Cement City, USA

The bell above the diner door dings as Sal glides in on her roller skates. She rolls straight up to the counter, ducking swiftly under and behind, where Patrice stands by the register, arm extended, handing her her apron, “You were close this time,” she says.

“Were you worried?” Sal teases, grabbing her apron and hastily tying it around her waist.

“I always worry about you chicken,” Patrice says. “You got table four again.” Sal briskly weaves over to the far booth, tying back her messy pink hair into a scrunchie and pulling out her pen and pink notebook from the back pocket of her baby blue uniform.

“Well hello,” she smiles big, “What are we having today?”

He smiles up at her shyly, “J-j-just coffee for me.” He’s handsome in an old fashioned way. His jet black hair is cut short and she wishes he would grow it out longer, that it didn’t look so straight edged and conventional.

“Well that’s boring. Are you sure I can’t temp you with a tempeh Reuben? It comes with home fries.”

“A what?”

“I know, it sounds weird as sh-t but my boss is having us push these new healthy menu items.” she paused before adding, “It’ll make me look good if you get it.”

He nods, “Ok then, I’ll take one.” His cowboy hat and police badge rest on the table.

“Coming right up!” she says cheekily and skates back to the counter, ringing the bell on the countertop.

The diner sits alone on a highway strip right at the edge of town. Everything in Cement City, USA is gray as concrete, and the locals all work at the plant on the other side of town. The ground is flat and from the west wall of the diner you can gaze out the window at the empty expanse of the plains straight to the horizon. He always sits at table four because the first four booths line the west wall and Sal always requests to work the west wall.

“So that’s the third time this week he’s come in here alone. It looks like somebody has a crush on lil’ miss Sal,” says Patrice, her voice going higher at the end.

“And do I need to enlighten you on how dating works in this millennium? You see, we believe in feminism and the girl has to like the guy for that to work.”

“Honey, I know how dating works—I was just saying, it’s been a while that Jack’s been in the joint and you could always use a little…” she nods towards table four.

“Speak for yourself. Come on Patrice, you think that I’d be interested in someone like that?” Between stacking dishes she glances over at him writing. Maybe there were good qualities about him.

“Just listen to what I’m saying. I’m not your mother--and baby, we all knows you ain’t no saint.”

“Well that’s how people get stuck here. I’ve seen it happen a million times. Anyways, Jack’s gettin’ out real soon.”

“Oh, you snuck him another shiv now didn’t you?” Patrice raises her eyebrows concerned as she organizes the cash in the register.

Sal rolls her eyes, “No, for your information I haven’t done anything. He’s gonna get parole for good behavior. And it was a knife, not a shiv.”

Sal tries to ignore her and goes back over to the table with the food. “You gotta tell me how you like it too.”

“What?”

“The Reuben! What’s that you’re writing there?” She leans over him with her forearms resting on the table and she can tell he is checking out her tattoos that cover her arms, “Keeping tabs on me? Do you have a running list of America’s most wanted?”

He blushes, embarrassed and closes his notebook shyly looking down, trying not to smile so big before he says, “Are you h-h-h-ho-ping that includes you?” his cheeks go red. He would have given anything not to stutter right now.

“Not hoping, expecting,” Sal quips back while pouring his coffee.

He laughs, “Well I have no doubt you’ll make it there. I’m working on a short story,” he thumbs through the pages of the small black notebook.

“Can you do that with Big Brother keepin’ watch?” she teases.

“Do you still write?”

“Me?”

“Yea, I r-r-r-re-m-member your stories from Ms. Hagney’s class. They were always really good. You have a good,” he pauses so as not to stutter, “Imagination.”

This time she blushes pink like her hair, “Um yea, I do still write…occasionally.” She pulls out her pink notebook from her back pocket and holds it up for him. “But sometimes an order will get mixed up in a poem and I can tell that Julio thinks I’m secretly trying to tell him something.” She looks back towards the kitchen window where Julio snaps back to work, pretending not to be looking at her.

“Well let’s hear one then!” he says.

“Seriously?” she looks around the diner and it’s quiet except for some clanging dishes. She straightens up and starts flipping though pages. Then she rolls her shoulders back and reads,

“Baby I’ve been dreaming

of getting out and leaving

This town wasn’t made for me at all.

Today I saw a bird in the sky

but then, mid-flight

They shot it down and I watched it fall.

When I scream

it’s doesn’t make a sound

Little wildflower child,

hoping to be found.”

“That’s not all but…” she trails off.

“That was beautiful,” he says looking at her, “You’re a poet.”

