bigger city and only blink through our town on their way forward. Those dawn routers were the ones that Mo served most in the mornings. They’re the reason The Pit found itself one of the more lucrative establishments in town. As for the gang and me, it’s the only breakfast joint we’d ever need.
A few times a week we’d meet at the diner, drink copious amounts of coffee, and prepare for whatever awaited us. Diners like these remind me that in Johnston, we’re afforded the time and the peace necessary to see the almost imperceptible details. The type of whisperings the big cities probably found monotonous or insignificant. Through the walls of The Pit, gliding over cheap black coffee and eggs, you’d catch wind of the slightest change of degree. The most carefully smuggled differences in the lives of those the world had forgotten and moved on from. Kelly and Bob, eighty, gray haired and fleeting, sharing the fresh baked outer shell of a cinnamon roll, cherishing the taste. Good Sam from Sureland’s supply division, mug in hand, getting delivered his bacon. He nods a warm thank you to Mo and then stares out at the sunrise, remembering the road and facing the drive still to come. Honest and real, the people of Johnston. Quiet and together, breathing and eating and drinking in the intangible gladness of a life worth living.
When you walk into The Pit you face an oval arrangement of swiveling, typical diner stools with metal bases and faded green seats. They sit just beneath the diner bar, constructed of what always looked to me like cheap granite. To the right is the cash register, sporting bright red numbers on its submarine-like tower which is attached to its base. It shows what value is owed or not owed. Behind the oval bar is Mo, the most important fixture of the place by a mile. She takes a break from serving Kelly and Bob their coffee to say, “Hey there Cash,” to which I reply, “good mornin, beautiful,” and walk on by, following the worn carpet past the booths and into the backroom, a removed section of the joint just for us.
I find Leon and Prince there waiting patient and chilled, always arriving before me. For the one thousandth time, I eye the painting on the wall of our booth. It’s this idyllic Christmas scene in which a whole bright community dressed in furs all go about their business. The town is situated on this frozen river surrounded by reindeer and happy playing children. The moon shines a yellow and white light down from the top right-hand corner, and the saloon is open and rowdy with cheer. The townspeople exchange gifts and smile thoroughly in joy. It’s always reminded me of Johnston.
Leon’s going on about the details of his current work project and how he had to let someone go late last week due to laziness.
“Gotta cut the fat, man, and it’s hard, it’s really hard, but you gotta cut the fat, remember that,” he says.
I know how awful he feels about it. We let him get it off his chest and murmur our support. Laziness just isn’t going to get it done in this town, there are always construction workers to be hired in Johnston. In fact, it’s one of the more popular job outfits for young, recently graduated high schoolers wandering aimlessly in a post-graduation haze that hasn’t granted them the riches and women and reputation they always hoped it would. They could usually find a safe harbor with Leon and Sureland though. Until they blew it, at least.
I actually worked with Leon at Sureland when we were right out of high school, long before he ended up taking over the company for good. It wasn’t all bad, but it was some of the toughest manual labor around, so, you know, it was work . Straight constant sweat and all task, not for the faint of heart that’s for sure. Leon and I had a good run of it there for a while. We worked our tails off and gained respect in the company because of it. In the end, I found art in that hustle and grind. I knew for a fact there were lesser, worse jobs available, but I still called it quits about a year or so in. Around that time, I more or less stumbled into the whole painting scene and never looked back.
About twenty minutes in, we’ve had our coffee and are diving down into the real mechanics of our noon conversation plans when Mo saunters over, takes off her apron and hangs it on the chipped gold booth hook. She sits down in a slight huff and the curls of her hair wave about on her forehead. She’s exhausted but, of course, she’s smiling.
“Aren’t you a pip bunch this morning.” I smirk at that. Nobody I know uses the word pip except for Mo. It is uniquely and solely hers. Pip, as to say, full of energy. She sure hit it on the head. This morning we’re buzzing like crazy. Prince is on his third or fourth cup of coffee, as am I. We’re all jittery and nervous, legs bouncing and excited and motivated and minds turning at phenomenal speed. A few cups of good coffee and I can feel truly coked-out, dangerously smooth and frenetic all at once. Prince gets the same way, but Leon is more or less impervious to any manic caffeine effects. He has to drink ten cups to notice any serious changes.
Mo starts telling us about her morning and how she’s been getting real close to this red-headed driver named Stuart who has a big old family in Nebraska.
“It’s all for them, all this is for them.” Mo frowns a bit, feeling really sorry in the telling, “That’s what he said. Broke my heart kinda. He’s been a musician since he was a kid. He’s a singer and a guitar player. He was telling me how he doesn’t get to play much anymore because he’s taking on more and more heavy-houred trips.”
Despite all that, she tells us he brought his guitar with him that morning and at five a.m., with the place pretty ghosted, he played the strings for her.
“He had this gravel voice, sounded maybe sixty or older, real weathered-like. A deep soul, you know, the kind that’s tired as hell, and only comes from honest work. I think Stuart might be depressed but he sure sings it well.”
Mo smiles so she doesn’t cry. God, you can tell Mo really feels for the guy. I think we all do. We all understood him in a way. I have the feeling we all can be small, praying at the feet of God and scrounging around for a chance, for an opportunity to play a western tune at a diner in a five a.m. dawn. We all long for a waitress like Mo in dark mornings. For just one person to listen. To be heard. To have one beautiful moment of purpose.
“That’s great, man. Good for him,” I say, nodding.
“I’m really rooting for him, you know. Must be a real pain trying to provide for six little ones and not having the time to do it how you wanna.”
“One day the kiddos will understand where all the money came from,” Prince says.
“Yeah, true. But they don’t get it right now.”
She frowns one more time and then goes, “anyway!”
And she switches the brightness all the way back on just like that.
“Have it all planned out straight, do ya?” Prince gives her the brief gameplan. It’s impressive how accurate and coolly intelligent Prince can be when he wants to turn it on. In his black shirt and jacket, he looks unremittingly straight out of one of those greaser gangs you’d see in a film, like Elvis Presley or James Dean. He spits smooth action about our intentions, and I admit, when I listen closely, it sounds damn near foolproof.
Mo gets all worked up and giddy for us when he finishes. God, it feels swell to have her on our side. Of course, the truth is, Leon could be anything or do anything in this world and Mo’d love him all the same. Her hand reaches across the table without even looking, as Prince talks. Her fingers move up and down on Leon’s calloused hand as if it were a grand piano. It really is one of the nicest damn things I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes away. I want a woman—damn, I need a woman to play the piano on me. To make me feel calm and mountainous. Prince finishes and she’s lit up like fireworks. She plays the drums quickly on the table, smiling pure. She’s wild in pride and anticipation for us.
“Well, God! I love it. I really, really love it. I do.”
She hits the table with one final drum of the hand and says, “I should leave ya to it then, huh? Good luck out there today boys, make me proud. See you later babe,” and she gives Leon the sweetest quick kiss on the lips. We watch her go and the quietness settles back in for a few seconds before I finally say, “You’re the luckiest motherfucker on the planet, man, you know that?” Leon just leans back, smiles and nods.