The Middle of Nowhere

Big Jake's 24-hour Diner was a 3600 square foot rectangle in the middle of a parched open lot in front of the sign reading 'Nevada Welcomes You'. It was a truckers' haven in the desert and at any given time a couple dozen big rigs or more parked themselves in a few scattered rows on the lot. Many of them kept their engines running either to power their refrigerated trailers or the air conditioning in the cab while their drivers slept off the previous few hundred miles. The uneven pavement, devoid of any painted lines, was heavily cracked in places with patches of loose gravel strewn from the gaps, and was sun leached of any of its original blackness into a light ash grey. The lack of a liquor license in the temperant state of Utah did not seem to deter the long haul truckers (who were often regularly substance tested anyways) from the large portions of greasy meat eggs and hashbrowns washed down with fresh hot coffee for breakfast lunch dinner and midnight specials. At certain times of day business was busier than others but but it was never dead. Up to eight waitresses (and in this throwback joint they were still called waitresses and not servers) would be on shift for lunch or dinner while the wee hours of the morning would still employ three of four.

Of all the places on Earth that Mom had ever had or could have dragged her to, Wendover Utah had to be the worst. With hundreds of miles of dry salty desert to the east and jagged barren mountains to the west, it was a prison, a wasteland. The weather was appalling. The dryness and the heat did no favors for her delicate and densely freckled complexion and her hair felt frizzy and dirty most of the time. With a population of six-thousand it was small town hicksville. The favorite passtimes of her classmates (with whom she'd made very few connections) consisted of driving their four-by-fours up into the hills, getting drunk, dirt biking and shooting guns - a culture that she found most crass and even distasteful.

The worst part was the casinos. Wendover sat upon the border of Nevada and the whole town was constructed in a narrow line along the business siding of Interstate 80. Gambling was by far the biggest industry. Without it the place would have been a ghost town. As such, the Utah side was pathetic dirty and small. In Nevada, the hotels and casino resorts with their massive tacky signage glowed like a throbbing and swollen sore thumb in the surrounding nothingness of the dustbowl. One step across that line into the Silver State, transfixed and decrepit seniors sat on their fat butts pulling slots for hours at a time while the corporations took advantage of their addictions as they siphoned away their savings and pensions. It was a shameful existence.

Back in October was the seventh time that Sandy had been uprooted in her life when when Mom decided to pull up stakes from Sacramento. She was ready to just get through the twelfth grade and enroll in local college. Then maybe she'd have a chance to establish some roots of her own and detach herself from her Mom's whims of survival. It was a scary proposition but it was something. For the first time in her life she even had a boyfriend. Sometimes it was Mom's employment that had dictated their gypsy ways, sometimes it was men. This time it was a new low. Mom had packed the two of them up to go live with Gavin, some guy that she had met online. Sandy protested, asking if it was wise to move in with someone that they'd never met, but Mom justified herself when she assured her daughter that she had gotten to know him through chatting over the previous three months. Sandy tearfully said goodbye to Aidan so that Mom could embrace this new Gavin fellow. Over the years she had become very adept at packing things, knowing what to keep and what to leave behind. She did so one more time and shoved it into the car for Utah.

Gavin was nothing special but after Christmas even he was gone. He packed a bag and climbed into his truck one morning, explaining that he and a friend had secured a plumbing contract for a condo in Provo and that he'd be back in three weeks. Three became six and then he stopped returning Mom's messages altogether. Sandy was yet again the victim of Mom's poor judgment as they moved into a basement suite to save on rent. The move was easy as she had hardly unpacked anything since the fall.

Aidan had agreed to maintain contact. They had discussed the possibility of Sandy moving back to Sacramento after graduation for college and their relationship could resume. Then in February, like Gavin, he too stopped responding. A month later she hit his facebook page to see photos of him with some other girl. The pic of Aidan in a warm embrace with this short curvy raven haired one named Grace bludgeoned to death any possible notion that they may have been just friends. Sandy was crushed. Her own judgment hadn't been any better than Mom's after all.

Then school was over. She had graduated and didn't know where to turn next. A hundred miles east was Salt Lake City. A hundred miles the other way was Elko. She knew nothing of and not one soul at either of them. Another three hundred miles further west was Reno, but that was merely Wendover on steroids. None of these destinations appealed to her in the slightest. She thought about applying to art college for graphic design of some sort. There was one in Boise and another in Salt Lake but without a scholarship where would the tuition come from? Sandy needed a job but since she was still nineteen she couldn't legally work in the casinos like her Mom could, so she started with Big Jake's.

She had been there a week and was finally getting used to the fast pace. The four-to-midnight was tough. That stretch from five until nine was a noisy madhouse. Wall to wall burgers steaks and ribs with heaping plates of thick cut fries, all of it drowned with copious amounts of steaming coffee. Just refilling the creamers and sugar bowls ate up an hour of the shift. She poured so much coffee that she quickly learned to do it with her left arm so that her right wrist didn't ache from doing all the work on its own all day.

Then there were the stares and the crooked grins, the 'honeys' the 'sweethearts' and the 'babys', the suggestive winks. There had even been a couple of invites for private time in the back of a truck. Men two and three times her age, with scraggly hair hanging from their chins and slim to none wisping from the edges of sweat stained ball caps, and bodies bulging out of their dingy work clothes, would hit on her. Even at six in the morning they would still slide into a booth or belly up to the counter in romeo mode, with nothing to lose in hopes of that one-in-a-million shot that the skinny fair-haired freckled girl might just possibly say 'Yeah, what the hell, sure.' Not all of them would be this way of course, but there was always one or two in the house that thought they had a chance or at least entertained the fantasy of getting with a sweet young girl and would attempt to engage her in idle chatter, keeping her at his table a minute longer than necessary while other hungry customers waited. Sandy certainly wasn't the only target by far. That would have been Trish, the pixie blonde with the round face eyes tits and booty, but all the girls on the staff dealt with the same shenanigans so she wasn't alone. Sandy brought up the subject with Magz, one of the shift managers, about how to handle it. "As long as they don't touch you, just smile and go with it," she advised with a wink. "You'll make more tips." Magz wasn't lying as Sandy was to find, but each time she tallied up her receipts she couldn't help thinking that it felt like prostitution - let them ogle away and take their money.

It was a quarter past ten as she was finishing up her break. Her feet felt swollen in her black flat shoes and thin black knee high socks, but she rose from the toilet eager to get to the end of the shift and go home. She checked herself in the mirror, her otherwise pale face covered in a myriad of tan gold and copper freckles. They blanketed her shoulders arms upper back and chest as well. It was pointless to try to hide them so black eye liner was her only makeup. Her hair was plain and straight, past her chest and parted in the middle. It was that color that couldn't decide if it was blonde or brown. "Is that how you got your name, from the color of your hair?" she had been asked thousands of times. She had even asked her mother the same question when she was four or five years old but Mom had told her that it was only coincidence. Sandy never wanted to be the tomboy that most perceived her as. Plain thin freckled and with hair the color of prairie dust, she looked like she came from a farmyard in Kansas. Still, to assert herself in a more dolled up way would only invite attention that she wasn't always comfortable with. The dress code at Big Jake's was black and feminine, and feminine was defined as no pant legs but skirt hems only. The little gold badge to the left of her chest read her name stenciled in black. Often the hang of her hair would obscure it and if she were honest, she preferred the anonymity. Her t-shirt that night was black and was printed with an ornate graphic of the cover art for the Dum Dum Girls' 'Too True' album. A black pencil skirt past the knee finished things off.

Back in the diner proper, the sizzle of the kitchen the clinking of cups and plates and the random chatter refocused her. The air conditioning hummed as it did twenty-four-seven. If it ever would conk out during a lunch shift she would surely die. The night outside the windows was black, with only the street lamps and the shapes of the trucks outlined by their clearance lights bright enough to outshine the internal reflections on the glass. The outer walls were lined with booths and the floor was gridded with tables. At the front was a long counter with swiveling backed stools. It was divided in the middle by an access gap for the staff and each end had its own touch screen cashier station. On the wall behind were the coffee machines, cups and saucers, the cutlery and the toasters as well as windowed shelves filled with a multitude of pies. The interior of the place was subdued with dark wood and maroon vinyl upholstery and the table and counter tops were black for ease of cleaning. Sandy took the carafe in her left hand and made the rounds of top ups. There were less than two hours to go. Then she could walk the three blocks home and soak her feet before going to bed.

“Go on then, you deadbeat, bastard! Run off to your fucking whores!” thirty hours into his fifty hour haul and Kurt Hawthorne still couldn’t get out of the shadow of his home life, “go on! Leave your legitimate children behind and go buy Pampers for that whore in Atlanta, your—what is it now, third bastard—must really need your support. Fuck me, your wife and your legitimate fucking children—we’ve got it made in this shitty double-wide you’re so fucking proud of.”

