Reston’s
Flamingo Diner
2356
word count
Well, well, well. Will you look at
Mister Hot Stuff, blowin' in from the mean street in
his skin-tight blue jeans and Tony Lama snakeskin boots.
La-de-da. And,
bare-chested to boot. La-de-double da.
I
straighten my chili-peppered apron as he heads my way, showin'
off his six-pack abs. Hot Stuff lights up the Lucky Strike hangin' off his pouty lip and
struts past the counter, Panama hat pulled down over one eye.
"No
shirt, no service," I say, even though it's hotter than a jalapeno pepper
in here.
He
just keeps walkin', real slow and easy, past the cash
register, his sweaty skin shimmerin' under the neon.
"I
said, you can't be comin' in
here dressed like that!"
He
stops, and turns my way.
"Dressed
like what?"
"And,
you can't smoke in here!"
He
takes a puff, blows a line of smoke rings my way.
"It's
"So,
what's your special?"
"Arlo's Red-Hot Chili. It's named after
the owner, cook and bottle-washer."
"Arlo Flamingo?"
The
guy has a sense of humor. That's good.
"Ha
Ha. Very funny! Shredded cheddar is a buck
extra."
My
eyes lock on the bulge in the front of his
I
could get lucky tonight.
My
momma says I'm a dreamer. "Get your head outta
the clouds, girl! Prince Charming ain't gonna waltz into
We'll
see, Momma.
He
lights up again as his crotch moves closer, bringin'
the rest of him with it.
I
wag my finger. "Rules are rules!"
"Rules
are made to be broken." He blows another smoke ring. It hovers between us
while his charcoal eyes burn holes right through the soggy cotton coverin' my heart.
"You
wouldn't want me to get fired, now would you?"
"Frankly,
Scarlett, I don't give a damn."
He
takes a long drag on the cancer stick, and continues his slow, bare-chested,
butt-wiggle to a table in the back near the restrooms. Settlin'
into one of the two rickety chairs, he slouches against the cane back, and puts
his Tony Lamas up on the other seat.
"Plenty
of seats at the counter."
"I'm cool." He points to the ceiling fan above him.
The
ringin' of the phone makes me jump about a foot and
almost wet my panties, not that they aren't already a bit damp.
"
I
glance under the counter while Arlo yammers
on. The metal barrel of his Colt flashes me a look-see. The gun's loaded, just
in case, not that I know how to use it.
"...It's
slow...Well, prob'ly 'cause
it's so damn hot in here....Just one guy...Never saw him before."
"He
didn't order yet....Oh, come on, Mr. Reston, I've been
here for eighteen hours already....I don't like workin'
graveyard. You know that!....Well then, hire
someone....Fine! All right....Goodbye."
My
boss fired our only other waitress two nights ago—for stealing from the
register. I've been pickin' up the slack; as if
that's not enough, he wants me to do his job tonight by lockin' up and takin' the deposit
to the night drop. Arlo says it's too damn
hot to leave his air-conditioned house. No, really?
I
should just hang up my apron!
When
I come home at night bitchin' about this place, Momma
always shuts me down. "I don't have any sympathy for you, girl. If you had
a backbone, you woulda quit eighteen years ago."
Tonight
might just be the night, Momma.
"Can
I get some service over here, Scarlett?"
"It's
Jenny, by the way."
"Okay
then, Jenny Bytheway, how about a bowl of Arlo's Red-Hot Chili—no cheese--and a Bud? "
"Sorry.
The kitchen closes at ten."
"Okay,
a beer, then."
"Sorry,
all out. Coffee, RC or milk." I check the revolvin' dessert case. "We have brownies, homemade
strawberry pie, and one piece of angel food cake."
"A
piece of pie and a glass of milk, with ice.
You do have ice, right?"
"You
bet," I say, as I reach into the case.
"Can
I get some ice cream on the side of that pie, Jenny? Or are you all out?"
"Um-hum,"
I lie. "Sorry, Mr. Uhh?"
