"Sugar"
May 31, 2017 1:20:19 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Rage (aka NoMercyMaster2001), and 1 more like this
Post by ShaggaliciousOne on May 31, 2017 1:20:19 GMT -5
It's a truck stop. One of those Iron Skillet's on some Interstate that probably goes East to West. Maybe it's a Love's Cafe. Maybe it's a one-off Greasy Spoon family owned place. At any rate, we're at one of those type of places. And of course, there's line of booths along the window that look out on to the gas pumps, parking lot and interstate. There's your expected string of truck driving men in denim and sweats, getting on the crappy wifi and trying to stay social. Then there's a seat, and in it is a guy who looks a little different than the others. In front of him, he has an ashtray. In his hand, he's holding an unlit cigarette and staring at the table top. He's not looking at a laptop or a smartphone. He's just staring at his seafoam green coffee mug and watching the steam rise out of the blackish liquid.
There's a silence about looking at this individual, even though we can hear conversations between truckers and waitresses all about him. His beard growth is quite thick and his hair is tousled and wild, though clean. He wears a pair of blue jeans a blank brown long sleeved t-shirt.
"Hey Honey." The silence is now broken.
The man turns and looks to his right at a waitress, presumably his waitress. He manages a smile that is unexpectedly warm.
"Hey, darlin, you need anythin'?"
The man stares again at his coffee mug. He stares at the sweating glass of water she'd brought before the coffee.
"No'm, I reckon I'm fine right now."
"Ya sure? There's not another cafe on this here highway for quite a ways. You look like you could eat."
The man nods, appreciatively. "I appreciate it ma'am. I really do. But, I just can't think of anything that appeals to me right now."
"You tweakin, dear?"
The man is surprised by the directness of his waitress' response and recoils a little. "No, unless ya count Java Monsters."
"No Judgment, just wonderin.' I'll leave ya alone if you need to come down a bit. We don't have any time limits on tables neither."
The man chuckles. "No, I reckon that's not my uhh...issue???"
"Ohh? Well what is it, then? I mean, I'm not saying I thought ya had one. Just saying you looked like you was thinkin ohn something over here. You weren't on your phone, using the wifi to watch the new season of Kimmy Schmidt or somethin' like the usual."
"Haha, I already watched it before I got on the road. Gotta love Tituss and Mikey."
They both chuckle.
"So what are ya thinkin on, then?"
The man nods at the waitress. "Well, just life. Just the road, where it's led me. Where it hasn't led me."
"Ohh yeah? Just a drifter, trying to find the ol' Emerald City in this here 21st Century Wasteland?"
The man nearly doubles over his table with a deep and hearty chuckle. "I don't mean to be insulting none, but I did not expect that sort of expression from anyone at a truck stop, and I apologize for being such a bigot for not thinking I would."
"Well son, everybody got the internet now. Plus whaddayou think us interstate tumbleweeds have to do other'n think. But I don't take offense, it's nice to have a good talk with someone who isn't just trying to figure out where the nearest lot lizard dickin hole is."
The man nods and chuckles again. "Have I found the next Brett Butler or Roseanne Bar at this here truckstop?"
"Don't you insult me like that boy. I'll slap the taste out your mouth."
The man laughs again. "Ohh my, I do enjoy you already."
The waitress smiles broadly, then just goes ahead and sits down. This is one of the few apparent luxuries of such a culinary position.
"Well I figure I've earned myself a little break, and you're entertaining me. So tell me, what are you thinkin on?"
"I couldn't agree more. Ohh, just about the past."
"What pray tell does an interesting fella like you have to mourn about?"
"Well, materially, nothing. I got good work here and there. I feel like I ain't done anything with my life that just...lights me on fire...though. Not in a long while. I been out welding the last year or two, and I got me some money saved up, and I figured I'd just take me a little journey across the US or two. My jobs finished up and I just didn't look for any new ones. Just seeing where the road may take me."
"You're awful well-cultured for a welder. You sure that's what you was trained to do?"
"Maybe it was, maybe you're being judgmental now." The man offers a wry smile back at the waitress.
"I don't doubt you weld sweetie, I see from your arms and hands that you work. The way you talk though, it don't match up with oil rig roughnecks that I've run across."