The worst part about the road was that it eventually led back home.

Kurt shook his head and cranked the radio, already blasting high-adrenaline metal into the cabin of his extended sleeper-cabin rig, named Silver Surfer by his eldest son. Even as sleeper cabs went, Kurt’s was massive, it had to be, since Kurt himself was a gigantic man. At 6’8” and well over three hundred pounds of pure, old fashioned Country Strong beef, no twin bed was going to contain him. His custom sleeper held a full queen-sized mattress in the back in addition to the required torque and horsepower to control eight axles behind it.

To Kurt, this cab was his home, like a diesel fueled snail, he carried his home with him wherever he went. In the traditional sense, his home was just outside of Lexington South Carolina, with his wife Trish and their three kids. Unfortunately for all of them, that quiet life never felt like home. He could exist in that world for months without ever truly feeling a part of it. Everywhere he went, he was just passing through. Nowhere was that more obvious than his so-called home.

“You’ve got a whore in every city, I’ll bet—just lying on their backs, waiting for you to bring a load through! Yeah, that’s what you like, isn’t it? No love left for me or your children, once you’re done scattering it up and down the highways. You get the fuck out of here then, you cheating bastard. Just know, if you drive away now you’ll never be welcome back here anymore! You hear me? This isn’t your home anymore!”

It never was…


The buzz strip along the shoulder of the highway rattled him back awake. He was dozing, an often fatal mistake in his line of work. The caffeine pills were wearing off and his 62 oz. coffee mug was as empty as Silver’s gas tank. He needed a stop in the worst way. It was nearing midnight on his second straight day of pushing, he was ahead of schedule, he decided that he could afford to stop for the night, somewhere out along this vast, moonlit desert.

Kurt cursed himself for not stopping in Salt Lake, as he so often did in this part of the country. He didn’t care to stay there too long, given their strict smoking and drinking laws, but for food and a good night’s sleep, he knew of few better places as far as amenities went. He lit a cigarette, uncertain when he’d find another opportunity to stop in this vast, silver sandbox.

A couple dozen miles down the road, the sky ahead reflected orange lights below, some semblance of society must have been perched right along the state line. At 11:45 local time, Kurt pulled into the full service truck stop that the signs on the freeway had told him was called Wendover. He’d passed through this way plenty of times, but seldom gave it much thought since he tended to stop in Salt Lake. He set Silver up at a diesel pump to drink her fill and took his empty thermos mug with him into a diner that shared the huge parking lot with the truck stop.

Kurt flicked his still burning cigarette butt against the curb before walking into Big Jake’s. The décor was dark, like an old-school speak easy club, which suited his mood at the moment and the whole place smelled like bacon—as any good greasy-spoon ought to. They seemed to be doing decent business for this time of night, but Kurt didn’t have any trouble finding an open booth—albeit one that wasn’t fully cleared yet, but he wasn’t the fussy type.

As soon as the pretty, young waitress approached, Kurt felt himself finally cutting free of the nuisance memories of home, of Trish and a lifetime of broken promises. He made room for her to clear away the few plates and wipe down the table in front of him before asking what she could get him.

He could tell she was forcing the smile, an occupational hazard Kurt was glad would never be his, he was free to look as miserable and angry as he was, but there was something comforting in her pushing through the tiredness or whatever it was that she had to mask with that practiced smile. Her teeth were all perfectly straight and perfect white.

“I don’t need a menu, just bring me whatever’s good and a lot of it for not very much. And coffee, otherwise I might pass out into the middle of whatever you bring me. Thanks.” Kurt didn’t even realize he was doing it until he finished his order, his mouth felt strange—he was smiling. She had made him smile and it wasn’t forced or faked.

As she turned away, some slob who was sitting in the next booth called after her and reached out, grabbing a handful of her firm, young ass.

“Hey, sweet cheeks!” the fat trucker called at her, “I ordered extra bacon, there’s like barely five pieces here.”

The moment that asshole’s hand touched her body, Kurt’s arm shot out, driven by instinct and not purpose. He grasped the man’s wrist in his huge palm and began to squeeze. He squeezed until he felt the small, pebble-like bones of the man’s wrist and hand bundling up on each other. The trucker started screaming.

“Don’t touch her like that.” Kurt’s deep, gravelly voice remarked to the man without even turning in his booth, “apologize to the lady and you can have your arm back.”

“Fuck off!” the trucker wailed, stumbling out of his booth to face his attacker, he carried the steak knife from the table in his free hand, “I’ll fucking gut you, you hick fuck!”

The trucker slashed at Kurt’s face, but it was easy to block, unfortunately the nearest tool he had was his well-worn 62 oz. thermos which ended up taking the stabbing and being mortally wounded. The trucker screamed again as Kurt rose from his seat, back to his full height, towering over the man who would have seemed tall to most. Dropping the thermos, Kurt’s right hand swept upward suddenly, like a chop to the trucker’s armpit, then with his hold on that wrist, Kurt shoved forward.


The trucker fell to his knees, screaming in agony.

“I just dislocated your shoulder. Apologize to the lady and I’ll put it back.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!! Oh fucking God in heaven! I’m so fucking sorry!!”

“To her.”

“I’m sorry, miss! Really, I—I didn’t mean anything by it, I—I—“


The trucker fell to the ground screaming, grasping at his arm where the ball had just landed back into its socket. Kurt sat back down in his booth and began trying to remove the steak knife from his cherished thermos cup. They didn’t even make the 62 oz. size any more… He inspected the hole, to see if there was any hope of repairing it.

There were only a couple of minutes left in her shift, perhaps a couple of hundred seconds ticking down to midnight when a hulking brute of a man walked in. He was absolutely huge, ducking under the doorway, with a t-shirt clinging to his thick arms and torso. He strode in, found himself a booth and eased his powerful girth into it. His windblown face and bristly goatee scared her and the table looked much smaller than it had a moment previously as he leaned back to allow her to bus it. Sandy thought about not taking his order as Sheila would soon be serving the section and she didn't want the ambiguity of transferring the bill nor dividing any tips, but before she could clear out, unprompted he ordered anyway.

"Uh ... one rib sandwich platter?" she suggested. With his lack of any protest, she shakily assumed that he was content with the day's special. It had been popular and had gotten good reviews all shift. She just hoped that he would concur with the consensus once it arrived whether she was still around to witness it or not.

"Hey, sweet cheeks!"

Heads turned as Sandy yelped out in fright of the man's sudden groping. The dirty plates that she was carrying teetered about in her hands as she jumped and despite her reactions to keep them corralled, a cup and saucer tumbled forth and shattered as they struck the tiles below.

"Don’t touch her like that."

His cavernous voice matched his stature. Sandy whipped around to witness the slob that had taken liberties with her backside wailing painful obscenities as the big man reached across to wrench his arm. Then she yelped again as the fondler grabbed a knife from the table and started flailing. Chairs scraped as onlookers stood to take in the large fellow unfolding himself from the booth to his feet. The next thing that she knew the knife, embedded in an oversized plastic mug, was rolling on the floor and the one with the bulging gut was on his knees howling profuse apologies.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it," Magz assured as she lifted Sandy by the shoulders and ushered her away. "Just go cash out, hon." Sandy quickly shuffled down the aisle and behind the counter as big Ray - the cook-slash-bouncer - from the kitchen dashed past her in the opposite direction. Thoroughly shaken, Sandy slipped into the ladies' room and sat to collect herself.

She had been getting used to the looks and the comments, but this was the first time that anything physical had ever happened. She felt like there was a spotlight seeking her just outside the bathroom door. She was the center of the commotion, not only as a cheap object of flesh but also of some vigilante justice - the first domino of an ugly chain reaction.

"Sandy? Sweetie?" It was Magz as she gently pushed open the door. "You okay?"

"Yes," Sandy sniffed.

"It's all done," she assured. "We got rid of him. He won't be coming back."

"Thank you."

"You wanna come sit in the office?"

"No, it's okay," said Sandy. "Just give me a couple of minutes and I'll come cash out."

"Take your time," said Magz as she leaned down and brushed Sandy's hair from her face. "Sheila's on now." There was understanding in her words, as if she'd been in the same situation before herself. "I haven't seen something so out of the blue like that from someone in a long long time," she explained. "Usually you can sense it building and you can nip it in the bud before it happens." Sandy had never seen such warmth from her. Despite always being cheerful and friendly, Magz was very businesslike. With her chestnut highlights ponytailed out of her way and her stocky legs always moving with direct and quick purpose, she got the work done. She was tireless and had all the answers. Sandy supposed that that was why she was a shift manager. She spoke softly. "You just come out when you're ready."

