Marc

Describing my morning routine as methodical would be the understatement of the century. My day began with a shower. A three-mile run followed. After the run, 250 push-ups, 250 sit-ups, and 60 pull-ups. Then, another shower.

All on an empty stomach.

The post-workout 20-minute drive to a diner in Vista gave me time to relax, and it was there that I ate the same breakfast, every day.

The small restaurant was a step back in time. The red vinyl benches and bar stools were comfortably worn, and the white Formica tables and countertops were trimmed with fluted chromed steel. The floor was fashioned with black and white tile, placed in an alternating pattern. I envisioned the establishment being the same when a generation from fifty years past patronized it.

I adjusted my silverware, lining up the ends of the handles perfectly. After unfolding my newspaper and placing it on the center of the table, I moved the condiment basket against the partition wall that separated the booths.

Jacky handed me my cup of coffee. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”

“Good morning. Yes, please.”

She flicked her pen against the notepad she held and then looked at me. “I don’t know why I even ask. Have you ever had a scrambled egg?”

I shook my head.

“Poached?”

I continued shaking.

“Over easy?”

I looked at her and grinned. “I have not.”

“You have not,” she said mockingly. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Our Denver omelet is fabulous. So are the huevos rancheros.”

“You’re right. I don’t know what I’m missing. I’ll stick with what works, though.”

“You’re an odd duck, mister.”

“There are very few things in life I can control, and this is one of them. I enjoy the predictability of it.”

She shook her head playfully. “You must. But you should try something new sometime.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I said with a smile. “Because that’ll never happen.”

“Never say never.”

I shrugged. “I know me.”

She grinned and turned away. “It’ll be up in a few.”

Jacky was in her early thirties, blonde, petite, and quite attractive. She had one daughter, Charlee, who was thirteen. During the school year, Charlee remained in the diner until 8:00, and then walked two blocks to school. For the two-and-a-half months of summer, she stayed until her mother finished her shift.

Seeing Charlee was the highlight of my visit. She was thin, and tall for her age, most of which came from her awkwardly long legs. Her olive skin, blue eyes, and curly blonde hair gave her an adorable presence. Her personality, unquenchable curiosity, and snarky attitude completed the package. Seated in the booth across from me with her legs stretched out along the length of the bench, her nose was buried in a book.

“Still reading To Kill a Mockingbird?” I asked.

With her index finger marking her place, she raised the book. “I finished it. I’m starting over again.”

During the summer, she read a book in a matter of a day or two. I found it impressive that her focus was reading, and not texting or spending her days competing for attention on social media.

“You must have liked it.” I grinned and gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Your thoughts?”

“I wish my name was Scout.”

“That’s what you’ve arrived at after reading it?” I coughed a sarcastic laugh. “You wish your name was Scout?”

She wadded her hair into a mess of a bun, pulled her knees to her chest, and shot me a playful glare. “Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. That was one point I was going to make. Her nickname was awesome. I’ve never had a nickname, and I thought it was cool. As far as the book goes?” She twisted her mouth to the side, gazed down at her worn sneakers, and after a moment, looked up. “In summary, it’s a book about how to live life.”

The book was a favorite of mine. I found her response interesting, and wanted more. “Why do you say that?”

“Have you read the book?”

I cleared my throat. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” I said, citing a quote from the book.

Her eyes went wide. “I want to climb into your skin and walk around in it.”

I scrunched up my face. “Okay, that sounds creepy.”

“It’s from the book. It’s a metaphor.” She let out an audible sigh and set the book aside. “Compassion is based on sympathy. It’s difficult to be sympathetic without fully understanding what a person is going through. To walk in their skin is to develop an understanding of who they are. That’s all.”

“Believe me. You wouldn’t like it in my skin.”

“I would,” she said excitedly. “I want to figure you out.”

Her questioning often resembled an interrogation. If it were anyone else, I would raise my guard and promptly object. With Charlee, I felt obligated to feed her adolescent curiosity.

After checking my silverware, I looked at her. “Figure me out?”

She wrung her hands together and nodded eagerly. “I want to figure out what you’re hiding from.”