I slide the knife through the flaky crust; strawberry juice oozes all over.
"
"Oh,
I get it. Gone With the Wind," I holler over to
him, as I carefully slide the pie wedge onto a plastic plate. I was gonna plop some Vanilla Bean Ice Milk on the side, as a
surprise, no charge--but not with his attitude.
"I
do read!" I holler. That's all I do is read--and watch TV with
Momma--but he doesn't know that. "And, the quote is 'My dear, I
don't give a damn.'"
"My
dear, I don't give a damn," he repeats, like a parrot. "Didn't take you for a reader."
He's
sitting so far away I can barely hear him dissin' me.
If he was up at the counter, I could watch his abs movin',
his mouth chewin'—berry juice runnin'
into the dimple in his chin... He'd be close enough so I could reach over the
Formica slab and stroke his Cabana Boy chest...And then, on the camp cot in the
back room, I could nuzzle my nose into those soft, curly hairs in the patch
between...
"Any
time today, Jennifer."
"It's
just Jenny!"
"Anytime
today, Just Jenny."
I
pick up the plate, grab a napkin and fork, and head his way. My damn Hush
Puppies are squeakin' like stuck pigs as the crepe
soles move across the floor.
He's
watchin' my every move.
"There
you go." I slide the plate in front of him.
"My
milk?"
"Oh,
yeah. Sorry." I glance over at the clock; it's three minutes
to twelve. "I have to close up soon," I say to myself, more than to
him, as I head back to the counter.
Momma's words come back to me as I pour
two-percent milk over ice cubes: "Prince Charming ain't
gonna waltz into
I
sneak a peek at Mister Hot Stuff. He's still checkin'
me out!
What
do you say now, Momma?
He
watches while I hang up my apron and slip out of my shoes. I pick up the glass,
and walk back to his table, barefoot.
Hot
Stuff slides his boots off the other chair and pats it. "Talk
to me," he says in a low, husky voice.
"I've
gotta close up," I say, soundin'
calm as anything as I try to hide the thunder rumblin'
around inside the crotch of my panties.
"Someone
waiting up for you?"
Yeah,
Momma!
"No!"
I put his drink on the table.
"You
can't take three minutes?" he asks, his smolderin'
eyes suckin' me in.
I
can feel my heart thump-thumpin'. "Okay. Three
minutes." I sit down where his hand has just been. The spot is red-hot,
like Arlo's chili.
"Good
pie," he says, as he takes another bite.
I
watch his jaw work as he chews; his neck muscles ripple as he swallows.
"You
make it?" he adds.
"Uh-uh.
Just serve it. Best in
He
reaches over, takes the ribbon from my hair and runs his fingers through it.
"It's
like perfumed silk," he says, as he buries his nose in my clean, blonde
curls.
"I
washed it this morning." I pull away, breakin'
the spell so I can catch my breath.
He
sits back and lights up a Lucky Strike. "So, you from
around here, Jenny?"
"My
whole life," I say, barely above a whisper.
"Married?"
I
shake my head.
"Ever
been?"
"No.
You?"
He
shakes his head. "Free as a bird."
I
wanna touch him, kiss his... "Where
you from?" I ask, instead.
"
"Thought
so! All you need is a Cuban cigar—"
"Is
that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Yeah,"
I add quickly.
"Sure
didn't sound like one," he says, as he snuffs out his cigarette on his
plate.
"It
was," I say, tryin' to fix things.
He
picks up his milk and leans into me again. "Just funnin' you." He's sittin' so close I can feel the heat rollin'
off his skin; he puts his free hand on my shaky knee.
"It
came out wrong," I say, tryin' to will that
particular joint to stop jumpin' up and down.
"I
forgive you," he says, and actually looks like he means it. He starts walkin' his free hand up and down my thigh—playin' me like a steel guitar.
Way
past small talk, I inch closer, so close I can almost taste him. He drains his
glass, and sets it down on the floor near his chair without lookin'
away from me. I want to lick off his milk mustache. Runnin'
his tongue across his upper lip, he laps up the moo-juice....
