On the Other Side of Nowhere
Mozart Wasn't There
Some days at Al’s, I compared myself to a breeze: I blew softly into Nowhere and could leave just as gently, only missed for a few, brief moments before the next order was up or the next cup needed a refill. The Help Wanted sign would go back on the wall, but other than that, nothing would change. Customers saw my face and forgot it almost as quickly.
I was nothing more than wallpaper to them.
“It was Curtis Jones,” Shauna called towards the kitchen.
“Bob Dylan!” Clancy’s voice yelled back. They were having one of their debates again. At least once a week, Clancy and Shauna engaged in a light-hearted argument. The matter being discussed was always something interesting yet inconsequential and rarely resolved. Today, it was over who should be credited with the blues song Highway 51.
“Dylan just sang a cover. Jones wrote it.” A smile danced across Shauna’s face; she always enjoyed quarrelling with Clancy.
Clancy’s head appeared from the kitchen, wearing a grin to match Shauna’s smile because he enjoyed their quarrelling just as much as she did. “But Dylan’s got the earliest recording of the song.”
Shauna put her hands on her round hips. Her face mightn’t have been classically beautiful, but she hid an hourglass figure underneath the unflattering work uniform. “Mozart wasn’t there at the first recording of his music but that don’t mean it ain’t his.” Her Southern accent was always stronger in their debates. It carried an authenticity, a persuasiveness which made people want to trust what she said.
Clancy knew she had him beat but still wouldn’t give in. “What d’you think, Nat? Am I right?” He flashed his grin at his girlfriend, relying on his charm to win the argument for him.
“Who cares?” Natalie huffed. “And don’t call me ‘Nat’. It makes me sound-”
“Common; we know,” Shauna interrupted. She was bent over the table, wiping it, so no one but me caught the disdainful roll of her eyes.
Natalie glared at Shauna, then at Clancy because he was trying hard not to laugh. Of everyone at Al’s, Natalie was the only person who didn’t enjoy listening to their debates. I didn’t know why - maybe she thought they were juvenile - but each time Shauna and Clancy argued, she would become churlish. Her bad mood managed to quell the debate and Clancy withdrew to the kitchen, taking all the laughter and lightness with him.
The door blew open and cold, wet air gushed inside. It had been days and still the rain hadn’t let up. Water dripped through my ceiling all last night. Since I couldn’t find a bucket, I’d been forced to sacrifice one of my sweaters, placing it under the leak to soak up the fallen drops of musty water.
Mr. Walsh had refused to speak to me after the sheriff told him they wouldn’t be searching my room. We rarely spoke anyway, so it didn’t matter much to me as long as I still had a roof over my head. The moment I’d returned home from work to discover a surly, disappointed Mr. Walsh and no policemen, I’d disposed of the aspirin bottles and resolved never to steal again, no matter how many migraines I got. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised that Dick was as good as his word, or that I wasn’t reluctantly grateful to him. That was why I was still planning on going out with him Friday night – he’d kept his word and now it was my turn to keep mine.
Besides, I told myself, it’s only one date.
I was still telling myself this when Dylan raised his cup and asked for a refill. He’d come in later than usual today, wetter, too. The warmth of the diner had dried him quickly though and his hair, which had been straight and damp when he first came in, had curled slightly on his head in a cute, boyish way. I topped up his cup with the slick, black drink, tried to avoid meeting his eyes, failed, blushed, and hurriedly turned to leave.
“Wait!” he called after me.
I’d barely taken a step away as I turned back to face him again, staring at his eyebrows rather than his eyes. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I want anything else?”
“Oh!” I was taken aback slightly. It was protocol to ask customers if they wanted anything further, but I’d grown accustomed to a routine with Dylan, one in which he ordered French toast and coffee and nothing else. It took me a moment to recover myself and ask, “Do you? Want anything else, that is.”