"Well my dear Grand Inquisitor, if you must know, I am a man of useless college learning to some degree, pun intended, as well. I may also have been a very low level entertainer."
"Let me guess, you played guitar in an Indie Rock band that didn't exactly hang out with Jack White and Isaac Brock?"
"Wow, not even. I wish I was that damn cool. I was a pro wrestler for some years."
"Ohh wow, haha. You don't look big enough to be one of them. I mean, you're a little bit tall and ain't scrawny. And I know they aren't all huge, but I dunno." The waitress laughs.
"Haha, one of the things I love about my size is that I don't get asked where I wrestled very often."
"I imagine that's a good thing. So where'd ya wrestle? What was your name? Have I heard of ya?"
"I didn't do much of note. Had my own promotion, WRWF outta Texas for a while. That got bought up by another place, which in turn got swallered up by yet another. I wrestled in the swallerers for a while, then went out on the Independent circuit for a couple of years. I got a little notice here and there as The Redeemer and ....as a knockoff of Shaggy2Dope from Insane Clown Posse...."
"Ohh heaven...ICP?" She breaks into adorable peals of laughter, and even smacks the table a couple of times.
"Well it was the early 2000s, at least I didn't go tanning and frost tip my hair and wear shiny silver trunks like most of the other guys."
"Fair enough, ohh my. I do think, now that I think on it, I heard of that Redeeemer fella. Did you wrestle as him in Dallas in the United Toughness Association? For some reason we'd get them on one of my daddy's big ass satellite dish channels."
"I did indeed. I fondly remember the UTA. I actually heard they were back recently. Wow, that takes me back a year or two."
"You were pretty good if I remember right. You did lots of kung fooey type stuff and had kind of a silly Undertaker-lahk gimmick, right? You saved people's souls?"
"Haha, yeah, we were all young once, I guess."
"You could really move though, I remember thinking you were pretty cute."
The man blushes. "Well...I think you may have been the only woman to think so during that period. But...I'm not sure one should use ring rats' opinions of attractiveness as a good barometer."
"Just like lot lizards, sweetie." They both chuckle. "Well what're the odds, that I'd see that show on daddy's satellite, that I thought you were cute, and that I'd run into you as a broken old husk of yourself some day."
"Right? I'm a regular 'junkyard of false starts' as ol' Elliott Smith would say."
"Nah sugar, you lived the dream that millions of boys never had the courage to. Hell you lived a dream, ANY dream. Most people can't say that. Plus, don't compare yourself to sweet, dear Elliott. You ain't in his league."
"Are you real?"
She reaches across the table and pinches the man's cheek. He chuckles.
"That feel real?"
"Dunno, maybe a little." The spot still felt warm where she 'peenched' him.
"So my break may be ending here fairly soon. What is your conflict?"
"Well, I been thinking about giving it another shot. There's nothing like the roar. There's no fire like the fire it puts in you. Not for me anyhow. I make good money with the things I do, and I dunno. The band's sorta gotten back together and kinda called me to see if I wanna come jam with 'em."
"Hmm, well. Like you said, you ain't workin right now anyway. Maybe this is what you were supposed to find on this endless jaunt through 'Murica.' It ain't exactly like Wednesday and Shadow's adventure in American Gods, but it's something."
The man nods.
"Well sweetie, I'm gonna go check on my other tables now, but I will be back. Can I get cha something?"
"Ya know what sugar, I think I'd like a side of bacon. Could you get that for me?"
"Sugar? That is sexual harrassment Mister." She says this and wryly squeezes his shoulder and walks away.
A few minutes later, the waitress makes her way back to the man's table. On it is an envelope. The man is gone, she looks frantically around, and does not see him. In the middle of the table is an envelope with one word written on it. "Sugar"
She opens the note and sees a fat stack of green bills. She gasps momentarily and counts out 3000 dollars. She sees a thin piece of paper that looks to have been torn out of a Moleskine with graph paper lines, so pretentious.