Magz turned and left her to the hum of the kitchen fans and the dull chatter of the dining room muffled beyond the restroom walls. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and calmed herself. After a few minutes she opened them to the stark bright of the fluorescent bulbs off the white painted walls. Sandy stood and stepped out hoping to avoid that creeping spotlight. She kept her head down as she approached the cash station and started through her receipts.

Kurt watched as the big cook came rushing from the back to drag out the slob who’d assaulted the young waitress, who herself had been ushered off, out of sight by a woman who seemed to be in charge of the wait staff. Her eyes had that worn-over glaze of someone who’d seen and done more than they would have chosen for themselves.

Once the offending trucker was removed from the diner, Kurt returned to his booth, giving up any hope he might have had for rescuing his trusty road mug. A new waitress came over, filling his mug and making hollow apologies for the scene. This kind of thing was painfully common in places like this, transient people with little to no fear of consequences. Truckers sometimes acquired criminal records as sport in states they passed through, and border towns like this one were jurisdictional nightmares for prosecuting petty crimes.

Even though the handsy trucker had been thrown out of the restaurant, Kurt was worried that he’d escalated the situation by intervening. When he spotted her again, cashing out her tickets for the night he excused himself from the table and approached cautiously.

“Excuse me, miss,” Kurt said gently, holding his hands up in a nonthreatening posture, “I just wanted to apologize for what happened, my instinct took over and I overreacted. It’s no excuse, but I wanted to make sure to apologize.”

Kurt reached slowly into his pocket and drew out two twenties, handing them to Sandy.

“I know it doesn’t make up for what happened, or redeem my behavior at all, but at least you should have something to show for a shitty night,” Kurt gently laid the bills on the counter, “and if it’s not too forward of me, I’d like to walk you to your car. In case that old bastard is out there drinking up some courage to try and get some revenge.”

Kurt took a step back, wanting not to crowd the frail, young thing. She looked like a stiff wind might blow her over and Kurt felt a deep need to protect her, as much as he could without seeming like some kind of stalker, or worse.

“Please, miss. Humor me, would ya? If something happened to you because I riled up that old road lizard I’d never forgive myself.”

"Excuse me, miss ... I wanted to make sure to apologize."

Sandy's jaw almost dropped when he placed the forty bucks down before her, but managed to before her lips could form a fully fledged O. Then he offered to escort her on her way out.

"It's okay. I don't have a car," she breathed gingerly sliding the bills across the counter a couple of inches back in his direction. "But thank you ... for everything," she added when she caught her wits and remembered her manners. He did stick up for her after all, but she really was uncomfortable accepting such an inordinately large gratuity, and truth be told, Sandy wasn't exactly comfortable with him (or any other stranger) knowing the three blocks to where she and her mother lived either, no matter how noble his intentions may have been.

"Please, miss. Humor me, would ya? If something happened to you because I riled up that old road lizard I’d never forgive myself."

His voice was deep and coarse but not without warmth. Nothing about him stood out as ungenuine but even still she was quite shaken by the whole ordeal and was more than ready to start putting it all behind her. In the background, Magz had stepped out the front door to avoid the reflective glare inside the restaurant's windows and before Sandy could answer him, the shift manager returned to join her at the cash. With an excusing smile to the apologetic vigilante, she took Sandy aside by the elbow.

"He's still sitting in his cab," she whispered. "It's that white one right out front with the maroon lettering 'Allied West'," she confirmed. "You wanna slip out the back and go home?"

"I still have a couple more to add up," she said.

"All right," agreed Magz. The alternative was for the manager to finish it for her but then Sandy would not be able to take her tips home until the next time she came in. Magz turned to the tall hero, smiling warmly.

"Thank you so much for looking out for us. Your bill tonight is on the house," she told him nearly gushing with gratitude. "But if you could just give us a moment to cash out that'd be great." She knew that it would be very difficult for him to refuse her gracious request, not that she wasn't at all sincere but her top priority was Sandy and her comfort. She was determined to give her the space that she needed.

The older woman, obviously world-weary and in some position of power within this small microcosm of society that was “Big Jake’s,” came over to join them at the register and Kurt felt suddenly—involuntarily—exposed. The older gal looked right through him as if he were made of cling-wrap and it made him uncomfortable. He really wasn’t trying to get into her pants, or skirt, as it was—she was almost young enough to be one of his eldest daughter’s friends, but he couldn’t deny that carnal root in the back of his mind that fantasized about splitting her tiny little body in half in the back of his cab—that root seemed to be all that this older woman saw of him. Another shit-kicking trucker looking to dump a load before he finished hauling one.

“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary, miss…” Kurt trailed off, realizing that he was overusing the term “miss,” when both ladies before him were wearing nametags, “Magz. Really, I’m quite embarrassed for myself. I’m not like that, usually. I just can’t stand seeing a young lady be assaulted like that. Please, convince her to take my tip. She deserves it for what she went through.”

Kurt slid the bills back, toward Magz this time before turning his full and undistracted attention back to Sandy.

“I’m sure you’re pretty shaken up about this… Sandy. I don’t want you to think I’m stalking you or something. I don’t even need to walk with you, just… let me be… around when you leave the parking lot. Once you reach the main street I’ll shut my eyes and spin in circles so I can’t see which way you go after that—”

“Sir, please. The young lady doesn’t want your help or your attention. You seem honest enough, but she said no. That’s the end of it. Please go back to your booth and I’ll have your meal out to you as soon as it’s ready.” Magz interrupted.

Kurt sighed, he’d been flanked and was outnumbered. Utterly defeated. He understood their concern and it wasn’t entirely misplaced, but he wasn’t about to let this pretty, young thing get beaten and raped in a truck stop parking lot because of him.

“I’m going to go out for a smoke. I’ll be back.” Kurt replied, his own flanking maneuver to get around their objections. It wasn’t like they could stop him from going outside, even if Sandy was likely to try and shirk him at the first opportunity, maybe he could distract the would-be assailant long enough for her to get away unnoticed, “please, take the tip. I’m not coming back for it.”

Kurt made his way out the customer entrance and back into the parking lot that surrounded the little diner on all sides, like a black ocean. He’d barely made his way to the concrete ashtray on the side of the building before the trucker from inside emerged from his cab, brandishing an empty whiskey bottle like a club.

The trucker whistled loud and from the rows of parked trucks emerged two others, one armed with a crowbar and the other wielding a chain. The prick had likely been on his CB radio the whole time, trying to rile up his friends over the injustice and indignity he suffered. Vigilante justice was a way of life on the road. For men outside the reach of jurisdictional law, there were unwritten rules of the road, and any perceived sleight could be framed to make just about anyone seem like an enemy of the whole profession.

As the three large, armed men approached, Kurt guarded his expression and continued to smoke casually, as though he didn’t even recognize the man whose shoulder he’d dislocated less than twenty minutes ago.

“Hey, shithead!” the trucker shouted as he and his entourage approached, “you really fucked up my arm back there. They expect us to act like that, touch them and shit—they allow it! It’s expected in a place like this, and that fine piece of ass was the tastiest little snack they’ve had in that joint for months, and you fucked that up for me too.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough day, pal.” Kurt’s tone was cold, not at all like the reassuring tone he’d used with Sandy, there was a threat in his tone. The word “pal” especially was dripping in unspoken malice.

“Yeah, well… you fucked my shit up, now we’re going to fuck your shit up.”

“Wow, I mean, I’m flattered but I don’t swing that way. Besides, wouldn’t fucking me make your boyfriends there jealous?”

“Fucker!”

The guy with the chain struck first, but Kurt flicked his still burning cigarette at the guy’s face, engulfing him in a hail of sparks before he could swing the chain forward. While he was reacting to a face full of orange sparks, Kurt was able to lean his weight into a crossing haymaker that connected with the stranger’s mouth. He could feel the attacker’s front teeth popping loose.

While Kurt was dealing with one attacker, the other managed to get within striking distance and swung the crowbar down, making solid and agonizing contact with Kurt’s ribs. The assailant raised his weapon and swung again, but this time Kurt managed to get an arm up in time, using his forearm to block the blow, though taking an overhand shot from a crowbar wasn’t much less agonizing on his forearm.

Kurt managed to fire his leg out, straightening into a hard kick to the crowbar guy’s gut, doubling him over for long enough for Kurt to drop an elbow on the back of his skull.

Lastly, Kurt turned to the original trucker, still wielding his empty bottle.