His lips curved upward into one of the shyest, most hopeful smiles I’d ever seen. “Just your name,” he murmured, the tips of his ears reddening. He tugged at his hair in an effort to cover them.
I didn’t know how to respond. There was no policy or rule which stated customers weren’t allowed to know our names. Natalie was always telling male customers hers and everybody in town knew who Shauna was, so there was nothing stopping me. “I'm Av-”
“Waitress – coffee, if you don’t mind.”
Caught off guard, I whirled around. “Dick?! What’re you doing here?”
“I came to get coffee,” he stated matter-of-factly, still wearing his ridiculous aviator sunglasses. I wondered if he ever took them off.
“Right, of course, um,” I glanced between Dylan and Dick, the former looking at the latter curiously, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“I can wait,” Dick said, leaning against the wall, making himself comfortable. His blond moustache waggled slightly under his nose. “Are we still on for Friday night?”
I froze, hyper-aware of Dylan sitting to my right. “On second thoughts, how about I find you a table?” I all but dragged Dick to the other side of the diner and seated him at an empty place in the corner by himself. “Just the coffee?” I asked, wondering if he was going to order a donut with it. He didn’t, and I went to retrieve a cup for him.
Natalie sidled up next to me where I was searching for a semi-clean cup. “Is that Dick Richardson?”
She didn’t actually expect me to answer; she was doing that thing again where she proved she knew something or someone you didn’t. Unfortunately for both of us, I knew Dick. “Uh, yeah.”
Her blue eyes widened slightly, shocked and disappointed that she didn't get to prove she was better acquainted than me. “How do you two know each other?”
“We just met,” I muttered, not wanting to tell her we were going on a date.
“You’re blushing,” she noted, a superior smile working onto her face. I didn’t like where this was going as I pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear, my fingertips singeing as I brushed them against my cheek. “Do you like him or something?” I shook my head vehemently, glancing at Dylan’s table to see he’d already left, but Natalie pursued the matter anyway. “I went to high school with him. I could tell you some things about him, if you want.”
“That’s really not necessary-”
“He’s a real gentleman,” she said, cutting me off, still smiling in that contrived way which left me with the uncomfortable inkling that she wasn’t quite telling the truth.
“I have to get back over there,” I interrupted quickly, not wanting to encourage the notion that I had a crush on Deputy Dick. Giving up on finding a cup which wasn’t stained by previous drinkers, I grabbed a random one and returned to Dick’s table. “Here you go,” I said, pouring his coffee.
Dick was looking past me. “Is that Natalie Bates?” he asked. “We used to date in high school.”
“Oh, uh, that’s nice, I guess. I need to use the bathroom; excuse me.”
I didn’t really need to use the bathroom; I just needed to get away from Dick Richardson and any mention of dating him. The bathroom at Al’s was closet-sized: one stall, one sink and one bar of soap which, over time, had moulded to the ceramic. The yellow walls were decorated with the slurs and musings of travellers. Most of it was trash, amateur graffiti tags, but some of it was pure wisdom from the minds of strangers. The septic smell of the toilet got up my nose as I browsed the writing on the wall. I could smell smoke, too; Collette would often sneak in here during her shifts to sedate her nicotine addiction. On the wall, someone had confessed their love for Kenny Rogers, a haiku was written about toilets, and multitudes of lyrics were scribbled, only one of which caught my eye.
Highway 51 runs right by my baby’s door,
If I don’t get that girl I’m lovin’,
Won’t go down Highway 51 no more.
-Bob Dylan.
Because Shauna was my boss and a fellow waitress, I crossed out Bob Dylan’s name using the pen I kept clipped to my pinafore, and replaced it with Curtis Jones. Stepping back to admire my handiwork, I noticed the dedication written above in the same angular handwriting.
To the green-eyed waitress:
For a moment, I didn’t register who the green-eyed waitress was, instantly assuming that it was Natalie until I remembered her eyes were an unmistakable shade of blue. Shauna’s were a warm brown and Collette’s had lost any discernible colour decades ago (no one was sure why). It wasn’t until I caught my own reflection in the sheet of metal above the sink which substituted for a mirror that I realised it:
I was the green-eyed waitress.
