Onion Rings

The giant order of onion rings sat untouched. Cheddar soup, half eaten, sat off to one side. After midnight. Jim’s Diner on Fredericksburg Road, just south of the medical center.

Kaylee, her four-year-old daughter, slept in the booth beside her.

Christmas would mean a bus ticket. Another second chance; another fresh start.

She promised me that this year would be different. It was going to be her year.

She’d never see him again. Earlier today was the last time. She swore it.

She wished that things had worked out differently. She wished she'd never met him.

But, couldn’t I lend her a quarter ounce of bud, the hydro? Just until she got to Utah. She was going to quit smoking, and the pills too, when she got to Utah. She had friends up there that went to church, she said. Just until she got to Utah, just to get through December. Things were going to be different, thing shad to be different. For Kaylee, she kept saying.

For old time’s sake, she asked.

Remember when we lived in Santa Fe, in that little place on Cerrillos? Remember, she pled. Then she smiled. Then she started to tear up. She was really serious, this time.

I just looked at the bill on the table. I asked for more coffee. I watched her deep, used, eyes and let her lies drift past me like plumes of smoke hidden by pre-dawn bile. I stared at the onion rings; crusty and cold.

Hark the angels.

Hark the King.

Hark, hark, hark.

Hark the herald onion rings.

She rattled on. She always knew I was a decent guy, and about the quarter ounce, and how she was giving it all up for New Years. The child snored in that way only the very young and the guilty can; no matter where slumber finds them.

Only until she got to Salt Lake. Only until New Year’s Day. Crayons were scattered on the table. Her Houston Texans jacket with the dirty sleeves shielding Kaylee from the only desperate existence she'd ever known.

“Meet me at the Jim’s by the medical center”, her text had said. “Kaylee and I are leaving town. For good this time.”

For good.

I just sat.

I watched her talk.

My phone buzzed. Again.

I sipped at the rapidly cooling coffee. It tasted like shit. Burnt, then watered down.

Her eyes were worn, like basins full of memories too heavy to carry around and too awkward to abandon. There was a time when I thought she was more than a junky and a manipulative, stunted, little girl. Not that long ago, really. I watched her talk about Salt Lake City and I watched the onion rings. It might have looked like I was listening, but…

She was leaving Christmas Day, she said.

With Kaylee, she said.

And, about that quarter ounce…

“You stay here”, I finally said, and I slipped a $20 bill on the table. “I’ll be back for the change, and I’ll bring you that quarter of hydro”. I stood up and straightened my jacket.

I blocked her number from my phone as I walked out of the 24-hour diner. Then, I got into my car, backed out of the parking space, and drove away.

She was leaving Christmas Day.

Again.

I was running late.

I was supposed to hook up with a couple of dancers around three at this crippled guy’s place, across town, off East Houston Street. They needed to connect and had always paid cash, with no sad stories or bullshit.

They’d texted me three times in the last half hour.