Rudy's

Rudy's

a story by mj

The sun was preternaturally bright when I opened the door of the infested nest some arrogant prick named Rudy called a motel room. Despite the squalid conditions, I had managed to sleep for an exhausting fifteen hours, partially due to the thick, ostentatious drapery and also my own decision to buy a bottle of tequila and imbibe it within the course of a couple hours. The next couple of hours were spent in exultant purging and several stumbling/crawling scurries to the fetid bathroom. After my digestive system had its say, it was smooth sailing in dream land. Or rather, a turbulent and phantasmagorical sail through a few circles of Hell.

I had a sticky and overbearing taste in my mouth, a mixture of stomach acid, smoke and toothpaste. My eyes, the ever-eager purveyors of the world, had adjusted to the intensity of the Sun’s light at zenith and quickly focused on the sign across the rectangular parking lot that denoted the location of “Rudy’s Diner”. Well, there could be no mistake about it; the patrons of “Rudy’s Motel” could also consume all the fried starch and processed meat their little hearts could desire! Some people probably wouldn’t get worked up about a restaurant having the same name as the hotel to which it is attached, so I guess I can conclude I’m not like “some people”. It gets under my skin, makes my right eyelid want to convulse, and leaves me with an overall disposition of disdain. Nevertheless, I needed food. That was my digestive system having its say again. I lit a cigarette to take away some of the toothpaste taste and walked across the parking lot.

The diner had two walls entirely devoted to booths. Each booth got its own window, and each window got its own set of mini-blinds. Most of the blinds were up completely. Apparently people liked sun with their fat saturated meals. I had no corner into which I could sneak. I decided to sit at the counter, facing away from the windows, my back to the door and the roomful of loquacious and jolly lunch patrons. The experience was deteriorating by the minute. I resolved to consume my food as quickly as possible and retreat back to my abhorrent yet private bear’s den of a room. What happened after that was not in my capability to pontificate on; I was reduced to the needs of my organs.

“Do you have fresh coffee?” I asked a petite, womanly figure that scuttled by without acknowledging me.

Humbled, I stared down at my hands until I heard a flat and monotonous voice say something about the lunch rush and then the thud of a coffee mug on the Formica countertop.

“Is it fresh?” I asked, glancing it over with a dubious eye.

No answer came and I looked up, correction, looked down to meet the eyes of the voice. A cold and steely look greeted me. A small specimen of human, the waitress eyed me with a no-bullshit attitude that let me know exactly how well she thought I was wasting her time.

“Did you want anything to eat?” She asked. She wasn’t that old, surely couldn’t be over thirty but she carried that dog-eared and weary exterior that resulted in a tough and stringent manner. She was the precisely the kind of person that detested the kind of people like me, the kind that could make a joke of life, as if it wasn’t life and death on the table.

“Yes. May I see a menu?” I mumbled and blew at the top of my mug. I wavered back and forth about the dangers of gulping it down before letting it cool and threw caution to the wind. It burned, but it was a good burn, completely different than the chemical burning of stomach acid.

She brought back a menu, and the pot of coffee.

“Could I have ice water as well?”

She didn’t answer. She filled my mug, plopped the menu down and turned for the pitcher of water.

It’s only a silly habit of mine to ask for the menu at restaurants since I always order the same thing. The waitress jots down my order of pancakes, two over easy eggs and a toasted English muffin so quickly I’m anxious she hasn’t notated the preference of my eggs, or my request that the English muffin be only slightly toasted, only enough to melt the butter. I knew I had been defeated, but I also knew I would eat whatever she put in front of me. I had no choice in the matter. It was between my digestive system and her.

It was at that point that I started to wonder if it really was life and death on the table. If this shattered woman might know more than yours truly. If spending a night drinking alone in a squalid highway motel wasn’t the best course to take in life.

I smoked two more cigarettes and drank three cups of coffee before my food came. The first refill she made me work for, not relenting her attention until I managed to utter up a humble and cracked, and yet entirely sincere request for more coffee. I used the word, “please.” The second was more easily won, so I took full advantage and drank it in three gulps. The third came swiftly after.

My nervous system buzzed chaos with the rush of chemicals, and a new sort of calm overtook me even as my nerve endings crackled, fizzed and popped. Food was on the way.

When she plopped it down in front of me, her eyes met mine. Still the same harsh glare, but was that a sparkle of amusement in her eye? She knew she had won. She knew I had conceded. I offered her my dejected, half smile, my white flag of surrender. She didn’t smile back, just whisked off into the lobby, taking the pot of coffee with her.

I looked into my mug and there was a fourth refill. I didn’t even have to ask.

Ten minutes later my plate was empty and I was working on my fifth refill, calculating my bill. I put down ten dollars, twice the cost of my breakfast and gloated in the notion of my philanthropy. A cigarette was the perfect reward.

When I stood up, she said, “You have a good day, now,” putting a fist on her hip as if demanding it of me.

“Thanks, you too.” I said, astonished by the sentiment leaving my mouth. I was on a roll, getting the hang of interacting with another human through banter.

“The food was good, quite a shock really considering the abominable conditions of this place. Is the guy who owns this place out to lunch, or what?”

“I’m Rudy, you little shit.” She said, her demeanor and glare changing not in the slightest. She had seen me coming long before I had even driven past the motel on my personal journey to nowhere. She had my kind all mapped out, diagramed and labeled, having seen it so many times before.

I didn’t say anything and walked out the door. The sun pierced my eyes with the daggers of its light. I should never say anything at all.