All Roads Lead Here

ALL ROADS LEAD HERE

By Derek Wheatley

NEVADA

You are glad of the sight of the diner; its sad outer appearance, its lack of subtlety, its invasion on the otherwise empty landscape all around. ‘The End of the Line’ it’s called. Isn’t that a song title? It’s probably the title of tens of songs. There is a sign on the left as you turn into the lot. It is hand-painted on a slanted plank of wood which is nailed to a tall stake in the ground: ‘All Roads Lead Here’. You have no idea what it means in relation to the diner itself. There is one road, the interstate, and it doesn’t so much as lead to the diner, as lead past it. There are two cars in the lot, leaving ten spaces. You park in the space furthest from the door. Why? You don’t know. It leaves a longer walk in the insufferable midday sun. As you step out of the car, you pull off your borrowed tie and throw it towards the backseat. It lands on top of the borrowed suit coat that is piled and crumpled where you left it. Cindy told you that you were overdressing for the interview, but your mother always said: “You only get one chance at making a first impression”. The way things had gone, you wouldn’t be making a second. You hadn’t really researched what it was the factory did or how they did it. All you knew was it manufactured baubles for Christmas trees. They told you that it was the largest supplier of Christmas tree decorations for the states of Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Oregon and California. How could you not be enthused? They asked you questions about the company. You didn’t know the answers, didn’t know how to bluff. You knew by their faces when they said, “We’ll be in touch”. Another failure. Cindy would be unhappy and she would be entitled to that unhappiness. She was paying your way in the world; supporting herself and a twenty four year old baby.

The assortment of smells was welcoming, homely – if your home smelled of coffee, bacon, toasting bread and smoking beef. The tables were red, Formica-topped; tiny jukeboxes on each one, partially hidden by different bottles of sauces and veils of condiments. There was a long counter in front of where the cooking took place, where the smells emanated from. You were drawn there by the heady vapours. A tall man sat at one end, slouched low over a plate of fries and a half-eaten burger which he held tightly in his large right hand. A couple sat in one of the booths, flicking through the music selection, laughing at private, whispered jokes.
‘What can I get ya, hun?’ She smiled warmly. Her lips were bright red. Her name was Beryl. You order a cheeseburger, fries and a large coke. You are aware of the sweat stains on your shirt; under your arms, on your back, developing around the cavity of your chest. Heavy cotton in summer? Bright idea! You look around and spot the sign for the restroom to your right. You pass the couple; who don’t look up, too in love to care. The restroom is cooler than the diner. It isn’t often you appreciate or even think about the marvels of cooled air shooting from a metal grill. You wash your hands and face. You unbutton your shirt and splash yourself with cold water. You dry yourself off with a dozen paper towels. You instantly feel better. The smell of your sizzling beef patty welcomes you back. A short thin man in a paper hat flips the burger over and back, while staring emptily at nothing. The man at the counter has finished his burger and is now working at the slim fries with his fingers. There is sadness to his movements, strains of grief to his features. Tattoos line the arm you can see. It is then that you notice the name: KATY, with the botched and extended Y.

Katy died 13 years previously. On the first anniversary of her death, your father got her name tattooed on his forearm. It wasn’t his first tattoo, but it was the first of his “ink stains” (that was what your grandfather called them) that made you emotional, that gave you that lump in your throat. Your aunt Katy was funny, kind and generous. She died in a car accident. The driver was her boyfriend Steve. The autopsy revealed that he had large traces of alcohol and cocaine in his blood. If he hadn’t died in the crash, he would have been killed anyway, by your father’s bare hands. When your father removed the clear plastic wrapping from her name on his arm for the first time, he ran his fingers over the darkened skin lovingly. You pointed at the damaged Y. He told you that the tattoo artist had suffered a fit just as he brought the needle down along the end of the letter. His hand drove the needle through the skin, further than it should go, leaving the distinctive mark. Your father had been to visit the man in the hospital a couple of days later. It turned out it had been a mild stroke. Your father brought a bunch of bananas. He was always trying to be different. Most people brought grapes to the sick, at least on TV shows they did. That tattoo parlour was still there. The man who ran it now walked with the help of a stylish cane. The stroke hadn’t debilitated his artistry, just the correct use of his right leg.

