The Drifter and the Dreamer

The countertop is sticky again. Why is the countertop always sticky? She keeps her hand flat against the sponge so her home-manicured fingernails don’t chip on the laminated surface. Specks like confetti shine under the glossy bar from the pendant lights above; when the nights are slow and the highway just beyond the parking lot is quiet, she’ll connect the little flecks with a dainty finger, imagining constellations or bus routes-the big dipper or the 8:00am greyhound from Boise to LA. Though it doesn’t really matter what she draws, both are equally out of her reach.

The little bell over the door dings and pulls her from her canvas of daydreams. Another drifter, she notes quickly, from the tip of his cap to the soles of his muddy boots, it’s clear as day this man’s been on the road a while. She goes back to her scrubbing, she’s not the only waitress in this place, and besides-she’s busy.

The drifter sits in the corner booth, back to the wall like so many before him, like even the vinyl booths can’t be trusted to protect him from all angles. She wonders - not for the first time - what its like to live like these men; always moving, rarely speaking, keeping a closed-fist grip on their tough personas. She thinks it sounds exhausting (and exciting - though just about anything besides the four walls of this little diner would excite her at this point). When she’s caught staring she raises an eyebrow, abandoning her sponge and picking up the fresh pot of coffee she put on for herself.

“Need a pick-me-up?” he nods once, and she smiles brightly back, pouring a steaming mug and delivering it, only a bit put off by picking up a table when she was hoping to zone out for another half hour or so.

“Just passing through?” she smiles, sweet as sugar. He may not be interested in pleasantries but she’s young and terribly bored, her dreams of stardom burning a hole in the apron pocket where she keeps her songwriting book. She’s made it a habit of latching onto the stories of the highway men that meander into her little corner of the world, pressing whatever tidbits of their lives she can into the pages of her notebook. She’s wonders what kind of song this man will be.

“Yeah,” a decidedly short answer. She can take a hint, but she won’t.

“You’re a Capricorn aren’t you?” His surprised look makes her chuckle, she took a wild guess but she so loves it when she’s right. “I knew it!” she claps her hands together, and even he seems taken aback by the little smile he gives her.

“Well I’ll be damned - you a witch or something?” she shrugs and tries not to look too smug as she pulls out her pen and pad.

“Or something. What can I get you?” He sticks with his coffee and sends her away, returning to his default state of elusive and stony, while she returns to her counter, whistling a tune her mom taught her when she was knee-high and the stars were just a skip away. She’s kept the melody with her for years, storing it in that soft spot between the ribs where you keep all of your important things; first dates and favourite books sit on the shelves beside the sounds of dad’s keys jingling and the dog howling. When she can’t fit it there, she puts it in her notebook.

She pulls the little black book out of her pocket, flipping through until she’s greeted with the endless potential of an empty page. CAPRICORN MAN she writes at the top, underlining and adding little stars to either side of her sloppy cursive. She scribbles notes down about witches and the mud tracked in on the linoleum, so distracted that the low sound of his voice startles her. He holds up his empty mug and she tucks her dreams away for the moment, refilling and readjusting her approach.

“I’m a Leo,” she says it like they’ve been chatting for hours. “August baby-the lion, governed by the sun,” he raises an eyebrow and nods.

“Checks out,” he sips his coffee and she makes a mental note that he drinks it black. Of course. She sits in the seat opposite him uninvited, tapping her fingers against the - God, sticky - tabletop. “So,” she starts, hand on her chin and legs crossed on the vinyl seat “what do you do?” his eyes are a dark brown and crinkled with age at the corners, she notes this as he stares at her over his coffee blankly.

“Lots of things,” he deadpans and she rolls her eyes.

“Well I’m a singer/songwriter,” she offers, tapping the pocket where she keeps her little book. He looks around the small diner, then back to her.

“I didn’t realize this place offered dinner and a show,” he’s funny when he isn’t doing his silent act. She laughs.

“Surely you recognize entertainment when you see it,” she gestures to herself.

“I guess I need these old eyes checked,” he gives her a genuine smile and nods to her pocket. “Is that what you were writing in that little book of yours? Songs?”

She hums a yes and pulls it out, holding it in one hand and tapping the cover lovingly with the other. “My heart and soul right here,” she’s soft and sentimental and this little book holds her hopes in it’s leather-bound pages, she resists the urge to hug it to her chest like a newborn.

“What’s a singer doing waitressing?” His words bring her head out of the clouds, forcing her feet to firmly plant in the ground of reality.