I was nothing more than wallpaper to them.
“It was Curtis Jones,” Shauna called towards the kitchen.
“Bob Dylan!” Clancy’s voice yelled back. They were having one of their debates again. At least once a week, Clancy and Shauna engaged in a light-hearted argument. The matter being discussed was always something interesting yet inconsequential and rarely resolved. Today, it was over who should be credited with the blues song Highway 51.
“Dylan just sang a cover. Jones wrote it.” A smile danced across Shauna’s face; she always enjoyed quarrelling with Clancy.
Clancy’s head appeared from the kitchen, wearing a grin to match Shauna’s smile because he enjoyed their quarrelling just as much as she did. “But Dylan’s got the earliest recording of the song.”
Shauna put her hands on her round hips. Her face mightn’t have been classically beautiful, but she hid an hourglass figure underneath the unflattering work uniform. “Mozart wasn’t there at the first recording of his music but that don’t mean it ain’t his.” Her Southern accent was always stronger in their debates. It carried an authenticity, a persuasiveness which made people want to trust what she said.
Clancy knew she had him beat but still wouldn’t give in. “What d’you think, Nat? Am I right?” He flashed his grin at his girlfriend, relying on his charm to win the argument for him.
“Who cares?” Natalie huffed. “And don’t call me ‘Nat’. It makes me sound-”
“Common; we know,” Shauna interrupted. She was bent over the table, wiping it, so no one but me caught the disdainful roll of her eyes.
Natalie glared at Shauna, then at Clancy because he was trying hard not to laugh. Of everyone at Al’s, Natalie was the only person who didn’t enjoy listening to their debates. I didn’t know why - maybe she thought they were juvenile - but each time Shauna and Clancy argued, she would become churlish. Her bad mood managed to quell the debate and Clancy withdrew to the kitchen, taking all the laughter and lightness with him.
The door blew open and cold, wet air gushed inside. It had been days and still the rain hadn’t let up. Water dripped through my ceiling all last night. Since I couldn’t find a bucket, I’d been forced to sacrifice one of my sweaters, placing it under the leak to soak up the fallen drops of musty water.
Mr. Walsh had refused to speak to me after the sheriff told him they wouldn’t be searching my room. We rarely spoke anyway, so it didn’t matter much to me as long as I still had a roof over my head. The moment I’d returned home from work to discover a surly, disappointed Mr. Walsh and no policemen, I’d disposed of the aspirin bottles and resolved never to steal again, no matter how many migraines I got. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised that Dick was as good as his word, or that I wasn’t reluctantly grateful to him. That was why I was still planning on going out with him Friday night – he’d kept his word and now it was my turn to keep mine.
Besides, I told myself, it’s only one date.
I was still telling myself this when Dylan raised his cup and asked for a refill. He’d come in later than usual today, wetter, too. The warmth of the diner had dried him quickly though and his hair, which had been straight and damp when he first came in, had curled slightly on his head in a cute, boyish way. I topped up his cup with the slick, black drink, tried to avoid meeting his eyes, failed, blushed, and hurriedly turned to leave.
“Wait!” he called after me.
I’d barely taken a step away as I turned back to face him again, staring at his eyebrows rather than his eyes. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I want anything else?”
“Oh!” I was taken aback slightly. It was protocol to ask customers if they wanted anything further, but I’d grown accustomed to a routine with Dylan, one in which he ordered French toast and coffee and nothing else. It took me a moment to recover myself and ask, “Do you? Want anything else, that is.”
His lips curved upward into one of the shyest, most hopeful smiles I’d ever seen. “Just your name,” he murmured, the tips of his ears reddening. He tugged at his hair in an effort to cover them.