She reads the note out loud:
"I know it ain't much; it sure ain't near enough to pay you for the memory. I don't know your story, or anything but the name on your nametag. I just know you were there right when you needed to be and I won't forget you. If you need anything, anything...well you know who I wrestled as and we have websites, and you seem to get the whole internet thing. Don't be a stranger. Don't hide those wings. I don't know if I should tell you to get the hell out of this town, or to stay right where you are. I hope we meet again.
Yours,
Shaggy2Pimp/Redeemer/Whatever I Might Be Should We Meet Again"
The waitress pockets the letter and the money, gently. She looks onto the interstate through the gas pump lights.
There's a silence about looking at this individual, even though we can hear conversations between truckers and waitresses all about him. His beard growth is quite thick and his hair is tousled and wild, though clean. He wears a pair of blue jeans a blank brown long sleeved t-shirt.
"Hey Honey." The silence is now broken.
The man turns and looks to his right at a waitress, presumably his waitress. He manages a smile that is unexpectedly warm.
"Hey, darlin, you need anythin'?"
The man stares again at his coffee mug. He stares at the sweating glass of water she'd brought before the coffee.
"No'm, I reckon I'm fine right now."
"Ya sure? There's not another cafe on this here highway for quite a ways. You look like you could eat."
The man nods, appreciatively. "I appreciate it ma'am. I really do. But, I just can't think of anything that appeals to me right now."
"You tweakin, dear?"
The man is surprised by the directness of his waitress' response and recoils a little. "No, unless ya count Java Monsters."
"No Judgment, just wonderin.' I'll leave ya alone if you need to come down a bit. We don't have any time limits on tables neither."
The man chuckles. "No, I reckon that's not my uhh...issue???"
"Ohh? Well what is it, then? I mean, I'm not saying I thought ya had one. Just saying you looked like you was thinkin ohn something over here. You weren't on your phone, using the wifi to watch the new season of Kimmy Schmidt or somethin' like the usual."
"Haha, I already watched it before I got on the road. Gotta love Tituss and Mikey."
They both chuckle.
"So what are ya thinkin on, then?"
The man nods at the waitress. "Well, just life. Just the road, where it's led me. Where it hasn't led me."
"Ohh yeah? Just a drifter, trying to find the ol' Emerald City in this here 21st Century Wasteland?"
The man nearly doubles over his table with a deep and hearty chuckle. "I don't mean to be insulting none, but I did not expect that sort of expression from anyone at a truck stop, and I apologize for being such a bigot for not thinking I would."
"Well son, everybody got the internet now. Plus whaddayou think us interstate tumbleweeds have to do other'n think. But I don't take offense, it's nice to have a good talk with someone who isn't just trying to figure out where the nearest lot lizard dickin hole is."
The man nods and chuckles again. "Have I found the next Brett Butler or Roseanne Bar at this here truckstop?"
"Don't you insult me like that boy. I'll slap the taste out your mouth."
The man laughs again. "Ohh my, I do enjoy you already."
The waitress smiles broadly, then just goes ahead and sits down. This is one of the few apparent luxuries of such a culinary position.
"Well I figure I've earned myself a little break, and you're entertaining me. So tell me, what are you thinkin on?"
"I couldn't agree more. Ohh, just about the past."
"What pray tell does an interesting fella like you have to mourn about?"
"Well, materially, nothing. I got good work here and there. I feel like I ain't done anything with my life that just...lights me on fire...though. Not in a long while. I been out welding the last year or two, and I got me some money saved up, and I figured I'd just take me a little journey across the US or two. My jobs finished up and I just didn't look for any new ones. Just seeing where the road may take me."
"You're awful well-cultured for a welder. You sure that's what you was trained to do?"
"Maybe it was, maybe you're being judgmental now." The man offers a wry smile back at the waitress.
"I don't doubt you weld sweetie, I see from your arms and hands that you work. The way you talk though, it don't match up with oil rig roughnecks that I've run across."
"Well my dear Grand Inquisitor, if you must know, I am a man of useless college learning to some degree, pun intended, as well. I may also have been a very low level entertainer."
"Let me guess, you played guitar in an Indie Rock band that didn't exactly hang out with Jack White and Isaac Brock?"
"Wow, not even. I wish I was that damn cool. I was a pro wrestler for some years."