“Come on then, chicken shit. I’ll dislocate your jaw this time…”

"I'm sure you’re pretty shaken up about this ... Sandy," he said as his eyes found her name tag upon her chest. She stiffened in a futile reflex as if she were endeavoring to not be spotted. Then he went on to explain himself. "I don't want you to think I’m stalking you or something. I don't even need to walk with you, just ... let me be ... around when you leave the parking lot. Once you reach the main street I'll shut my eyes and spin in circles so I can't see which way you go after that."

Despite his attempts at chivalry, his proposal of protective escort was far more than what she was comfortable with. When he used the term 'stalking' it struck her as what it felt like, but her strong impulse to turn him down was only matched by the guilt that would have followed it immediately. His pressing of the forty dollars didn't help her quandary either. Thankfully, Magz stepped in to graciously decline on her behalf and the large fellow excused himself for a cigarette.

No sooner had Sandy finished her tallies than there was a commotion outside. The first indication was the craned necks and squinted eyes attempting to discern the situation beyond the reflections in the dark windows. Then someone shouted.

"There's a fight goin' on!"

Chairs scraped and a half dozen or more got to their feet. One pushed the door open and stepped out to intervene. Animated shouts of profanity from outside were clearly heard while the door was opened and then were muffled again as it slowly shut.

"I'm calling the cops," said Magz and resolutely picked up the phone, but by the time that she did blue and red flashing lights illuminated the parking lot. As there was far less action on the Utah side of the line, the police there were never far away and were probably parked right across the street at the convenience store and saw the trouble themselves as it unfolded.

Sandy couldn't help but tense up again. Just when she wanted everything to disappear, things were all blowing up around her. Angry voices shouted outside. Soon sirens wooped and more flashes of red and blue provided a hypnotic light show. Sandy took a seat at the nearest empty booth. The shouting calmed and after a few minutes two police officers entered the diner, thick bodied in their dark navy uniforms. By their casual gait she assumed that the situation outside was under control. Magz stepped up to meet them and she gave them the quick rundown, gesturing towards Sandy in the process. The first cop spoke as the second one took out his pad.

"Full name please?"

"Magdalene Skovall," she said as the second officer jotted away.

"Have you seen either of them before?"

"The fat guy a couple of times," she answered, "but the tall guy no, never."

They spoke for a couple of minutes and then both officers made their inevitable way to Sandy's corner booth. She just hoped that the ordeal wouldn't be prolonged.

"Good evening Miss," the first cop introduced himself. She'd seen him come in before. She recognized the other one too. Police dropped in often for complimentary coffee and pie. They both had military haircuts and tree trunk necks. The one with the pad was a couple of inches shorter and his hair was much darker. "So we understand there was a fight in here just now," asked the talker. His badge read Pruitt.

"Yes."

"And one of the fellows had a weapon?"

"Yes. The older one with the big belly."

"Could we get your full name please?"

"Sandra Broschi," she answered quietly, not wanting or needing anyone around to hear. It wasn't the most private location for the divulgence of such personal information. Furthermore, she didn't particularly like her name. Sandra was fine and anonymous enough, but she felt that her last name was oafish and blunt and that it lacked any elegance or charm, just like her mother's third husband that had given it to her when she was nine. Before that she had been Sandra Forbes. The name that she had grown up with certainly wasn't classy but at least it was tidy and carried a softer edge. The one that she liked the best was the one that she was born with, Sandra Kendall. When she was old enough to know, she had been told that it had come from her natural father, a man that she had never met. Her mother's first husband had left her six months pregnant. His last name was all that he had ever provided for her.

Officer Pruitt asked her some more questions to form some sort of statement out of her answers. She told them how the slobby one had fondled her and then how the tall powerful one had taken exception as the jotter scribbled away. His name was Ashford. Then as she confirmed the swing of the knife, Pruitt bent down to pick up the split open travel coffee mug and inspect the evidence.

"But the tall one with the goatee struck first?" the officer prompted. The last thing Sandy wanted to do was get the vigilante in trouble. As much as he scared her he had come to her defense after all, but it wasn't in her to lie, especially to a police officer. She reasoned that other witnesses would all corroborate the truth anyways so she really had no choice.

"Well he grabbed him first," she said. "I wouldn't say he struck."

The two officers nodded to each other.

"Miss," Pruitt began. "We have the man who assaulted you in the back of the cruiser. If you just stepped out the front door could you identify him for us?"

"I guess," she said reluctantly. She was in no mood to but was not about to disobey. The officers stepped back expecting her to stand and she slowly slipped out of the booth to follow them. The talker pushed the door open halfway to the flashing red and blue nightscape. Three big silver police cruisers fronted with their imposing crash bars haphazardly blocked the area. Two more officers stood over a groaning body slumped fetal in the middle of the lot. Another guy was bent over the back of a car, his wrists cuffed. Sandy leaned out and saw the asshole in profile in the back seat of the closest cruiser. She recognized him easily with his grey beard and deep set eyes. He seemed to be in some physical discomfort.

"That's him," she nodded shakily. "The one who touched me." The two officers nodded to each other again.

"Do you recognize anyone else?" asked Pruitt.

Leaning against the masonry of the wall was the vigilante, his thick arms held behind his back. Taking him all in at once for the first time, his physique was terribly solid and although he wasn't thin he looked definitely trimmer than her first impressions in the booth and behind the counter. Within the grisled goatee, his teeth gritted. His nostrils flared and his chest breathed at the pace of his abating adrenaline. A thin stream of red blood trickled from his brow down his cheek and ran along the edge of his hard jaw.

"That's the one that ... tried to help," she said, choosing her words as carefully as she could.

"All right Miss, thank you," said Pruitt and then with an acknowledging nod Ashford walked over to the tall goateed paladin, turned him and freed him from his cuffs.

Pruitt escorted Sandy back inside to her booth seat and then had a quick word with Ray the cook. With Officer Ashford still outside, he had to take his own notes. After a minute he returned to the booth.

"Your manager says you'd like to get home," he said. "Would you like us to take you?"

"Yes please," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "It's not far but I don't want any of them to see where I live."

Pruitt nodded with understanding, then backed off to let her out of the booth. Sandy retrieved her purse from the stash deep under the middle of the counter and followed the officer out the back door. She hadn't brought a jacket in the blazing heat of the afternoon. A cruiser awaited behind the building. Pruitt let her into the back seat and instructed the cop at the wheel. A moment later the car slipped off into the darkness.

The bottle burst with a crack and shatter as it struck Kurt’s temple and long, quick fingers of blood embraced one side of his face he stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding a follow-up slash by the broken neck of the bottle. Even blind in one eye and with his ears ringing, Kurt managed to sidestep his attacker and deliver a decisive, downward slash kick into the side of the third attacker’s knee, buckling the large man in an instant. It was just then that police lights flooded the scene and officers began shouting over one another.

Kurt knew the drill.

He clasped his hands behind his head and laid cheek down on the asphalt. As the officers rushed over, Kurt tried, futilely to warn them about his arm, which was still in agony from the strike from the crow bar. Having been arrested before, Kurt also knew that he’d need more than one set of cuffs to keep his wrists bound behind his back.

“The arm, watch the arm—ow! Damnit!” Kurt was doing a poor job of instructing the officers, as they lifted him up from the pavement, he noticed for the first time how wide the pool of blood he’d made had grown, “the extender! You’re going to need the extender!”

Eventually, the officers used a second set of handcuffs to lock down Kurt’s wrists and as the other three were being handcuffed, a paramedic began applying pressure and gauze to Kurt’s head-wound. He knew that he must have lost quite a bit of blood from the moment that the police sat him up on the curb, overwhelming dizziness made any attempts to answer the officers’ questions come out as slurring jibberish.

Kurt was lucky that Magz and Sandy plead his case on his behalf because Kurt barely knew which direction was up until the EMT hung a bag of saline solution for him. Within minutes he was back to himself, more-or-less and before too much longer he was even released from the handcuffs, as most witnesses had confirmed that he was merely defending himself.

The other three left in the back of squad cars and Kurt was given a citation to appear in court some months later, back in this far-flung corner of the place where two places met.

The sun was tinting the horizon blue by the time Kurt got his ill-fated meal boxed up and fell asleep in the back of his truck. He slept for most of the day, until the hour threatened to impinge upon his pay for the trip, so despite the splitting headache, Kurt hauled himself up just before noon and hobbled weakly over to the diner to try and force down enough sugar and caffeine that he could face the road again.

The sunlight stabbed at his eyes, so they were mostly closed behind his mirrored sunglasses, and his dirty bandana had stuck to the bandage that the EMT had put over his head-wound—to say that Kurt looked worse for wear was an understatement.

“Table for one, please,” Kurt nearly groaned as he entered the restaurant, not even seeing clearly who he was speaking to, “and the biggest To-Go cup you have access to, mine met an untimely end.”