“Waitressing’s what I do,” she sighs, “but singing’s who I am.” He nods like he understands, but she’s sure he couldn’t. These men go where they want and paint their life on the canvas of the open road without even realizing that they have it all, how could they understand being stuck when they never stop moving?

“It isn’t easy moonlighting as a singer in Idaho,” she laughs. “They roll up the streets at 8 o’clock.”

“Then why live in Idaho?” He looks at her like he really wants to know, “I’m sure they could use a waitress-turned-singer in Los Angeles or Tennessee,” she lets out a little puff of air in place of a laugh. It sounds simple when he says it like that.

“My dreams are bigger than my pocket book,” she stands from the booth and gestures to his near-empty mug, “refill?” she heads back to her sanctuary at the counter, feeling stripped bare - usually she’s the one asking the questions. She leaves him to his coffee while she attacks the counter with renewed vigour, back to humming her favourite tune quietly, vocals backed by the sizzle from the grill in the kitchen and the steady stream of traffic out the front windows. Her mom loved this song, though she couldn’t tell you the name or artist off the top of her head, remembering only the warmth from the honey-soaked sound of her mothers voice; the sweetness of childhood on her tongue like syrup when she sings it to herself now.

His low whistling of that familiar tune catches her off guard for the second time tonight. She catches his eye, bewildered and laughing.

“You know that song?” he’s grinning at her, the biggest smile she’s seen since he came in.

“Sure do,” he nods, a laugh escaping his lips and breaking the tough facade he wears like armour. “Surprised you do though, the oldies aren’t usually popular with folks your age.”

“My mom loved it,” she admits, smiling ear to ear. “I can’t seem to get it out of my head now. It’s just one of those things that become part of you, I guess.”

“I guess so,” he looks into his coffee with a smile. Grey hair peaks out the sides of his baseball cap, by the looks of it she’d guess he’s about how old her mother would be. The common thread strikes a cord deep in her chest, she wants to hold onto it - an invisible string of connection that makes this stranger feel like a friend. The clock on the wall has other plans, the steady tick tock of the second hand alerting her to the end of her shift. She resigns herself to the failure of her cleaning endeavours and puts a fresh pot of coffee on for whoever’s replacing her.

“Well,” she says as she unties her apron, careful to slip her notebook out of the pocket, “it’s quitting time for me - thanks for chatting with me,” she places his bill in front of him.

“I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for you on the radio,” he’s smiling at her like he knows something she doesn’t - and hell, he probably does. She doesn’t claim to know much about anything outside of bussing tables and daydreaming.

“You better,” she gives him a wave as she heads into the back. Hanging her apron up and collecting her things with a quick goodbye over her shoulder to the cooks in the kitchen. She scrolls through her phone, putting her headphones in and finding the song that’s been rolling through her mind all afternoon.

The little album cover that pops up on her screen stops her dead in her tracks.

There, clear as day, is the drifter; younger and vibrant, but the same dark eyes that stared at her not five minutes ago. Her hand rests on the door leading to the dining area, shock leaving her immobile as she strings together who she’s been pestering for the past hour. She’s spurred into action by the telltale chime of the bell in the restaurant, bolting through the door and nearly colliding with the waitress coming to relieve her.

“Where’d he go?!” she gestures to the corner booth, the mud from his boots still settled on the floor where he sat moments ago.

“The old guy? He asked me for your name and then ran out - just pulled out of the lot - why? Dine and dash?” Her co-worker rolls her eyes and proceeds into the back, muttering typical under her breath.

The distance to the corner booth feels like miles as she half jogs across the little diner, seeing the pile of change he left for his coffee. She looks out the window, craning her neck as if to get a parting glance of the man as he speeds off, but he’s long gone from her dusty stretch of highway; from her little world of sticky constellation counters and bus stop daydreams. His voice plays through the headphones around her neck, muffled but still there as she places a hand over her racing heart.

She picks up the bill, noticing he left a note in the ‘tip’ section: Thanks for making an old man’s day. I hear LA has a waitress shortage.

She laughs as she goes to tuck the bill in her notebook, only just then noticing the folded paper on the seat of the booth. With shaking fingers she picks it up, only to drop it to the table immediately when she sees what it is, tears springing to her eyes.

Later, when the flights been booked, and the deposit’s been put down, and she’s packed her life into her suitcase she’ll resist the urge to pinch herself - if it’s a dream she never wants to wake up.

The drifter leaves the diner $20,000 poorer than he entered, but richer than ever. The open road ahead of them both that day as they part complete strangers, except in the ways that matter.