Chapter 3
Knox
The lunch crowd at Charlie’s Diner is thin.
Other guys in related lines of work probably shut things down for the day when the sky opened up midmorning.
Not us. We’re drudging away under a looming contractual deadline.
We’re the fix-it crew the city of Chandor called in when the last guys botched the job, a new sewer pipeline critical to the fast-growing town’s infrastructure.
Wiggle room does not exist in this scenario.
If the lousy weather continues, worse, if true winter weather makes an appearance, we’re probably done for.
The hole-in-the-wall diner my guys frequent is nothing to write home about.
It’s one of those throwback places where cigarette smoke, from back when that activity was permitted in public spaces, still permeates the air.
The walls are covered in decades of grease, and the waitstaff consists of middle-aged and up waitresses who know how to flirt their fake eyelashes off and collect small fortunes from their predominantly male clientele—particularly the ones who happen to be a long way from home. The food is marginal at best.
But the real benefit of Charlie’s Diner as a lunch stop is the fact that the crusty owner doesn’t gripe about the mud we track in.
Occasionally socializing during the lunch hour is fine, but most days, I pop in earbuds and listen to a podcast in the trailer while eating a sandwich or readymade store-bought salad.
I like my thinking time. As for flirting, aside from the fact I may never be in the mood for that pointless activity again, none of these women are ones I’d take home to mama, if for no other reason than that most surpass my own twenty-eight years by at least a couple decades.
So today is mostly an exception. When Cliff asked if I wanted to ride along, my fingers were half frozen and my stomach needed something warm, not the prepackaged rabbit food I stashed in the minifridge earlier in the week.
The four of us grab a table in the far corner. I take a chair with my back to the wall.
A fresh face and figure there’s no point in denying catch my eye. The unfamiliar waitress in Charlie’s customary uniform of black logoed t-shirt and jeans approaches. Everything about her has me looking, from her rich, espresso ponytail, all the way down to her awesomely long legs.
I straighten out of the slump a problem-fraught morning curved into my spine.
She smiles, though I’m sensing an I’d-rather-be-elsewhere vibe. “Good morning.”
We started early, so yes, it’s technically still pre-noon. Nonetheless, most of the waitresses around here typically lead with something along the lines of hey, fellas, glad you came to see me today.
“What can I get everyone to drink?” She casts her gaze about the table for someone to go first.
Kicked slovenly back in his chair, Mike twirls on the grin he has convinced himself is charming. “I’ll take anything you give me, sweetheart.”
The creamy skin around the lady’s mouth tightens.
“Knock it off, man.” Cliff smiles an apology at the waitress. His tone turns almost fatherly. “Sorry ’bout that. Can’t take this young pup anywhere these days. Coffee for me, please.”
I choke down a laugh. Cliff Roberts is normally live-and-let-live, but sometimes, Mike gets under the skin too much to ignore.
He’s neither as charming nor as funny as he thinks he is, and his intermittent crassness with waitresses everywhere makes even the roughest of my guys want to smack him upside the head once in a while.
Mike is likely gesturing rudely to Cliff in his mind. I’m just grateful he’s not doing it for real. Wouldn’t put it past him to make a scene.
Same as Mike, Crawford’s eyes burn with interest, but he comports himself better, hopefully remembering his expectant wife back home. He places his order, and then I ask for coffee and a water, keeping eye contact to a minimum.
Mike is a loser who makes the rest of us look bad.
Because of his skill with a backhoe, I tolerate his presence, but no one is irreplaceable.
LHS has its limits and highly values character.
Well, I do. For Rand, it’s a single factor, and its importance has been known to vary depending on financial considerations.
None of us bothers with the menus tucked between a couple of condiment caddies in the center of the table. The specials board is all we need.
A few other guys from our crew are at another table. I catch an eye and lift my chin.
Much like the motel, the diner is a hair short of a dump.
It wears its age like an old man his favorite, trusty sweater that’s frayed, stained, and moth-eaten.
The owner gives off the same feel. These four walls are his baby and probably weren’t always so drab.
If I’m honest, there’s something comforting about the place, reminding me of following Dad around when I was a kid.
Way on the other side of the dining room, our waitress fills our drink order while chatting with a bleached blonde I’ve seen every visit. I tap the roll of flatware longways on the table. “Don’t see Charlie today.”