I didn’t know how to respond. There was no policy or rule which stated customers weren’t allowed to know our names. Natalie was always telling male customers hers and everybody in town knew who Shauna was, so there was nothing stopping me. “I'm Av-”
“Waitress – coffee, if you don’t mind.”
Caught off guard, I whirled around. “Dick?! What’re you doing here?”
“I came to get coffee,” he stated matter-of-factly, still wearing his ridiculous aviator sunglasses. I wondered if he ever took them off.
“Right, of course, um,” I glanced between Dylan and Dick, the former looking at the latter curiously, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“I can wait,” Dick said, leaning against the wall, making himself comfortable. His blond moustache waggled slightly under his nose. “Are we still on for Friday night?”
I froze, hyper-aware of Dylan sitting to my right. “On second thoughts, how about I find you a table?” I all but dragged Dick to the other side of the diner and seated him at an empty place in the corner by himself. “Just the coffee?” I asked, wondering if he was going to order a donut with it. He didn’t, and I went to retrieve a cup for him.
Natalie sidled up next to me where I was searching for a semi-clean cup. “Is that Dick Richardson?”
She didn’t actually expect me to answer; she was doing that thing again where she proved she knew something or someone you didn’t. Unfortunately for both of us, I knew Dick. “Uh, yeah.”
Her blue eyes widened slightly, shocked and disappointed that she didn't get to prove she was better acquainted than me. “How do you two know each other?”
“We just met,” I muttered, not wanting to tell her we were going on a date.
“You’re blushing,” she noted, a superior smile working onto her face. I didn’t like where this was going as I pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear, my fingertips singeing as I brushed them against my cheek. “Do you like him or something?” I shook my head vehemently, glancing at Dylan’s table to see he’d already left, but Natalie pursued the matter anyway. “I went to high school with him. I could tell you some things about him, if you want.”
“That’s really not necessary-”
“He’s a real gentleman,” she said, cutting me off, still smiling in that contrived way which left me with the uncomfortable inkling that she wasn’t quite telling the truth.
“I have to get back over there,” I interrupted quickly, not wanting to encourage the notion that I had a crush on Deputy Dick. Giving up on finding a cup which wasn’t stained by previous drinkers, I grabbed a random one and returned to Dick’s table. “Here you go,” I said, pouring his coffee.
Dick was looking past me. “Is that Natalie Bates?” he asked. “We used to date in high school.”
“Oh, uh, that’s nice, I guess. I need to use the bathroom; excuse me.”
I didn’t really need to use the bathroom; I just needed to get away from Dick Richardson and any mention of dating him. The bathroom at Al’s was closet-sized: one stall, one sink and one bar of soap which, over time, had moulded to the ceramic. The yellow walls were decorated with the slurs and musings of travellers. Most of it was trash, amateur graffiti tags, but some of it was pure wisdom from the minds of strangers. The septic smell of the toilet got up my nose as I browsed the writing on the wall. I could smell smoke, too; Collette would often sneak in here during her shifts to sedate her nicotine addiction. On the wall, someone had confessed their love for Kenny Rogers, a haiku was written about toilets, and multitudes of lyrics were scribbled, only one of which caught my eye.
Highway 51 runs right by my baby’s door,
If I don’t get that girl I’m lovin’,
Won’t go down Highway 51 no more.
-Bob Dylan.
Because Shauna was my boss and a fellow waitress, I crossed out Bob Dylan’s name using the pen I kept clipped to my pinafore, and replaced it with Curtis Jones. Stepping back to admire my handiwork, I noticed the dedication written above in the same angular handwriting.
To the green-eyed waitress:
For a moment, I didn’t register who the green-eyed waitress was, instantly assuming that it was Natalie until I remembered her eyes were an unmistakable shade of blue. Shauna’s were a warm brown and Collette’s had lost any discernible colour decades ago (no one was sure why). It wasn’t until I caught my own reflection in the sheet of metal above the sink which substituted for a mirror that I realised it:
I was the green-eyed waitress.