Chapter 4

The guy on the transport plane next to Stacy kept screaming.

“He’s in pain, give him something,” Stacy told a nurse.

“We did,” she said. “There’s no more we can do.”

Stacy waited until the nurses and doctors were tending to other patients, then called over to the guy. “Hey! What’s the matter?” he asked.

The screaming stopped and a whisper emerged. “I’m on fire.”

“No, you’re not,” Stacy said.

He was a burn victim. The right side of his face was swathed and bandages encased his right arm and leg. “Where are my glasses?” he asked.

“You don’t need your glasses,” a nurse said, walking over. “Try to rest.”

After she left, the guy started screaming again. Stacy sang to him as the plane took off. The only song he could think of was Hotel California. When he got to the line “you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave,” a tear ran down his cheek.

The diner was tucked away at the end of a small strip mall with a bank, a salon and a realtors office. A turqoise and cream sign read “Blue Plate Diner” and there was a round plate with a fork and spoon next to the name.

Stacy wanted a piece of cherry pie, he realized as he climbed the half dozen or so concrete steps up to the diner entrance. The metal and glass door was slightly ajar and he could smell meatloaf or pot roast. His stomach growled, but he kept his resolve to just order pie as he sat at a small blue booth by himself and sipped water.

The waitress, named Velma according to her name tag, wore a blue uniform and her blonde hair was done up in a big hair number that could have hidden a garden gnome. She was probably in her mid-forties. She asked him if he wanted cheese with his pie, then asked him if he wanted the pie a la mode, then finally asked him if he wanted the pie heated up.

Stacy felt himself getting irritated by all her questions. What is so hard to understand about wanting just a piece of pie, he thought as she walked away. He finally said “just regular cherry pie” to which she replied “Okay, honey. Just checkin’” in a patient tone. He felt bad afterwards, then stared at the small jukebox on the table, wondering if he should play a song, but it felt as if that was an impossible task.

He heard the clink of the plate on the table before he saw her return.

“There you go,” she said in a friendly tone and even winked at him.

“Thanks,” he said, lifting the fork immediately. He ate the pie in five almost equal sized bites, not bothering to wait until she left the table and didn’t realize that she was standing there watching him.

“You sure that’s all you want, honey?” she asked him.

He nodded.

She leaned toward him. “Are you hungry? Because we always have leftovers, some kind of food, you know, for travelers-“

He stood up, grabbing his cane. “Just need my check,” he said.

The waitress handed him the slip of paper and picked up the empty plate and utensils, then disappeared into the kitchen. Stacy counted out four singles, left a tip on the table and then put the check with the money by the cash register. He was down the steps already when he heard the waitress behind him.

“Wait!” she yelled.

“I left the money by the register,” he said.

She slipped a brown paper bag toward him. “It’s a sandwich. Take it, honey.”

“I’ve got money,” he said awkwardly, looking at the bag uncertainly.

“I know that,” she said.

They stood there for a moment, the bag in her outstretched hand between them. Stacy grabbed it. “Thanks,” he said.

When he stopped to eat an hour later, he found his money in a wad at the bottom of the bag and four turkey sandwiches tightly packed inside. He couldn’t understand why she insisted he take the food with him until he peered into a store window and saw his unshaved reflection.

He looked homeless. He was homeless, although by choice. A caveman who had a check that was automatically deposited into the bank every month.

Stacey had an electric razor in his bag. He found a men’s room so he could shave. Then he washed as best he could at the sink, brushed his hair, and changed his clothes.

Better, he thought, staring at himself in the mirror.

Behind him he saw the guy on the plane, his face half covered in bandages. He was no longer screaming, but smiling.

“Sing to me,” he said. “Something by the Eagles.”

“I only know Hotel California,” Stacy said.

“How about Desperado?”

“I can’t remember the lyrics.”

“Come to your senses,” the guy said, humming. “No more riding fences.” His bandage began to fall off as he sang. Underneath, his face was scarred. He reached up to his cheek. “Look at that,” he said.

“Does it hurt now?” Stacy asked.

“No. There’s no pain. They gave me something for that.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe they can give you something too for your scars.”

“No,” Stacy said. “No one can see my scars.”

“I can,” the guy said. He fixed his eyes, steely gray, on Stacy’s in the mirror. “Why do you think I was screaming all the way home?”

Copyright 2008 Ruth Harrigan