Kansas Rhodes
Chapter Two
My baby is a gleaming, cherry red 1964½ Ford Mustang Convertible with a white top and black interior. She’s my pride and joy, even though she’s not technically mine. She belongs to Mr. Peterson but I helped him restore her from a trashy, old hunk of junk to what she is today. But, of course, looks aren’t everything. Oh no. This beauty drives like a dream and roars like a lion.
Mr. Peterson lent her to me when he found out about my intended expedition. His exact words were, “Now, I don’t want you drivin’ some piece of crap to end up like your parents, God bless their souls, so you go on and take Ethel, y’hear?” I didn’t hesitate when he offered up the keys.
So you couldn’t blame me for taking a good 5 minutes to marvel at the beautiful, shining machine in the parking lot of a quiet Atlanta diner. There were only two other cars in the lot, both common looking, making my baby seem a little out of place next to them. But instead of pondering further, I grabbed my old satchel and headed into the restaurant.
Picking one of the empty booths by the window, I sat down and pulled out my map, tracing my fingers along the route I had just taken from the farm to this diner. 3 hours and 27 minutes, 198 miles. From the quiet country to the lively city. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
Atlanta was different to Ocilla, my nearest city back home. A lot different. I found the latter city pretty busy on the weekends but Atlanta was something else entirely. The traffic was chaotic, to say the least, with the constant honking and congestion making every driver lose their mind with irritation. The people all had a purpose, a reason to keep moving, and a place they needed to be. I felt like a tiny bug about to be squished by a fancy suit-wearing predator.
“What can I get for you, darlin’?” an older woman’s voice asked from beside me, jerking me out of my reverie. I noted a hint of a smoker’s rasp and the stench of a strong fragrance attempting to cover her unhealthy habit.
Keeping my eyes firmly on the paper in front of me, I answered quickly, “A Coca-Cola and a cheeseburger with fries.”
I faintly heard the woman respond before she strutted away to the kitchen, my gaze shifting to the empty, reflective napkin holder on the table where I caught a glimpse of myself. Loose tendrils of my dark hair danced around my face in the air-conditioned diner, my ponytail still in place from the drive, however. The freckles on my cheeks had multiplied due to the Summer sun, and my brown eyes looked as muddy as ever.
“Your Coke,” the waitress announced as she sat the full glass down, “And your food’ll be ready in a few minutes.” I nodded my head in response until after I was sure she was gone then took a sip through the red straw.
My eyes began to search the room, taking in all the details that surrounded me, like the faded red leather benches that sat under shiny rectangular tables. The grimy black and white checked floor spread throughout the whole place followed by pale blue, and some off-white, walls. It was a dirty, retro looking restaurant, like something out of a movie, but somehow it was still warm and welcoming.
From my satchel, I searched for the journal I kept all my thoughts and cherished memories in, one of the many notebooks Mrs. Peterson gave me every few months. She knew I needed somewhere to store all my erratic, yet valuable, thoughts since I couldn’t quite enunciate them to people.
“Seriously?! Where the hell is it?” I cursed to myself, hunting for the book with more determination, feeling panic rise within me as I continued to come up blank. A plate of food was placed in front of me but it wasn’t what I needed. What I needed was my journal.
“You okay, honey? Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked, her tone strange, making me feel further unease. Turning to the woman, but being sure not to make eye contact, I found that she held a small notepad in her apron.
“I need some paper,” I stated, reaching into the pocket and pulling out the little booklet then a pen from my bag. I instantly began to jot down everything that swarmed in my head, letting it flow through my body into the biro and scatter across the small pages.
Suddenly the pen was stolen out of my hand and the pad was pulled from my grasp, leaving me confused and irritated. “What do you think you’re doing?! That’s mine, young lady,” the woman snapped, drawing everyone’s attention to us. My cheeks burned as I knotted my fingers together, unsure of what I had done wrong.
After a moment, the pages I had written on were cast down before me. “If you had just asked nicely,” she muttered before giving me my pen back and storming off. I went straight back to writing the last of my thoughts, then ate the greasy food on my plate. The waitress didn’t come near me again.
Once I had finished my meal, I took one last look at my road map and finally decided which direction to go in. North. Towards Tennessee, the home of the music I was brought up on.
I packed my things up and slid out from the booth, walking up to the counter where a spotty kid was making coffee. He gave me a smile and a “I’ll be with ya in a minute, miss,” when he noticed me, so I took a seat on one of the stools while I waited. There was a napkin holder beside me, so I took one of the napkins and my pen, writing I’m sorry on it and passed it to the boy with my money, telling him to give the note, and a tip, to my waitress.