"Ohh wow, haha. You don't look big enough to be one of them. I mean, you're a little bit tall and ain't scrawny. And I know they aren't all huge, but I dunno." The waitress laughs.
"Haha, one of the things I love about my size is that I don't get asked where I wrestled very often."
"I imagine that's a good thing. So where'd ya wrestle? What was your name? Have I heard of ya?"
"I didn't do much of note. Had my own promotion, WRWF outta Texas for a while. That got bought up by another place, which in turn got swallered up by yet another. I wrestled in the swallerers for a while, then went out on the Independent circuit for a couple of years. I got a little notice here and there as The Redeemer and ....as a knockoff of Shaggy2Dope from Insane Clown Posse...."
"Ohh heaven...ICP?" She breaks into adorable peals of laughter, and even smacks the table a couple of times.
"Well it was the early 2000s, at least I didn't go tanning and frost tip my hair and wear shiny silver trunks like most of the other guys."
"Fair enough, ohh my. I do think, now that I think on it, I heard of that Redeeemer fella. Did you wrestle as him in Dallas in the United Toughness Association? For some reason we'd get them on one of my daddy's big ass satellite dish channels."
"I did indeed. I fondly remember the UTA. I actually heard they were back recently. Wow, that takes me back a year or two."
"You were pretty good if I remember right. You did lots of kung fooey type stuff and had kind of a silly Undertaker-lahk gimmick, right? You saved people's souls?"
"Haha, yeah, we were all young once, I guess."
"You could really move though, I remember thinking you were pretty cute."
The man blushes. "Well...I think you may have been the only woman to think so during that period. But...I'm not sure one should use ring rats' opinions of attractiveness as a good barometer."
"Just like lot lizards, sweetie." They both chuckle. "Well what're the odds, that I'd see that show on daddy's satellite, that I thought you were cute, and that I'd run into you as a broken old husk of yourself some day."
"Right? I'm a regular 'junkyard of false starts' as ol' Elliott Smith would say."
"Nah sugar, you lived the dream that millions of boys never had the courage to. Hell you lived a dream, ANY dream. Most people can't say that. Plus, don't compare yourself to sweet, dear Elliott. You ain't in his league."
"Are you real?"
She reaches across the table and pinches the man's cheek. He chuckles.
"That feel real?"
"Dunno, maybe a little." The spot still felt warm where she 'peenched' him.
"So my break may be ending here fairly soon. What is your conflict?"
"Well, I been thinking about giving it another shot. There's nothing like the roar. There's no fire like the fire it puts in you. Not for me anyhow. I make good money with the things I do, and I dunno. The band's sorta gotten back together and kinda called me to see if I wanna come jam with 'em."
"Hmm, well. Like you said, you ain't workin right now anyway. Maybe this is what you were supposed to find on this endless jaunt through 'Murica.' It ain't exactly like Wednesday and Shadow's adventure in American Gods, but it's something."
The man nods.
"Well sweetie, I'm gonna go check on my other tables now, but I will be back. Can I get cha something?"
"Ya know what sugar, I think I'd like a side of bacon. Could you get that for me?"
"Sugar? That is sexual harrassment Mister." She says this and wryly squeezes his shoulder and walks away.
A few minutes later, the waitress makes her way back to the man's table. On it is an envelope. The man is gone, she looks frantically around, and does not see him. In the middle of the table is an envelope with one word written on it. "Sugar"
She opens the note and sees a fat stack of green bills. She gasps momentarily and counts out 3000 dollars. She sees a thin piece of paper that looks to have been torn out of a Moleskine with graph paper lines, so pretentious.
She reads the note out loud:
"I know it ain't much; it sure ain't near enough to pay you for the memory. I don't know your story, or anything but the name on your nametag. I just know you were there right when you needed to be and I won't forget you. If you need anything, anything...well you know who I wrestled as and we have websites, and you seem to get the whole internet thing. Don't be a stranger. Don't hide those wings. I don't know if I should tell you to get the hell out of this town, or to stay right where you are. I hope we meet again.
Yours,
Shaggy2Pimp/Redeemer/Whatever I Might Be Should We Meet Again"
The waitress pockets the letter and the money, gently. She looks onto the interstate through the gas pump lights.