Her phone buzzed on the night stand next to her bed. Sandy rolled over to prop it up and squint at the calling number. It was work. She hadn't slept well. Restlessness had kept her up for a couple of hours before she dropped into deep slumber only to be awoken too early by the bright dawn sunshine glowing through her curtains. Sandy had tried blocking the window by hanging a blanket but the pins just wouldn't hold the weight. Some tin foil and tape would be needed. She had spent the morning lying in only her panties on top of the sheets for the full effect of the air conditioning, too uncomfortable to sleep and far too tired to move. The phone shook again insistently in Sandy's fingers. It was 11:42 am. She supposed that she really should answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi Sandy. It's Jayna." Her voice was cold, bordering on bitchy. "Ellen called in sick. I need you to do a twelve-to-eight."

"Mm, like now?" Sandy asked as the reality began to hit her.

"Mm-hmm." Jayna was matter-of-fact. Sandy supposed that it was entirely possible that Jayna wasn't up to speed on the events of the previous night, but wondered how such information could not have been grapevined her way so that she might have the shred of humanity to call someone else.

"Well it's a bit short notice," Sandy stalled as she sat up in bed.

"Yeah well Ellen just called in a minute ago so it can't be helped."

So went the bliss of her nothing day. Sandy liked Jayna less and less every shift. She had none of the care and understanding that Magz had. Instead she was eternally miserable and seemed to draw all her energy from a sadistic power trip. There were thirteen or fourteen girls who served. Some were full time and some were part. Sandy was the lowest on the ladder and so was on call for any time that they needed extra help, although she certainly wasn't the only one that could have been chosen. She was getting three or four shifts per week but they happened at all hours of the day. Some of them were a full eight hours but sometimes they were only four or five. This shift would make back-to-back longs even after the night that she had had, and she had a six-to-ten breakfast already lined up for tomorrow. Sandy dragged herself to her feet and immediately felt weak. She hadn't eaten. There wasn't much time so she shimmied into last night's skirt left on the floor and quickly threw on a black short-sleeved blouse. It's crisp lines of the chest pockets and lapels and the neat creases still folded in the sleeves showed how new it still was. Tossing back her hair, Sandy donned a ball cap and large clunky sunglasses. Then she flung her biggest light white blouse over her shoulders like a shawl and grabbed her bag. Then almost forgetting, she found her Dum Dum Girls shirt on the floor and unpinned her name tag to fasten to her chest. The house was quiet. Mom must have been at work. As she pushed open the door, the midday sun slammed down onto her like a load of anvils. Cursing the heat she paused to steady her knees before closing the door behind her. The weather was impossible. The only choices were to bake in her clothes or fry without them. She set off for Big Jake's, the suffocating heat sucking the life from her lungs, praying for a do-over for having picked up the phone.

Through the back entrance, down the hall and into the tiny staff room, she hung up the cap and white blouse. Then she swiped her timecard and hurried into the restaurant behind the counter. Dropping her shades into her bag she left it under the cash station with the others and pulled her hair back into a quick ponytail. Her eyes felt as if they had bags beneath them but she wasn't sure if they showed. Neither was she sure if she cared.

"Section one," Jayna ordered. The shift manager was tall and somewhat pear-shaped in her simple black halter with lapels. Her hair was up in a straggly bun, showing streaky gold patterns of her highlights. She lifted her cold stare from Sandy's eyes up to the wall clock and then back again. After letting her storm past and into the kitchen, Sandy checked the clock herself. It was 12:02. What a cunt.

It was busy with the sizzle of the grill and the clamor of chatter and cutlery on plates. The air conditioning re-energized her to a degree but her eyes were still tired. The first booth needed busing. She supposed that the chore would get her blood pumping at least. After clearing and wiping it she grabbed the carafe and made the rounds. As most of the diners in her section were already eating, it was refills all around until she saw the gruff goatee resting on the fists of huge tented arms, one with a purplish welt upon the edge of its ulna. The face was haggard and rough but although willing to accept the help of the bandanna wrapped about it to keep it together, steadfast and defiant. He was thick throughout yet well proportioned. There was no plate at his table but his coffee was already full.

"Have you ordered yet, sir?" she asked. When he peered up at her, she nearly gasped in recognition of her previous night's protector.

When Kurt’s eyes adjusted to the light of day, he felt a slight pang of disappointment when someone other than Sandy showed him back to the same booth where he’d been the night before, when everything had gone to shit on the heels of his good intentions. He thanked the girl as she sat him, only to receive a curt uh-huh by way of reply, but his head was still aching too much to get worked up over some hostess’ attitude.

His arm was badly swollen, but he’d stubbornly refused a splint, sling or ice pack from the paramedic—the last thing he needed was some overpriced medical gear from an ambulance that he could replicate on his own for practically free. For now, he was laying his arm across the table and holding it against his water glass.

Kurt hadn’t looked up the symptoms of a concussion, but in spite of a ravenous hunger in the pit of his stomach, nothing on the menu sounded even remotely appetizing. Even imagining putting food in his mouth made that hunger feel like nausea and the smells coming from the kitchen only made matters worse.

So, each time the smarmy waitress, Jayna came by, he just slid out his cup for another refill of coffee. After the second time, she started rolling her eyes, after the third time, she muttered cheapskate at a volume she must have thought was under his breath.

When he heard footsteps again, Kurt just slid his cup back to the edge of the table, not even looking up from beneath his blood-stained bandana—until, that is, he heard her voice.

"Have you ordered yet, sir?"

Her voice was like angels using wind chimes to bring one another to orgasm—but in a classy way. It was so gentle, almost timid, but self-assured in a way that only young people ever seem to be, and older people just try to pretend they are. He recognized her before he saw her, peering up from beneath his bandana. He could see the sudden realization cross her face and suddenly felt the urge to apologize for his behavior again, but he didn’t.

“I, um… I can’t decide. Nothing sounds good,” Kurt said, glancing back up to Sandy’s expressive brown eyes, “if I gave you a good tip, do you think you could run across to the service station and pick up some Excedrin. My head is… well, I have a headache. And maybe if you could fill a dish rag with ice? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a problem for you. I’ll eat whatever you bring me.”

Kurt tried to turn to face Sandy more directly, but forgot that his injured arm was resting against his full water glass and accidentally pushed it off the side of the table, spilling water and ice everywhere, shattering the glass loudly. All conversations in the diner abruptly halted as all eyes turned on the culprit of the shattered glass. Jayna rolled her eyes again.

“Shit! I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up,” Kurt apologized, sinking out of his booth to try and gather broken glass and ice in his hand, “I just feel like crap today, Sandy. I’m really sorry.”

"If I gave you a good tip, do you think you could run across to the service station and pick up some Excedrin? My head is … well, I have a headache. And maybe if you could fill a dish rag with ice? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a problem for you. I'll eat whatever you bring me."

When the trucker mentioned his head she noticed the dark stain on his bandana. It was blood. Sandy remembered seeing his wound the night before but thought that the paramedics would have had that cleaned up. She suppressed the shock in her face.

"The ice is not a problem but I don't think me leaving the building is a good idea," she said peering over at Jayna busy at the cash station. "I could go in the back. I'm sure we have some Tylenol or something."

When he shifted his arm and Sandy saw the glass slide towards the edge of the table but her reaction to catch it was not in time and it crashed to the floor.

"Shit! I'm so sorry. I'll clean it up. I just feel like crap today, Sandy. I'm really sorry."

He kept using her name. It put her off her guard, almost as if he'd done a background check on her. Silently she chastised herself for such asinine thoughts. He was only trying to be friendly and she was wearing a name tag after all.

"No no. That's okay," she called him off. His energy seemed low, at least much lower than her own. "I got it." With a step more hurried, she passed the front counter and went to the hallway closet for a broom and dustpan, then on the return trip grabbed a towel from the rack. A moment later at the scene of the spill, she threw down the towel to soak up the water. The chore was a comfortable distraction from the awkward situation. Down on one knee, she gathered up the big bits of glass carefully with her fingertips, placing them into the pan. Then she mopped up gingerly with the towel until the area was dry enough for the broom before sweeping the area well, gathering all the bits that she could see into a pile to scoop into the dustpan.

"So I'll get you that ice and see what we have in the first aid box," Sandy said as she straightened up once more. "If you want me to order for you are you looking for something more breakfasty or, like more dinnery?" she asked, her speech somewhat disjointed as she searched for the right words and her mouth crinkling at the oddness of their sound.