Walking out the diner, I headed downtown to find a bookshop where I could buy myself a new journal, and avoid anymore confrontations, before getting back to my beloved car and driving North, out of Georgia.
Mr. Peterson lent her to me when he found out about my intended expedition. His exact words were, “Now, I don’t want you drivin’ some piece of crap to end up like your parents, God bless their souls, so you go on and take Ethel, y’hear?” I didn’t hesitate when he offered up the keys.
So you couldn’t blame me for taking a good 5 minutes to marvel at the beautiful, shining machine in the parking lot of a quiet Atlanta diner. There were only two other cars in the lot, both common looking, making my baby seem a little out of place next to them. But instead of pondering further, I grabbed my old satchel and headed into the restaurant.
Picking one of the empty booths by the window, I sat down and pulled out my map, tracing my fingers along the route I had just taken from the farm to this diner. 3 hours and 27 minutes, 198 miles. From the quiet country to the lively city. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
Atlanta was different to Ocilla, my nearest city back home. A lot different. I found the latter city pretty busy on the weekends but Atlanta was something else entirely. The traffic was chaotic, to say the least, with the constant honking and congestion making every driver lose their mind with irritation. The people all had a purpose, a reason to keep moving, and a place they needed to be. I felt like a tiny bug about to be squished by a fancy suit-wearing predator.
“What can I get for you, darlin’?” an older woman’s voice asked from beside me, jerking me out of my reverie. I noted a hint of a smoker’s rasp and the stench of a strong fragrance attempting to cover her unhealthy habit.
Keeping my eyes firmly on the paper in front of me, I answered quickly, “A Coca-Cola and a cheeseburger with fries.”
I faintly heard the woman respond before she strutted away to the kitchen, my gaze shifting to the empty, reflective napkin holder on the table where I caught a glimpse of myself. Loose tendrils of my dark hair danced around my face in the air-conditioned diner, my ponytail still in place from the drive, however. The freckles on my cheeks had multiplied due to the Summer sun, and my brown eyes looked as muddy as ever.
“Your Coke,” the waitress announced as she sat the full glass down, “And your food’ll be ready in a few minutes.” I nodded my head in response until after I was sure she was gone then took a sip through the red straw.
My eyes began to search the room, taking in all the details that surrounded me, like the faded red leather benches that sat under shiny rectangular tables. The grimy black and white checked floor spread throughout the whole place followed by pale blue, and some off-white, walls. It was a dirty, retro looking restaurant, like something out of a movie, but somehow it was still warm and welcoming.
From my satchel, I searched for the journal I kept all my thoughts and cherished memories in, one of the many notebooks Mrs. Peterson gave me every few months. She knew I needed somewhere to store all my erratic, yet valuable, thoughts since I couldn’t quite enunciate them to people.
“Seriously?! Where the hell is it?” I cursed to myself, hunting for the book with more determination, feeling panic rise within me as I continued to come up blank. A plate of food was placed in front of me but it wasn’t what I needed. What I needed was my journal.
“You okay, honey? Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked, her tone strange, making me feel further unease. Turning to the woman, but being sure not to make eye contact, I found that she held a small notepad in her apron.
“I need some paper,” I stated, reaching into the pocket and pulling out the little booklet then a pen from my bag. I instantly began to jot down everything that swarmed in my head, letting it flow through my body into the biro and scatter across the small pages.
Suddenly the pen was stolen out of my hand and the pad was pulled from my grasp, leaving me confused and irritated. “What do you think you’re doing?! That’s mine, young lady,” the woman snapped, drawing everyone’s attention to us. My cheeks burned as I knotted my fingers together, unsure of what I had done wrong.
After a moment, the pages I had written on were cast down before me. “If you had just asked nicely,” she muttered before giving me my pen back and storming off. I went straight back to writing the last of my thoughts, then ate the greasy food on my plate. The waitress didn’t come near me again.
Once I had finished my meal, I took one last look at my road map and finally decided which direction to go in. North. Towards Tennessee, the home of the music I was brought up on.
I packed my things up and slid out from the booth, walking up to the counter where a spotty kid was making coffee. He gave me a smile and a “I’ll be with ya in a minute, miss,” when he noticed me, so I took a seat on one of the stools while I waited. There was a napkin holder beside me, so I took one of the napkins and my pen, writing I’m sorry on it and passed it to the boy with my money, telling him to give the note, and a tip, to my waitress.
Walking out the diner, I headed downtown to find a bookshop where I could buy myself a new journal, and avoid anymore confrontations, before getting back to my beloved car and driving North, out of Georgia.