Truckstop Tales - 3

Hey! Welcome back, friend. Sorry we had to shut so suddenly last night, but it was a mark of respect, you know? Poor old Roger, taken before his time, though I always said he was digging his grave with his fork. Set yourself. White coffee, two sugars, right?

Grunt and a nod as he settles onto the stool. Stan makes fine coffee, is why he comes here so often.

It is quiet tonight. A couple of the booths by the big, plate glass window occupied. One tired looking elderly man, one very young couple, obviously not wanting to end their Friday night date. Dolores desultorily cleaning the griddle, while another young waitress stands by the coffee pot and ponders. Stan always has fine looking waitresses, despite their, shall we say, peculiarities. Charity cases and runaways, most of them. Hitchhike as far as here, and settle for a bit. Moonville, Ohio. Strange place to wash up. The truckstop on the interstate exit, a feedlot and about 16 houses, 10 of them empty and slowly decaying with the changes of the seasons. Nowheresville USA.

The old man rises and slowly walks to the cash desk. Dolores licks her lips and moves forward, slowly and sensually, until she is turned away by a quick hand gesture from Stan.
"Drive careful, stranger, and drop in again some time." Stan says cheerily as he makes change.

"Oh, I will," The old man replies, carefully tucking his wallet back into his pocket "Your pie is amazing. Just like momma used to make."

As he leaves, a fan of light flares across the windows as a car pulls into the parking lot and coasts up to the building. High beams on all the way. Stan squints, then mutters a curse and glances around.

"Dammit, he would show up just now." Dolores fades into the storeroom, seemingly without taking a single step. The lights go off. A dull thunk through the glass as the driver slams shut the door behind him. A tall, amorphous shadow, indistinct to dazzled eyes, passes along the front of the building and throws open the door. His dramatic entrance is somewhat spoiled by the door rebounding off the wall and nearly hitting him in the face.

A preacher.

Stalks towards the two kids in the window booth. Shoulders tight, head thrust forward pugnaciously. He starts shouting while still ten strides away about immorality and iniquity. A full on hellfire sermon is developing here, on two scared kids out past curfew.

Stan coughs. "Preacher, maybe you should let them head on home and have yourself a drink? Tishi, fetch Preacher McGuire his coffee." The pretty waitress pours a cup and, grabbing a bottle from under the counter, adds two drops as the preacher turns and stalks to the bar, his face flushed red with rage. The young boy drops a tenspot on the table and they both hastily scramble out into the night. Leaving three to bear the brunt of his ire. Stan, Tishi the waitress and the man, peacefully drinking his coffee at the counter.

The preachers sweeps his eyes over the three of them. Stan takes a tiny step back from the counter as he starts haranguing Stan on the shameful immorality of the waitresses uniforms. Tishi stands, seemingly oblivious to the insults heading her way.

The man at the counter finishes his coffee and clears his throat. He hates to get involved, that is not what he is here for, but rules are rules. Quietly enough, but it stops the preacher in his tracks. He is not used to being interupted by anyone.

"I appreciate women looking like women, not covered in tents to appease your lack of control and respect for others. Maybe you should look into your own heart first, preacherman, and deal with some of that hate you got stuck in there. Give me a refill please, Stan."

The preacher goggles, his eyes bulging as he make a noise something akin to a turkey caught in a driveshaft, his face going first red, then white with rage. The floodgates open. A ranting torrent of hellfire and damnation, hatred and bile, spewing out like vomit, the preachers face less than an inch from the man's. The man leans back slightly to drink his coffee. That is the only effect. Stan is cowering by the griddle. Tishi leans on the counter, watching the show with a smile.

Rigs drone past on the interstate. No one pulls in.

Eventually the flood subsides as the preacher runs out of breath. Still only the three of them there. He drains his cold coffee with a snarl and slams the mug on the counter hard enough to break the handle off, before storming out.

Silence.

Tishi looking eager, almost vibrating, which does interesting things to her uniform. Stan, almost ghost white, licks his lips. "Tishi, take your break."
She heads out the side door so fast she is like a streak of interestingly curved light.

From his seat the man at the counter can see her in the side parking lot, fingers fumbling in haste, as she peels off her uniform. He finishes his second coffee. and gestures to Stan for a refill.
Somewhat recovered, Stan complies. With a nod to the window, the man asks, "Tishi?"

"Tisiphone. strange what parents name their kids these days."

Outside, she shivers once, convulsively, and a swarm of bees flies away. Following a scent trail.