5"Baby, no matter how hard ya try, you're never gonna change his mind." Mom said in her smoker's voice. Rough and hard. But womanly all the same.
I was nine when she sat on the porch watching me play with the neighborhood boys. I was trying my hardest to convince Jimmy Thomas that I hadn't cheated in four square. In the end I told him to go to Hell and flipped him off, and while my mom busted out in laughter, his Mom told him to come inside and stop playing with me. I've always been that girl. I've grown up to be that woman. The one who answers her problems with a swear, and a cigarette. Like Mom did, but unlike Mom, cause she could smile after. I never let my grudges go. Deep inside I know I still hope Jimmy Thomas rots in Hell.
Mom was the neighborhood's bad girl growing up. She got pregnant after running off to California. She said it could've been a musician, or the guy she hitch hiked a ride from. Either way, she did love me all the same. Grandma and Grandpa helped her out in little ways, like groceries, and a back pack for me every year.
Twenty-three years old now, and Mom's only forty-two. I'm a college graduate with no where to go, and ironically enough, forty-two days left to get out of my apartment.
One pack of cigarettes left, and only three hundred dollars to my name.
Back home Grandma would probably say, "Talk to Jesus honey."
Chapter Two: Because
I'm listening to a conversation between the waiter, and a curiously perky bus boy. Business is slow, and they're sitting at an empty booth, waiting, and talking.
Kyle, the bus boy, is trying to show Betty how he can arrange the forks and spoons to look like a replica of the virgin Mary.
"See, and that there is Jesus. Just like Mary's holdin' him." I could just hear the honest fool in his voice.
He reeks with the stench of kindness, and I've come to the conclusion he's also a complete moron.
Betty gets up and leans over to try to get a better view.
"You're a goddamn idiot, that don't look like any Mary I've ever seen." She starts listing all the things it does look like, as Kyle keeps on saying,"It sure as hell does, and you know it."
I sigh and drop my head onto my arms on the counter. Where did I go wrong in life?
I whisper a quiet, "Why? Why?" and then groan with the entirely pointless feeling I have in my stomach. Which could also be the feeling of the jelly spreads from IHOP I've been eating for the past few days.
A man a few stools away lets out an amused grunt, apparently having heard me. It's somewhere between the familiar smoker's cough and a gusty sigh. Not Scarlett O-Hara, but definitley dramatic.
I pick up my head and stare at him, hoping to make him squirm, or something. My eyes squint, and I feel my body tense for a moment.
He equals my stare, and the reverse happens, I squirm.
With an annoyed sigh, I turn away from the staring contest and lay my head back down, putting a hand around the coffee I bought over an hour ago.
After I had my mini break down, I decided I'd have to try the homeless deal for a while. And I found the Grey Hound station, and took buses all the way to some shit place called "Cousin, Mississippi."
This little highway gas-station/diner is probably the swankiest place for miles.
I've officially got only thirty-seven dollars left, and my back pack with one other pair of shoes and two outfits that are still clean.
Just to add to my violin's song, I stepped in a steaming pile of cow shit when I crossed a field to go pee in the woods.
Because peeing in the woods looked better than going in the gas station.
I kid you not.
How did I end up in Mississippi, of all the states? I mean I'm twenty-three for Christ Sake! I went to an average college. I saved up money, I did all the things you do when you're out in the world. But everything had to bite me in the ass.
In the middle of my thoughts I feel a body close to mine, and hear someone clearing their throat.
I sit up strait, and turn to the person.
It's the guy from the other end of the bar. He's standing up leaning against the counter to my side.
He sticks out his hand, and gives me a wry smile, "My name's Jackson Thomas, thought I'd come over and say hi."
I feel one of my eyebrows raise, and give his hand two firm shakes, "Dannie Craft."
"So, what are you doing out here? You don't look like you're from Cousin."He's chewing something, maybe dip.
Damn right I don't.
He sits down on the stool to my right, and we turn to face each other.
Some kind of gate opens in me, and it's like I can't shut up.
Something about the warmth in this guy's face makes me explode with information. I give him the whole layout.
And generally, I don't tend to even think there's a "warmth" in people.
By the end of my story, he's smiling, and his brown eyes are amused.
"I always thought New York would be great." He says drumming his fingers on the bar-top.
Yeah, you, and every other American not in New York.
I feel like a jerk for spilling out my life's story to some random stranger, in a diner. That's reserved for the depressing characters on a sitcom, or a drunk who can't stay at the bar anymore.
I'm getting to be a sad, sad person. A waste of carbon.
A homeless, twenty-three year old in fucking Cousin, Mississippi-
"You feel sorry for yourself a lot don't you?" Jackson asks me, sounding curious.
What kind of rudeness is that? "No, I'm homeless. That 'feeling sorry for myself' expression was acquired after I slept in an airport bathroom for a few days. You seriously don't even know me old man. What if I had a terrible disease or lost people? Well, I don't. But that doesn't mean shit. You still-you know what, I don't know anything about you either." I move to get up and almost end up knocking my cold coffee cup over in the rush. I steady it before the disgustingly dark liquid slops out, and see his grin.
You large asshole.
He shakes his head in an amused and slightly smirking way, "You're a complainer." I sit back down, deciding I don't want to be too melodramatic.
I don't hide my annoyance, does he think he's being cute? "Do I have a reason not to be?"
He grunts, "Yeah girl, a big one."
I swirl my cold coffee in it's cup, and ask, "That is?"
He smiles, "You're not lame, or stupid, or blind."
"Thank you Moses," I get off my stool and decide to get away from his high-and-mighty preaching. A stranger telling me that shit? No thanks.
As I walk out, I look at the places I could go. Connected to the diner there is a mini mart, and a gas station. Someone kill me. White rock gravel is everywhere.
Right behind the little strip there is a high way with a few semis driving by. And then there are just fields of crops, and a forked gravel road running through them. My Mom would say something bubbly and sweet right now, like, 'oh the possibilities!' But all I can chant in my head right now is, "shit, shit, shit, shit."
And, with a huff, I'm off down the left fork.