Kurt stood back up and used the table napkin to wipe his hands after depositing the glass he’d managed to gather into the tray of the dustpan, acutely aware that he was making a fool of himself. He was acting like a school boy with a crush, though perhaps that was appropriate, given Sandy’s apparent age. Usually small-town girls like her found Kurt irresistible, but for whatever reason she was like kryptonite and apparently immune to his charms—whatever they may have been.

It didn’t stop Kurt’s imagination from outlining her delicate curves under her fitted uniform and crafting an approximation of what she might look like naked. And once he’d imagined her nude body, it was all he could think about.

After she was done cleaning up his mess, he nodded in reply to her news that she wouldn’t be able to deliver him headache medicine. Kurt knew that he could go get the pills himself at any time, but he realized that some part of him was loving the sensation of having this young, gorgeous, little thing waiting on him. It was better that she try to help him unsuccessfully than for him to help himself successfully. That was odd.

“I’m not sure… something lunchy maybe… something easy on my stomach. But filling enough to get me to the coast before I stop again,” Kurt felt like he was reading a word problem from a math book, he quickly decided to change tactics and see if he could somehow salvage something of his dignity in front of Sandy, “I’m Kurt, by the way. Not sure if I got a chance to mention that last night, with everything else that happened.”

Not exactly smooth, but at least nothing had broken this time.

“I thought I heard someone mention that psycho last night was a regular. How does your boyfriend feel about you working in a place where guys like that come in regular. Doesn’t he worry about you? I know I would, if you were my girl.”

"Kurt," she repeated, forcing herself to hint a smile. She needed to maintain her distance, to keep her guard up, yet she felt that she owed him some cordiality. He may have been scary, but he had been good to her after all. She thought about returning the gesture of her own name but he already knew well enough.

"I thought I heard someone mention that psycho last night was a regular."

"I dunno. First time I've seen him," said Sandy. "But I'm kinda new here so ..." her voice trailed off.

"How does your boyfriend feel about you working in a place where guys like that come in regular." Immediately she thought of Aidan and what he might have thought. Then she realized that she had no idea how he would have taken that. They had never really been in a situation together which may have caused him to be so protective. It had never come up. "Doesn't he worry about you? I know I would, if you were my girl." His hypothesis of them being together was so far-fetched that it made her blush with absurdity. His age was difficult to discern in his ragged state but he might have easily been old enough to be her father. Aside from that, this was his world of trucks and desolate highways, one that she didn't even belong in. The thought that he was just another trucker wanting to get into her pants after all jumped to the forefront of her mind but she quickly dismissed it as a figment of her own vanity.

"I don't have a boyfriend," Sandy admitted perhaps more to herself than to Kurt. Her eyes dropped to the floor in a shade of shame for a moment before recovering. She had said too much, but she had a job to do and a disapproving manager to boot. It focused her. "Something lunchy to go," she confirmed pausing awkwardly, compelled to say more but unable to deliver. Dipping her chin timidly, she retreated to the cash station to enter his order. If his stomach was squeamish he probably wouldn't want eggs. She wouldn't herself, so the Denver was out, and since he was likely to eat it hours later, she thought that something which didn't require reheating would be best. She rang up a cold turkey club but subbed cream of mushroom soup for the potato salad. The soup could get cold but Kurt didn't look like a garden salad kind of guy, although she thought the greens would do him a world of good. If anything reheated well it would be soup, and even cold it would make a good dip for the sandwich.

In the back cabinet, she found a small bottle of Aleve and knocked two small pills into a ketchup cup she had snatched from the dispenser in the kitchen. Returning to the counter, she scooped some ice into a towel and wrapped it. Jayna glared at her as she bustled past.

"Table six wants their bill."

"I'll be right there."

"Stop wasting time with that guy," she leaned over and hushed between clenched teeth.

"He just needs some ice. Some guys tried to jump him just outside last night," Sandy said quietly.

"I know."

So she was informed of everything that happened and she was still being a cow to her and to the customer.

"Chorizo dog, up!"

"If he's not going to order anything ..." Jayna glared.

"He did order."

Jayna straightened up and stormed off in a huff.

Pinning the ice rag under arm to grab the wet floor sign and a mop, Sandy tore off the receipt for table six and headed back to Kurt's booth.

"Here you go," she said as she swooped in and handed him the cup with the two pills. "Hope this helps." Then she left him alone for a brief moment while she shuttled over to table six with their bill to keep Jayna off her back while she finished cleaning up the mess. She stood up the wet floor teepee and began to mop up the area.

Kurt nodded, knowingly. She was new there, new in the way that he was new pretty much everywhere he went—new meaning without a history. He could relate to being new like that. He knew that the suggestion of a hypothetical wherein they were together was slightly far-fetched, especially considering how coldly she’d regarded him to this point in their relationship, but the faint color that stained her cheeks at his ludicrous hypothetical, he estimated that he might have some kind of corner of a chance… maybe on another day, in another world… after they had some history.

“It’s not easy, is it?” Kurt nodded in response to Sandy’s admission that she didn’t have a boyfriend, “being new. Takes a strong character—you gotta know exactly who you are without asking. When you’re new, I mean.”

One thing that Kurt had learned from the road was that everyone—relationship, married, single, widowed—it didn’t matter, everyone had a churning pit of loneliness inside of them, with high, thorny walls built around it. It was a waste of time to try and climb the walls, hack through the brambles and trauma. Better to give them a sense that you understood their pit and had something that might adequately fill it—even if just for a while. If they believe that impossible lie, they’d open the door at the base of the fortress and let you right in.

Kurt just nodded and smiled as he heard his words echoed back from her mouth, though he hadn’t originally planned to eat on the road. He meant that the food needed to stave off hunger for as long as possible, but he supposed that spreading it out would be the most effective way to do that. Best to stop procrastinating the painful rest of his haul with outlandish fantasies of twenty-something girls.

Thin though they were, Kurt’s hopes were renewed when Sandy seemed to defy her foul-tempered superior to bring him a modest but considerate care-package. A kitchen towel full of ice and a small paper cup with a pair of pills for his pain. It was a gift that said: I hear you knocking… most don’t even look for the door.

As Sandy dropped a check for another table and returned to continue cleaning up his embarrassing mess.

“She hates you, doesn’t she?” Kurt muttered, indicating Jayna with a subtle tilt of his head, “because you’re new? I bet she used to be the young and pretty one around here, then you came and took her spot. She’ll never get over it, unless you take her spot completely, take over her job and get her demoted or fired. She’ll never leave you alone if she thinks you don’t have any choice other than to take it… you should flirt with the executive chef, get a chance to do her job some day she’s not equal to it—show them how it could be done.”

Kurt didn’t even look at Sandy as he muttered his cutthroat advice, yet deep-down, he knew she needed to hear it. That was the kind of world this was. When someone comes for you, you have to come for them harder—otherwise you’re doomed to be a lifelong victim.

"She hates you, doesn't she?"

"Hmm?" Sandy looked up startled before cluing in to his head gesture. "Oh," she said and gave a quick glance back to the counter to ensure confidentiality before continuing almost under her breath. "She hates everyone. I'm not special in that regard."

"Because you're new? I bet she used to be the young and pretty one around here, then you came and took her spot."

"Pfft," she dismissed self-deprecatingly as she continued to mop, arms stretching to reach where the water had run under the table.

"You should flirt with the executive chef, get a chance to do her job some day she's not equal to it - show them how it could be done."

"I don't want her job," she said as she finished with the puddle and shifted to one leg as she rubbed the back of her wrist across her brow. "I'm not going to do this forever." She caught herself meeting his gaze, then dropped her eyes to the mop head on the smooth glistening tile. She was saying too much again, on the edge of confiding. Speaking out felt good - too good. A sizable berg had split free and fallen from the massive glacier of life's frustration hanging from her chest. Still, she wasn't perfectly comfortable with him. It was then that Sandy realized that this ragged imposing vagabond was her best sounding board, such was the depths of her plight. Mom had her own problems, and while Sandy may have regarded Magz as her closest friend lately, they had not yet engaged in anything purely social. That wall had not been breached. Kurt on the other hand, had been informal right from the start, and she found a trace of safety in the fact that he was simply passing through. If he would carry her secrets he would do so benignly and so very far away that they shouldn't cause damage.

Table six had left cash on the table and the elderly couple were pushing back their chairs to leave.

"Do you need change?" she asked them.

"No, it's all right," the tidy grey haired man smiled. Then he and his wife headed for the exit, presumably to return to their slot machines.

”I’m not going to do this forever…”

So often these were famous last words, Kurt found. He himself had said the same thing about driving a truck, not forever, certainly not—but somehow, when Sandy said it, he believed her. It was clear just from looking at her, hearing her melodic voice that she was destined for something greater than this stuffy, old greasy-spoon—but she was still too young to know how short “forever” could be. It could happen in an instant, almost always when you’re not paying attention.