She gestures towards another table and goes to take their order. Later, she sees him leaving, hopping into his dilapidated Sheriff’s Department car, and she thinks they must have given him the oldest one with the letters coming off the sides. She starts to clean up the dishes and finds written on the back of the bill, Keep at it Sal, and a $50 tip. She looks up again to where his car was but he’s already gone, so she tucks the $50 note in her bra strap.

Sal hates Cement City, the gray color of it all, the clouds of smog that funnel into the air 24/7 from the local industrial factories. She likes to talk big, say she will get out of this town and “make it” somewhere, but she’s never imagined herself in a big city. She has no interest in the way they live there. She’s seen what work does to the people in this town and how they have to drink it away. Liquor stores are the only successful businesses in Cement City.

She saves, or at least she tries to, but minimum wage never seems to last that long and she and her mother are always behind on rent. Her dad died when she was just four years old and she doesn’t have many memories of him but likes to believe that if he were alive he would get her out of here. She knows there are some things that she can never have, so even though she dreams of money she doesn’t dream of possessions. All she wants is the freedom and possibilities money brings. Having never grown up with it it’s more like a mythical creature to her, like holding a unicorn in your hands. She dreams about Mexico and maybe it’s because she has a memory of her dad taking her to see the border when she was little. She dreams about someday owning land and living on a ranch there. Jack would have his cars and she would have her horses and notebooks full of poetry. They will have finally found peace as outlaws.

She gets off work around sunset and gazes at the sky with all its colorful hues, noticing how big it feels right now. Then, she hears a sharp whistle and turns around to see a guy leaning against a vintage yellow truck. He’s wearing a simple white tank with light wash jeans and a cowboy hat tilted forward, shading his face. He’s covered in tattoos and and has long dark curly hair that falls around his shoulders. Sal squeals and zooms over, colliding into him with excitement. “I missed you,” she kisses him fully on the mouth.

They hop in the car together and drive off. She holds Jack’s right hand as he steers with his left. “So what did you miss the most?” she leans close to him, kissing in his ear.

“Besides freedom?” he says. He doesn’t answer but starts sliding his hand up and down her body focusing on her breasts. Eventually his hand finds the money still tucked in her bra strap. “You still waitressing?” he pulls it out and tosses it at her, switching both his hands to the steering wheel now.

“It’s from my poetry,” she says quietly. “Besides, it’s for us and our plan to get out of here.” He still won’t look at her and she can tell he’s mad because he assumes it must have come from another man. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry baby. Where do you want to go? We could meet Pete and Cuatro at the Black Horse?” She lights a cigarette, still looking at his face desperately.

“Nah, I have an even better idea,” he says pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with one hand. “Let’s go to the Fountain,” he grins mischievously.

“Sure, I mean we could pick up some tequila and just go home if you feel like it. I just thought you’d want to do something,” she says bummed.

“No, I mean we get a little more from the liquor store. There’s that huge ATM in there. I’ve heard some homies say they keep like $20 grand in those things.” He looks at her and she squeals excitedly again at the promise of adventure. Jack speeds down the main road through town and she tilts her head out the window, enjoying how free the air feels.

They pull up to the Fountain and park under the rotating neon sign, close to the road for an easy getaway. It’s blue hour now and all the neon lights have turned on illuminating the depressed faces of the people that filter in and out. Jack seems angry and antsy. He pulls a small pistol out from his pants and gives it to Sal while he grabs a bigger one out of the glove compartment. She wants to think that this is just like the time they were teenagers and set Mr. Gibson’s horses free, even though she knows it’s not.

Inside, Sal rolls up to the cashier and asks about the different brands of tequila, speaking with a ditsy voice, “Aww you don’t have Espalón!” she whines and he rolls his eyes before going to the back of the store for it.

Then, Jack takes a hammer from his back pocket and in two swift motions jumps up to smash the security camera and pivots to crack open the ATM machine near the door. Sirens start wailing from the cracked machine and Sal turns around panicked. She sees Jack by the door, “Babe we gotta move!” He says. She runs over and looks inside the machine at the cash—green like rolling hills in Mexico, green like Jack’s eyes. She reaches her hand in and grabs as many bills as she can, wrapping them in her apron. Their hands get cut on some of the glass from breaking the machine and she flies out of the store, bleeding and bells still blaring, wondering if $20,000 equals freedom.

“It was an accident they say

but some things will never change

They take their aim at what I hold dear.

Then you drove by

My, my what a sight

Oh take me far away from here.

When I scream

it’s doesn’t make a sound

Little wildflower child,

hoping to be found.”