‘There you go hun.’ You jump, look up and thank Beryl. The food looks better than you expected it to. You can feel your father turn, glance at you, and turn back to his own diminishing lunch. But you have lost your appetite. Is this how shock feels? You drink half of your coke hurriedly, bypassing the straw which rests along your face as your swallow, the ice cubes agreeably cool on your upper lip. It seems the lovers have finally reached a decision on their songs. The volume isn’t too loud, a comfortable volume; a ‘70’s power ballad, perhaps another private joke. You turn again towards your father. It has been eleven years, but it’s definitely him. He has gained 20 pounds, greyed at the temples; a beard has grown where he had never allowed one to be. His tattoos have doubled in number. He still looks like he could kick most peoples’ asses. Could he kick yours? You want to go over. You want to push him off the stool. Memories of your mother crying into her pillow come tumbling back. She hid her tears from you at all costs. Every ringing phone, knocking knuckles or slapping screen door sent her running with only one thought: Please let it be him! It never was. He left everything behind except his gym bag; his excuse for leaving the house that morning, his excuse for never returning.

He was a testosterone junkie. Six days a week he would go running through the surrounding neighbourhoods, even if the temperatures touched 100 degrees. He would come home with clothes that dripped. He would then go to the gym a couple of blocks away. He took you along a couple of times. One of the instructors was beautiful but trashy, Debbie. Peroxide blond, slender, tanned and toned body, a couple of tattoos, Lycra stretching, screaming on behalf of her curves: LOOK AT ME! All the males looked. You would have too if puberty had arrived by then. Instead, you watched your father watching her, as he lifted weights heavier than you, or maybe even him. You watched his muscles rise and fall. One day I’ll be like that, you thought; just another kid aspiring to be like dad. Just like the song says. If there were winks exchanged or touching skin you never noticed. Your mother kissed you both whenever you entered the house. He would claw at her ass, particularly when he returned from training. The gym bag hit the floor, your mother groaned. His sexual desires were wrapped up tight right through his training session. He thought of Debbie as he grabbed your mother’s flesh. You knew that now.

He calls for a coffee. You pick at your fries. They are quite good. His voice sounds slightly deeper, maybe even a little scratchy. You know it couldn’t be from cigarettes. He had always detested them. At least that was something positive that he passed on to you. The man who does the cooking is momentarily unemployed. He removes his paper hat. You notice a line around the rim, shaded darker with his sweat. His hair – at least what’s left of it – is damp, jet black strands running everywhere along his visible scalp. Beryl speaks to him below the music. You imagine that they are married. You imagine that they are living their dream; in a cosy diner in the middle of sand and dirt, dust and strangers. All Roads Lead Here, like a modern day ‘Wizard of Oz’ but the yellow brick road has been replaced by black asphalt interstate. The cook leaves Beryl’s side. You watch him head out the back door which allows bright daylight to flood in. Gone for a cigarette probably; inhaling smoke with sickly-hot desert air. Beryl busies herself by folding large paper tablemats and cutting them in half with the swift slice of a sharp knife. From the corner of your eye you see him sip his coffee. You try to see if there are anymore names, at least on his right arm, but there are just symbols and skulls. Maybe Debbie is printed in bold on his left bicep.

You wonder what he does now. Does he still clean pools? Back then, he took tips from a gym acquaintance, went to buy what he needed and got straight to work. He told your mother that he would learn on the job. She talked about him adding too many chemicals, maybe blinding someone. He laughed at her as if she were stupid. He always did. He drove a borrowed pickup with too many miles on the clock and not enough thread on the tyres. After a couple of months he considered himself an expert on the upkeep of home swimming pools. He was building a large client list. When some of them allowed him access to their pools after he cleaned them, he took you along. He lifted you above the baby blue ripples and threw you up backwards into a somersault. You watched the blue sky above you, as you fell away from it, going under the cooling surface of water. He did love you at those moments, you knew he did; the way he smiled at your muddled worldviews and your infectious excitement about simple things like swimming pools and ice cream. He called you ‘Champ’. It seems corny now, and b-movie-like, but then it was the world. You had never won anything but you were still his Champ!

The couple left a large tip for a very grateful Beryl. She tossed the money into a glass jar by the till. The music stopped. The place was quiet. In moments like this, usually one of the four people present would start a conversation about maybe sport, politics or any sort of current affairs. You couldn’t think of anything worse. You made a decent effort at finishing the food. Half a burger would remain on the plate, as would a handful of fries. Your phone beeps. For a split second, everyone looks at you. The cell is in your right pocket so you turn away from your estranged father’s eyes. It’s Cindy. She asks how it went, leaving her trademark: a single x at the end of the message. You can’t think of a satisfactory answer right now. The interview seems like it happened 15 years ago. In your current state of mind it had, you have been on a bumpy trip down memory lane since then. You pocket your cell. You’ll call her later. Will you tell her about your father? Hard to say just yet. As you think, he passes behind you. You watch his back; he walks with a very bad limp, favouring his right. He coughs, deep, from the very base of his lungs. Is he sick? Actually, you don’t want to know. You want to follow him in there and hurt him; revenge for your fallen mother. But you don’t. You just sit there.