Kurt had no desire to bring up this existential crisis in polite conversation. Better that Sandy never experienced the sort of impotent complacency that he’d felt himself relegated to. He believed that she was that one-in-a-million who was destined for more.

“Of course you’re not,” Kurt smiled, moving his feet to make it easier for Sandy to mop under his table, “what is it that you’re really destined for. What idyllic future awaits you out beyond that asphalt horizon?”

This concussion was making him a bit more philosophical than usual, or maybe he was just doing a poor job of managing his feelings for the pretty young waitress. As she moved with the mop, almost sensuously, he had to work at not staring at her. The way the firm muscles of her ass would clench and shift under her tight black skirt with each shift of her hips, how her t-shirt followed the luxurious curve of her silhouette.

“Maybe it’s none of my business,” Kurt mumbled, dragging his eyes away from Sandy and taking a slow sip of his coffee, “but if you abide by someone who desires your destruction, eventually you’ll find yourself facilitating it.”

Kurt finished his coffee and set the mug near the edge of the table, reaching up to adjust his bandana. The fresh blood had dried like glue and he had to painfully peel the ruddy fabric back from his wound. His long hair tumbled down around his face as he refolded the scrap of cloth to hide the blood and press a clean, dry section against the wound, which seemed sealed by now.

“Can we smoke in here? Or do you mind?” Kurt asked, dry swallowing the pills he’d been offered and tapping a cigarette from his pack into his hard, calloused fingers.

"What idyllic future awaits you out beyond that asphalt horizon?"

It was his choice of words more than the question itself that paused her to ponder. Such poetry from the otherwise crude giant caught her off guard. Kurt continued to delve into his vocabulary to offer his philosophies. Seeing him reveal this new dimension of himself made him a most curious man in her eyes. His appraisals and perhaps her own interests in them suddenly became something to be more self-conscious of than her ephelides, which she quickly hoped to put to some rare and desperate good use in hiding her blush.

"I dunno what I'll do," she said, compelled to give an answer. "Go to school or something." Then Sandy snapped her attention back to her work and turned away with the mop. It was as if he had injected her with truth serum. She had so much to say, more than even she thought that she had, but as much as it was cathartic it was also frightening. It wasn't so much what she was saying but what she might say next even if she wasn't really certain what that might be. She was already embarrassed by admitting how little direction she had in life. Only God knew how pathetic that the aimless picture that Sandy was painting of herself could end up, as bland and colorless as the desert outside. She found relief in escaping his scrutiny.

After a quick round with the coffee carafe in her left hand, she was ready to bus number six. As she leaned and bent herself over the table at the waist at an angle not too acute, behind her Kurt spoke again.

"Can we smoke in here? Or do you mind?"

"Actually, no," she turned around half-startled. "You're in Utah. It's against the law," she told him, including the legal bit to relieve herself of the burden of passing judgment. "Head a hundred yards west and you can smoke in the casino though," she added, the irony of the Utah-Nevada border separating the most temperant state in the union from the most decadent hardly lost upon her.

"Sandy!" Jayna called, her terse voice latent with admonishment. Sandy's body stiffened and turned on reflex as the sound hit her ears. Then she sighed at the manager's cold glare and slowly turned back to Kurt.

"Sorry, I gotta go," she disdainfully apologized. "I'll be back soon with your order." With that, Sandy returned to the counter and made another round with the carafe in her right hand.

School or something…

It caused Kurt a physical, tangible ache to know the depth to which Sandy truly didn’t appreciate herself—it was like a caterpillar entering the cocoon worried that she might come out as a worse type of worm, when the only variable was what type of butterfly she would be. Kurt could see her as a monarch already.

Turning to say something of that nature to her, Kurt saw her bent in half over a nearby table, her round, firm ass outthrust as if on offer—Kurt looked away quickly, struck silent. If he’d kept staring he thought he might have glimpsed a tiny piece of underwear, just barely peeking at him from between the hems of her snug, fitted skirt. His cock moved in his pants.

The fact that there was no smoking in the restaurant was a disappointment but not a surprise, more and more states were outlawing the practice, but he was trying hard to think about something other than Sandy’s outthrust backside.

Kurt held up the cigarette as if in surrender, making a show of sliding it back into the pack with the others as the jealous shift manager called Sandy away, aggressively.

“Take her job…” Kurt groaned faintly, just for Sandy, briefly reaching out and lightly squeezing her slender forearm, which felt almost like a pool cue in his large hand, “for everyone’s sake.”

After she left, he waited patiently, shifting the bundle of ice on his arm, grateful to feel his headache beginning to ease. He took a greedy swallow of his coffee and sat back in the booth. He found himself imagining monarch butterflies and orange California poppies.

“School or something…” Kurt smiled, muttering only to himself.

"Take her job ... for everyone’s sake."

She stiffened at his touch and looked across at him, pupils wide in mild alarm, then stepped away warily and returned to the counter.

"There's a new group at table eleven," Jayna almost snarled. The manager never seemed satisfied unless everyone else around her felt as miserable as herself. Sandy wondered what made her such a bitch. Perhaps her husband was a poor lay. She felt sorry for him having to live with her crabbiness day and night. Apparently, at home they had an eight month old daughter. If motherhood was supposed to soften a woman's temperament, then just how nasty had she been before?

"Yes I know!" Sandy gathered up some backbone and scowled. "I'm already on it." Then she turned to rinse out he empty carafe and put it back on to start a fresh brew, swapping it for the full. "Back off, okay?" she warned, then grabbed four menus and swiftly headed out to the floor.

Table eleven were people that she knew from school. There were four of them, two couples, Penny and Blake and Abbie and Jonas. She didn't know them that well. They were from the four-by-four and guns crowd.

"Hey."

"Hey," said Penny more than casually.

"Coffee?"

Sandy left them to ponder the menus. Meanwhile, Kurt's order was up. She filled the largest thickest size of paper cup that they had with hot brew and pressed the lid down tight. Then she put the styrofoam clamshell containing the sandwich down into the bottom of a paper bag, and an elastic band around the styrofoam soup bowl and carefully placed it on top of the sandwich. The environment meant nothing around these parts. Folding the top of the bag over, she stapled it shut with the bill attached and headed to his table.

"Here you go," she said, placing the bag and the coffee neatly before him. Aside from the darkness under his sleepless eyes, his face looked colorless. The stained bandana made him out as the picture of grim endurance. "Can I get you anything else?"

“It’s already more than I deserve,” Kurt smiled as Sandy brought his boxed meal and a huge to go cup of coffee, a container that must have been intended for soup, “thanks so much, Sandy. You’re now the one person I know in Wendover and I think I might like to come back.”

Kurt slid two twenties onto the table without even seeing a bill and went to stand up, the sudden motion from sitting reawakening his body to a symphony of bone-deep aches that he hadn’t realized before because of his headache. Now that the pain in his head was lessened, he was feeling the pain throughout his body much more clearly. He was a wreck.

“Thanks again,” Kurt groaned, just needing to make some noise to cover the fact that he was groaning out loud at the task of standing up, not a very glamorous prospect in the eyes of teenaged girls he imagined.

Kurt managed to gather his things and with considerable more grunting, climb back into Silver Surfer and hit the road. In some small way, it was a relief being back on the road. Somehow this position was the most comfortable for his body—therapeutic even. Like a lifetime on the road had sculpted his spine’s natural shape to reflect the angle of his driver’s seat. It was a relief, but a dangerous relief after a night of so little restful sleep. Dangerous because of how smoothly he could slip into a deadly slumber with his aches finally quieted.

All of his old tricks were compromised. Slapping himself in the face was hardly feasible, with his likely concussion still a concern, he tried several times shouting as loud and as long as he could, at the top of his lungs, but could only maintain it for so long before his ribs ached. Eventually he had to invest in some caffeine pills in Needles to finish his haul to LA.

The client bitched that he was two hours behind expected arrival, but Kurt managed to keep his composure, despite the shape his head was in at the very end of a twelve-hour push. After he finally got paid in full, the asshole tried to short him for the two hours, Kurt parked in a rest stop and slept from 2 that morning to the following afternoon. That day and evening he spent parked, nursing a fifth of Wild Turkey and a forty of Olde English. He also managed to score some Vicodin from another trucker and despite the warnings not to mix alcohol and pain meds, Kurt finally found the recipe for quieting the pain in his body and head. He slept for another twelve hours in his truck that night.

Kurt was lucky enough to book another haul heading back toward home, but the final destination was in Atlanta—which meant trouble for him and his marriage, one way or another. He took the job nonetheless, already plotting his route through Wendover.

