Slate Gray

Chapter 17.1: Ace Slate

Our rendezvous point, "The Last Supper", is an isolated railroad diner with corrugated metal sides and a stuttering neon sign announcing the ominous name. Conveniently located off the last exit out of town, it's empty except for a redheaded waitress with questionable fashion sense, a big, beefy cook blasting opera from the kitchen and their single patron, a scruffy, mid-thirties man in a Canadian tuxedo sitting at the counter.

Bizarrely jumpy, Tuxedo twitches when we enter through the glass atrium, a bell tinkling overhead.

"Sit wherever, sugars," the waitress trills, brown eyes comically magnified behind coke bottle glasses. "Coffee to start?"

"Four please," Dad affirms. "We're expecting two more."

Clicking her pen, she smiles, offputtingly upbeat. "Coming right up."

The cheerily lit interior is L shaped, bisected by a Formica countertop with metal stools and the color palate of old school Americana: red, white and black. Standard diner décor. Eight cracked, crimson booths line the wall to our right, pressed against tall windows with their janky beige blinds and two more booths lead the way to an alcove and the bathrooms. Behind the countertop sits a large, battered coffee maker, a display case full of baked goods and the swinging door to the kitchen, visible through an opening in the wall.

My sneakers squeak across the checkered floor as Dad scooches into the fourth booth from the entrance, facing the door as he likes to do, always on lookout duty. I settle across from him, the cracked material groaning under my weight and we each grab a sticky menu from the condiment stand.

"I don't know if I can eat any of this," he mourns, browsing the brightly colored pictures.

"Too greasy?" I ask.

"Too queasy."

The waitress brings four waters and he appreciatively chugs his while I study him over the laminated plastic. He looks like a wax figure of my father, the crimson gash and purpling bruise on his temple the only colors on an otherwise ashen face.

"Maybe get some fruit?" I suggest. "And avoid the coffee?"

"The coffee is unavoidable," he grumbles, burping into his fist.

I'm trying to project an air of positivity, but he was knocked out for a while, he's squinting against the lights and he was rickety on the short walk across the parking lot. All signs point towards a very concussed individual.

But fine, if he wants to be stoically miserable, I'm not gonna stop him.

The cook's opera, all lilting tenors and dramatic cymbals, floats pleasantly from the kitchen as I return to the menu. I'm still leaning towards my classic French Toast but there's a picture of a dish called The Smothered Scramble that catches my eye.

The waitress brings our coffees and I judge Dad as he takes a sip, the white mug miniscule against his giant knuckles. 

"Caffeine isn't great for you right now," I nag, shrugging out of my coat. My shoulder twinges with the movement but those painkillers have worked their magic to dull the worst of it. "It's a vasoconstrictor. That means it reduces blood flow."

"Who's the adult here?" snaps Grumpy McGrumperson.

"The one with the most brain capacity. Which at this point, happens to be me."

Eyelids slit behind smudged lenses but he sets the mug down. "When did you get so bossy?"

Crooking my pointer round the handle, I slide it away from him. "When you donated half your DNA."

Headlights slice across the window and I whip around only to be sorely disappointed when it's not my sister. Instead, four raucous, college guys in polos and Patagonia's pile out of daddy's expensive car. A blond one spots me through the window and his lecherous ogle sends a dark, icky crawl up my spine.