You watch the cook scrap the tiny particles of burnt food and coagulated grease off the hot silver surface. The discarded lumps disappear into a thin slit at the front of the grill. Beryl clears the departed lovers’ table. She drops coins into the small jukebox. The sound of The Drifters makes the cook smile. As Beryl passes with a tray of dirty dishes and a wet rag, she gets a soft slap of a towel on her ass from the cook. You smile. The restroom door groans open on its hinges. You call for a coffee. He passes behind you, coughs into his hand. You look at his figure as he approaches his stool. His left side droops, like it is trying to separate itself from the fresher, more vibrant right. Vague traces of well toned muscles lay dormant beneath the skin, their days are numbered. What happened to him? A car accident, a stroke? His speech is fine. It is just his body, his movements that seem ruffled and diminished. He winks at Beryl. She smiles, blushes slightly. The charm remains. An engine grumbles; tyres roll over dust and grit; you can hear it in the break between songs. Now it’s The Ronettes singing. Two men enter; you see their reflection in a steel panel over the grill. Your father turns to look, you don’t. Beryl gives them that welcoming desert smile. They take a booth and begin to read the menu.

The coffee is strong, burnt maybe. You take it black, no sugar. Beryl brings the pot over to your father and asks if he wants a refill. He shakes his head in the negative. A fat wallet sits on the counter in front of him. Beryl taps at the till, it prints up the bill. After a quick read, he pulls some notes from his wallet, drops them on top of the bill, pushes it where Beryl can reach it without being intrusive of his personal space. You watch her drop the notes in their allotted places. She brings the change back. He tells her to keep it. She seems genuinely grateful and a little surprised by the man’s generosity. All those tattoos, the limp left side, his unkempt appearance, a healthy tip was not what she envisaged, or so you imagine anyway. Your father pops a baseball on his head. Beryl moves towards her latest customers with an exaggerated sway of her hips. She is in pretty good shape for a woman of her somewhat advanced years. Maybe those years have taught her that the more those hips sway, the more the men tip. You can’t top experience. You can’t beat the cunningness of a desert fox like Beryl. Your father stands, drains his coffee, right down to the tiny sediment of beans that you know sits at the bottom of the cup. He coughs again. It sounds like a cough that shakes bones and makes organs rethink their strategy of working.

‘Have a good day, kid.’ He could only be talking to you. Beryl is busy. The cook is at the back of the kitchen, chopping beef tomatoes with the help of a large knife and with little caution for his fingers. You turn slowly. ‘Kid’, did he know? Had he been sitting there replaying the years in his mind too? On first eye contact you realise he didn’t know. It was merely an exchange of pleasantries between two strangers, both without company in a quiet diner.
‘You too.’ Then it came. His face changed, his eyes dropped what you imagine is their usual defensiveness and take on the look of a life lost one morning eleven years previously. He breaks the connection, clears his throat. He walks as fast as he is capable of moving. Beryl yells a cheery goodbye, but he is now somewhere else; perhaps playing in a swimming pool with his Champ. A gross wave of pity moves through you. You immediately hate yourself for it. The diner’s windows are tinted to keep the sun’s rays under control. He is hopping into an old Toyota. He is bathed in a strange purple-silver tint. Dust rises with the spinning wheels. You imagine how it would have felt to hit him. Just once, a revenge punch for you and your dead mother who was still mourning his departure eight years after he left. Cancer was eating through her stomach in a hospital bed and still she spoke of him as if he was the loving, caring man he had long since been.

You watch until his car disappears behind the waves of heat rising from the road in the distance. You call for the check. $3 is your tip for Beryl. She is thankful, but not quite as thankful as she was to your father. You say goodbye and leave through the door that now takes on the presence of some kind of time portal. The sun is horrendously bright and punishing. Your car is like an oven. You put the air-conditioning up to full blast. Wait, as the warm air chills slowly. You reverse out; look back at a diner you will probably never want to visit again. Unfortunately you will have to revisit the memories you have just waded through. You look at that sign: ‘All Roads Lead Here’. It makes some sort of sense now. The interstate has never looked so comforting. You indicate to no one as the road is empty. You drop your foot and let your car and the road take you away from all the places you’ve just been.

The End