"Thanks so much, Sandy. You're now the one person I know in Wendover and I think I might like to come back."

Wearily, the giant rose to leave and made his way out the door. He had been so eager to hold her attention and she had returned very little. The whole affair had just been so intimidating and she needed her space. Sandy picked up the two twenties and slipped them apart in her fingers, gazing through the hefty tip in bewilderment and guilt. Focusing past them and into the blazing daylight through the front window, she saw him walk around the end of the big silver rig in the lot before the cab rocked on its springs with the weight of his entry from the unseen drivers' side. Meanwhile table eleven's orders were up, burgers fries and sodas. As she served them, the sun glinted brightly off of the big silver truck as it slowly rolled out, snaked onto the highway into Nevada and away.

Jayna left her alone for the rest of the shift. The bitchy manager even refused to make eye contact, although a certain tension remained. Still, standing up to the bully had done the trick, making it so much easier to get through the day. Without Jayna's jabbing interruptions, Sandy was left to contemplate what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. It had been less than that in fact. Perhaps she had handled it poorly. Kurt had come to her rescue even if she hadn't asked, and had been exceedingly gracious with his tip, unlike the four teens at table eleven. Of course they were young and Sandy knew all too well how incomes could be limited at their age, except that Blake did drive a fancy truck and managed to keep it filled with gas, and Penny and Abbie always had new clothes and had their shiny tablet phones out for show on the table. Then there was Kurt's burst of near poetry, and his insistence that she replace Jayna as manager, as if she could make that happen all on her own. He had touched her too, arresting her by the wrist. He had been quite persistent, as if he wanted something from her and that she should have been obliged to hear his offer, yet she had avoided it.

Mercifully, Sandy had the next day off, but on the following day she was on the four-to-midnight with Magz again. Her skirt was still black but was a bit longer with thick pleats, giving her the illusion of hips, and her top was a small and light black knit with a boatneck. A ponytail showed off her stud earrings. It was just after ten when she had finished her last break and made the rounds for coffee.

Kurt had put considerable effort into seeming casual about his second arrival in Wendover, even going so far as to make an extra stop in Wells Nevada so as to have a fresh shower upon his arrival. His facial wounds were mostly healed, aside from a single, diagonal gash across his eyebrow which he’d convinced himself looked fashionable in some rugged kind of way. With his meager earnings from his prior haul, he’d bought himself a new bandana back in Needles, crisp and clean, having only recently set into shape. The small line of skulls across his hairline immaculate in their unabashed whiteness.

His clothes weren’t exactly new, but they were clean and on the fancier side for Kurt’s tastes. A black and white bowling shirt with embroidered tribal markings on the right side. It was more fitted than most of his wardrobe, that tended to be beyond the scope of tailoring, given how rare it was to find clothes tailored to his unique proportions.

The worn-in jeans and snakeskin boots were non-negotiable, though. Kurt could only clean up to a certain degree without seeming… desperate. If Sandy was looking for some kind of Abercrombie khaki fuck, it was already over for Kurt. He’d sooner wear a casket than corduroys.

Still, he was hoping for something, even if he dared not admit what, even to himself.

When he tucked the hose into the Surfer’s fuel tank, he strode confidently toward the little diner. The less-bitchy supervisor was working the floor, which Kurt was grateful for—even though she seemed not to like him much.

“Hey there, Magz,” Kurt smiled, trying to put his best foot forward, “I don’t suppose there’s room in Sandy’s section, is there?”

"Oh," said Magz as she recognized him. "Anywhere you like," she gestured to the booths along her right, the same area that Sandy had worked before. The place was maybe two-thirds full.

The carafe in her left hand nearly empty, Sandy looked up to return to the counter when she saw him standing. His figure was unmistakable. Kurt had said that he'd be back and he was already making good on it.

"Hello," she muttered quietly as she moved past, then glanced downward in guilt that she still didn't know what to say to him even though she felt that something should probably be said. It was just that a line could be crossed. Sandy wasn't at all certain where that line might be, but she was afraid to step over, as anything said could not be retracted.

She went to the cash station and tapped the screen to scroll through her tables. Everything was in order. There were no distractions. She'd have to face him. Sandy took a moment to inhale and compose herself, then took a fresh carafe in her right hand, tucked a menu under her left arm and headed out to his booth.

"Welcome back," she said as she slid the menu his way. She kept the eye contact fleeting but she did notice that he certainly looked fresher than the last time that she saw him. "Coffee?" she asked, then was struck with a bolt of nerves from asking such a dumb question.

“Hey there,” Kurt smiled, not even realizing that he was doing so, only to watch Sandy turn her gaze toward the ground, just short of making eye contact with him, “and thanks, Magz.”

Kurt’s smile faded as quickly and unconsciously as it had appeared. He went back to the same booth he’d sat in last time, what he hoped would become a ritual. Rituals were funny things, the line between a ritual and a coincidence flimsy and ever oscillating—yet places like this made their entire livelihood off of ritual. Fast food was cheaper, national chains all had standardized comforts built in but places like this felt familiar—safe, for the sort of people who always felt like every-other-single-thing in the world was being weaponized against them, rituals were their comfort blankets.

Kurt had encountered more than a few people like that in his decades long cross-country excursion, terrified of change and just white-knuckled clinging to anything and everything that reminded them of the past. Sticking to their favorite rituals was all they had to keep them grounded, to shake that feeling that the world was spinning faster and faster by the day—spinning angrier, trying to throw them off the surface until it was all they could do to lay low and hang on, just one more day.

Sandy wasn’t one of them. It was why she stood out so dramatically in a greasy-spoon like this, like a sunflower at full bloom in the middle of a lawn—everything else trying not to stand out, while she was unable to do anything but.

This time, Kurt would take a good long look at the menu. If this place was going to become his new ritual, he needed to make his own order this time. Whatever it was would hereafter be called “the regular,” he hoped. He slid easily into the booth this time, no longer hampered by injury. The whole room got brighter all of a sudden and then he noticed Sandy had returned.

Sandy smiled and Kurt smiled without feeling it again. When she passed the menu to him, he could feel the subtle warmth of the corner where it had been tucked under her arm, pressed against the side of her chest…

Kurt cleared his throat, trying hard not to get lost in thoughts of Sandy’s chest.

“Yes, coffee please, thank you,” this time it was him averting his eyes, her shirt was more low cut this time and he didn’t trust himself to watch her lean over, instead he pushed the cup closer to her and buried hid eyes in the menu, “I um, feel much better, now.”

He felt a fool, but he was smiling again, despite himself.

“I’m glad that the other one isn’t around tonight. Did you get her fired like I suggested?” at last, Kurt summoned the courage to lift his blue eyes and meet Sandy’s eyes, bright and searching.

"I'm glad that the other one isn't around tonight. Did you get her fired like I suggested?"

Kurt's voice was deep and brassy with a pronounced southern accent. It's steadfast resonance matched his substantial frame. However, unlike his intimidating stature, it had a warmth to it, a trusting tone, even perhaps loyalty.

"Umm, no," she admitted. "I'm not the boss. In fact I'm the lowest ranked here." She filled his cup with brew but dribbled some down the side and onto the table top. "Oops." Leaning over, Sandy pulled two napkins from the dispenser and set down the carafe to lift his mug and diligently wipe up the bottom and the dripping from up the side. Then stretching her arm across the table, she mopped up the little brown puddle with care, her thin hand working in small deliberate circles. Setting the mug back down upon the cleaned surface, she straightened herself up. "I'll give you a moment," she told him as she picked up her carafe and returned to the front counter.

"You've got another regular," Magz winked in confidence. "That makes what, four now?"

"Three," Sandy lied. It actually was four, but that felt like entrenchment, as if roots were planting, which gave her a pang of anxiety with the thought that she could become stuck here, waiting tables in this backwoods hole devoid of any woods. First there was Phil. He was a shriveled old retired fellow who liked all the girls who worked at Jake's but had seemed to take a special interest in her since her very first shift. He came in two or three times a day and loved to chat about whatever was in the newspaper that he was reading. Next there was Marty, a good natured Native who always sat up at the counter. He was a mechanic who knew everything about motorcycles. Every day he came in waving to everyone, knowing all by name before taking his seat and affectionately calling Sandy 'Freckles'. If he knew that he had a chance with her he'd have certainly taken it, but he was gentlemanly enough to respect her boundary. Then there was Pat and Ev, the white haired couple who pulled slots and played keno a couple of hours a day. They always mentioned how much Sandy had reminded them of their granddaughter in Idaho. Now Kurt, the longhaul trucker from the south, made four.

Exchanging the carafe for a new one, Sandy topped up a few cups before making her way back around to him.

"Have you decided?"