Wet Pavement Always by My Side
I stepped off the public bus at my chosen stop, with everything I cared about slung over my shoulder. I thanked the driver as I left, and once my shoes hit the moist, dark asphalt, I heard the hissing sound of the door closing behind me and the bus’s breaks loosening as it began to leave me at my stop. About five-hundred feet from the bus stop was a diner that was still open this late at night. I made my way over to have something to eat, dragging my feet from exhaustion and pain.
I closed my hand around the big door handle to the diner and let myself through the first set of double doors into the foyer. Light rain began falling on my walk over, so I wiped my shoes off on the rug and shook my head with dark, dripping curls to be courteous to the late-night employees. They don’t deserve to clean up after my messes as everyone else in my life has. A little bell rang as I pushed the next pair of doors open and step into the clear area by the host podium. I looked around the diner and it is practically empty; sounds of the employees back in the kitchen clanging dishes and the sizzling of food on the stove, there were only a few other customers scattered around, mostly truck drivers taking a break from their long journey across states.
I stood and waited a couple minutes before I heard a woman shout from inside the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit wherever you want! I’ll get to you in just a few!
I did as she said and picked a booth seat next to the front windows of the diner. I sat my backpack on the very inside of the booth as I slid in after it. I still kept it very close me; the zipper was about to burst as threads of fabric was starting to fray, and I could just barely see the glimmer of the picture frame I managed to shove in there on my way out the door. Within a few more minutes after sitting down, the woman who called out to me came out from the kitchen with a tray of food and drinks. She walked over to one of the men I presumed to be a traveling truck driver, sitting in a booth about 10 feet diagonally to the right from where I sat, and placed down his food and drinks. From what I could see he ordered a stack of soft, classic buttermilk pancakes, but with a side of sliced bananas to add as he pleased, a plate of fluffy hash browns and sausage links cooked just right, and I picked up a whiff of crispy bacon floating from his table to mine. The drinks that accompanied his meal was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a hot cup of coffee, but I assumed it was decaf since it was close to 12:30 in the morning.
The woman stepped away after delivering his food and walked into the kitchen with her tray. As I sat, patiently waiting, my mind began to drift and think of the truck driver. I wondered who he was or where he came from. He sat alone in a diner just off the freeway, just focused on his food and probably a place to sleep, most likely in his truck. I wondered if he had family where he came from. Does he have a loving wife? Perhaps a husband? What about kids? As I kept peering at him, it was clear he was a girl-dad; there were remnants of glittery pink nail polish on his right hand finger nails, possibly from a make-over night with his princess. A sticker on his travel mug caught my eye as well. It was a sticker of Hello Kitty and her bunny friend, Melody I think? I wondered if he missed his family dearly when he was on his long hauling trips. I hoped that the stickers and chipped nail polish were a sweet reminder of who he was going home to.
But what if he was someone like me? Someone who disappointed so many people in his life that all one really could do was leave. Someone that had almost nothing to lose, so he chose the trucking and traveling life for corporations. Was that a plate shattering in the kitchen? Did he feel lonely without people? Lonely even though he was the one who made the brash decision to pack up his life and leave? Why is it so hot in here? It was freezing a second ago. I supposed the constant reminders of letting everyone down finally got to him and drove him away from everything he ever knew. Is that still bacon I’m smelling or am I losing it?
“Hun?” I heard faintly, but I was not yet sure who was speaking. My eyes locked and fixated at the man’s table, wishing, hoping he did not live the lonely fate painted in my mind. Did I pack my meds with me? My vision blurred and dissociated as I was captured in the life of this man, my face feeling wet, my heart aching in my chest as I heard the voice again but louder, and a soft hand touched my shoulder. “Sonny! Are you alright?”
It was the woman taking and serving orders. She was looking down at me with a motherly concern in her eyes, an expression I had not personally experienced. I peered up at her and silently nodded, but as I did so, I felt something sliding down my face. I then realized I had been crying when imagining the life of the man across from me. I quickly realized those spiraling thoughts were more closely related to me rather than the man trying to eat his dinner.
Author Bio
Kristen Pierce, She/her, California State University San Marcos, Majoring in Literature & Writing and minoring in German.
Kristen is currently studying literature and writing at CSUSM and enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. She enjoys reading fantasy, young romance, and mystery/thriller stories. She is originally from Seattle, Washington and has lived the latter half of her life in California. Kristen hopes to use her literature and writing degree to work for either an independent or major press and/or publishing company in the Pacific Northwest, while also hoping to publish her own written work one day.