Cliff folds his arms over his chest and sits back. “That’s ’cause he had a heart attack on Friday. Our waitress said so yesterday.”
One of my podcast days. “Is he alright?”
“Didn’t get too many details. Hope so.” Cliff shrugs. “I’d ask Marlene, but I don’t see her this morning.”
“Marlene. That the blonde you’re always chatting up?”
He gives me a dirty look. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Ox.”
He knows—but I won’t push.
The new waitress, a real upgrade around here, reappears with our drinks loaded on a round tray. Even with the blasted thing in the way, her figure is mesmerizing.
She stops at my end of the table. Perfume floats on the breeze as she distributes the drinks. Sweet. And maybe a little bit spicy.
Tucking the empty tray beneath her arm, she lifts a pad and pen. “Have you guys decided?”
She starts with Crawford across from me and works in a clockwise direction, leaving me for last.
“And you, sir?”
My throat goes dry, my brain hung up on the intrusive thought that her porcelain skin looks like it would be silky to the touch.
I shift my focal point—only to find eyes as blue as the Hawaiian bay our family vacationed along the summer I graduated high school.
The trip was Dad’s gift for finishing the job.
That’s what he said, because that’s how Dad’s mind works.
Do the work, finish on time, reap the reward.
I could lie on a sandy beach with this lady by my side.
Crawford coughs, mumbling.
Cliff’s throat makes a clearing sound and he bumps my elbow. “What’s your order, kid?”
What the…
My face begins to feel like someone flipped a burner on. “Double cheeseburger, fries, and a bowl of today’s soup.” Crud, I hope it’s something I like. Shoulda asked. “And a dinner salad with Italian. Please.”
The waitress spins, only not in time for me to miss a distinct roll of her eyes. She takes sharp steps toward the kitchen.
Cliff swipes a hand over a chuckle, Crawford smirks, and Mike shoots me a nasty glare. “Real subtle there, Knox.”
“What are you talking about?” But I fear I know.
“Gawking at the lady like that.” He shakes his shaggy hair. “And you’re supposed to be the one with class.” There’s a sarcastic jab loaded into the word.
Crawford taps the corner of his mouth. “Got a little drool there, man.”
Instinctively, I touch my mouth. Dry. “I didn’t…” The lost seconds while the waitress was at the table return in a flash. Oh no. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Cliff sputters, wincing and laughing at once. “Worse than bad, kid.”
Cliff is generally on my team, so the fact that he’s siding with the riffraff on this one means I’m probably not going to be showing my face around these parts again.
Great. I see many podcast days in my future.
Conversation stalls as all of us wrap our hands around steaming coffee mugs.
The day is shaping up to be another long one.
Worse, evenings around here don’t hold much to look forward to either.
An empty, two-bit motel room and a television.
That’s all I got waiting on me. At home, at least I’d have a blazing fireplace and Dozer snuggled at my side.
I release a small measure of my frustration with a long breath. Darned dog isn’t going to know me by the time this job wraps. Mom is spoiling her rotten, I know it. She’ll never want to come home to me.
She’s not the only one.
“What’s that?”
Cliff’s brow pinches as he watches me through the steam above his cup.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a sound. You seem off today, kid.”
“Nope. I’m great.” I take a careful sip of surprisingly fresh coffee as I sweep the dining room with my gaze. Hopefully, he’ll take the hint.
The diner is only half full so far, but our waitress is one of just two ladies on duty, and the growing lunch crowd keeps her hopping. With grace, her long legs weave her in and out of the tables. Taking orders, meeting needs. She’s good at her job, even if she doesn’t care for it.
At last, she lines up our table in her sights, a loaded tray perched above her shoulder. I’ve never understood how otherwise dainty women manage without spilling the load. In this case, I have to tamp down the urge to swoop in and lower the heavy thing to the stand for her.
Strength wouldn’t be an issue, but I’m kind of a klutz.
As with most guys once assigned the position of lineman on their high school football teams, I’m known for my brawn, not my grace. The skill required to block a defender tends to go underappreciated. Not a lot of flash in it for the masses.
Story of my life.
While the waitress distributes our meals, I check out her shirt—for her nametag. Unlike the other waitstaff, she doesn’t wear one.
She hands out our tickets along with the food. Nice. We won’t have to wait around once we’re finished eating.
Near my elbow, she folds up the stand, hanging it over her arm. “Everything look good?”