Then,
just when I'm ready to mention the cot in the back room, he says, "So, is
your boss coming back to pick up the night deposit?"
"Uh-huh."
Alarm
bells start goin' off like crazy, splashin'
icy water on my hot pants. I know the drill; we've been robbed before.
"I'll
get your check," I say as I stack the fork and crumpled napkin on top,
pick up the glass and hurry to the front of the diner as fast as I can without
dropping anything.
I
can hear him get up and push in his chair.
"You
sure he's coming back, Jenny, or are you just funnin'
me?"
"I'm
sure."
I
put the dirty dishes on the counter, grab my order pad, pick up the ballpoint
and total the bill; the pen dances around in my right hand as his boot heels
scrape across the linoleum.
I
finish just as he reaches the counter. "Here you go, Mr. Butler," I
say in a southern drawl, tryin to keep it light as I
hand him the damages.
He
takes the wilted bill from my shakin' hand and looks
down at my chicken scratch. "I hope you didn't charge me for ala mode,
since I didn't get anything on the side."
"I
didn't charge you for anythin' you didn't get, kind
sir."
I
sneak my hand downward, and touch the cool gun barrel, to make sure the Colt is
still where it was a lifetime ago. My heart thumps while I wait for him to
prove me wrong—by pullin' a wallet out of his back
pocket and whippin' out some Benjamin Franklins.
"Is
it still there, Mizz Scarlett?
More importantly, is it loaded?"
I
reach for the phone. Quicker than lightning, he smacks my hand away before I
can pick up the receiver.
"Don't
even think about it!"
I
try again. He reaches over the counter, grabs my right hand and twists it.
"What part of 'Don't even think about it!' didn't you get?"
"You're
hurtin' me!"
"You
think?" His eyes are hard coals, his mouth, a
slash in his face.
"You
seemed so nice...."
"Didn't Momma ever teach you not to judge a book by its six-pack
abs?" he says, and lets go of my hand.
I
look out toward the empty street and massage my wounded mitt. "Why don't
you just leave—before my boss gets here? I won't tell."
"He's
not coming back, and we both know it!"
"Take
it all!" I open the register.
"Be
a good girl, Jenny, and hand me the gun."
"Why
didn't you just rob me when you walked in?"
"The
gun?"
I
have no choice that I can see; I slip the loaded Colt out of its hiding place
and slide it across the counter. "So you could get a free meal? Is that
it?"
"Hand
me one of those." He motions with the gun barrel toward the stack of
doggie bags next to the cash register. "Come on! I don't have all
night!"
"Get
it yourself!" I say as I back my bare feet away from the counter.
He
points the gun at me. "You've already thrown away your best years.
Are you going to throw away the rest--over a few measly bucks?"
I
shake my head. "Not 'till you tell me."
"You
stupid bitch!" He hurries around to the workin' side of the counter, tucks the gun into his
waistband, and grabs a Reston's Bow-Wow Bag from the pile.
I
finally get my answer as he shovels the day's take into the foil-lined sack:
"So, I'm walking down the street, trying to decide what place to hit. I
look in the window, and there you are, this over-the-hill loser with saggy tits
and hungry eyes waiting for Prince Charming to blow in off the street
and rescue her from her sorry-ass life."
His
answer cuts like a straight razor; I start blubberin'
as I bleed out.
And
then, the strangest thing happens: With the doggie bag in one hand and the gun
in the other, he just stands there, watchin' me cry.
Finally,
he says, "As it turns out, you're not half bad." He brushes a tear
from my flushed cheek with the back of his gun hand, "I just wanted you to
know that," he says, almost tenderly as he lowers the gun and kisses me on
the lips.
My
legs are jelly.
"No
cops. Okay?"
"Okay,"
I whisper. "No cops."
He
hurries out the front door and disappears into the summer night, a Reston's
Bow-Wow Bag in one hand, Arlo's Colt in
the other.
His
kiss still on my lips, I look out onto the empty street....
Eat
your heart out, Momma!