An adult hidden inside a teen’s body, she was thirteen going on thirty. I’d been shot at, stabbed, choked damned near to death, and beaten senseless, yet her simple curious nature caused sweat to bead on my brow.

I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my palm, and then arched an eyebrow. “Who says I’m hiding from anything?”

“You’re hiding from something. Nobody drives from Oceanside to Vista every day to eat at a dirty old dive like this. Not unless they don’t want to be seen. You’re hiding, I know it.”

She read too many books, most of which were intended for intellectual adults. I dismissed her line of questioning, and gave a response I hoped would put an end to her prying. There were some things she simply didn’t need to know.

“I like the peace and quiet of a small diner, the presence of a snarky teen, and the predictability of the eggs.”

She opened her book and gazed into it. “You’re full of crap.”

Jacky stepped between us. The interruption was welcomed. I exhaled, met her gaze, and grinned.

She smiled in return and set the plate on the edge of the table. “Three, over medium, dry wheat toast, and three pieces of turkey bacon. Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Let him eat, Charlee.”

Charlee responded with a mock military salute as she walked away.

“You don’t salute indoors unless you’re under arms,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that mean?”

I folded the newspaper, set it aside, and moved the plate to the center of the table. “Unless you’re armed, you don’t salute indoors.”

“According to who?”

I cut one of the eggs in two with my fork. “According to those in the know.”

“Were you a soldier?” she asked excitedly.

“I was not.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I was a sailor.”

“You were on a ship?”

“I didn’t spend much time on a ship, no.”

“Isn’t that what sailors do? Sail?”

“I wasn’t a typical sailor, so I didn’t do typical things.”

“You’re evasive sometimes.”

I swallowed my food, and then took a sip of coffee. “Evasive? That’s a big word for a thirteen-year-old.”

She peered over the top of her open book. “I’m not a typical thirteen-year-old, so I don’t say typical things.”

I cut the next egg in two. “You’re certainly not, and you certainly don’t.”

She acted like she was reading, but it was obvious she was thinking. When she wasn’t speaking it seemed she was always contemplating her next barrage of questions. The toe of her faded sneaker tapping against seat cushion gave warning of her intention to attack me as soon as I took my last bite.

At the moment I finished my breakfast, she lowered the book.

“Are you done?” she asked.

I nodded toward my plate.

She set the book aside and slid to the edge of the booth. “When you first started coming in here, I thought you were going to ask my mom out on a date. After a year and a half, I’ve decided that’s not going to happen. You’re either not interested in her, or you’re here for other reasons.”

I had no sexual interest in her mother. In an effort to preserve my relationship with Charlee – and her mother – I gave the only response I felt I could.

“I’m in a relationship.”

It wasn’t completely true. In fact, it was a lie. Only because my efforts had yet to produce any meaningful results. Hell, the only one I found interesting enough to approach had recently run from my house screaming like her head was on fire.

“Figures,” she said, her voice conveying slight disappointment. “All the good guys are.”

Her gaze dropped to her feet. After a moment, she shot me an inquisitive look. “So, why are you here?”

My eyes thinned. I shifted my gaze toward the kitchen and considered my response.

The remote diner was the only place I’d found where good and evil didn’t reside. Only innocence existed, and I found comfort in relaxing into the pillow-like support it provided. My daily visit had become an important part of my recovery process. In one hour’s time, I cleansed myself of the previous day’s atrocities.

Regardless of Charlee’s desire to know more about me, I wasn’t comfortable explaining the intricacies of my life to a thirteen-year-old. Having the intellect of an adult didn’t dismiss the fact that there were some things I simply didn’t want her to know.

Her curious eyes and overactive foot poked at my conscience.

I took a sip of coffee and offered a simple response. “I’m not sure.”

“Like I said earlier. You’re full of crap.”

My eyebrows raised. “Duly noted.”

“I like you anyway, though.”

“I like you, too.”

I finished my coffee, gazed into the empty cup for a moment, and then stood. After tossing $30.00 onto the table, I folded my newspaper and tucked it under my arm.

“The book is about good and evil,” I said. “Right and wrong. It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. Tom Robinson was the mockingbird.”

Using her thumb and forefinger, she made a pistol with her left hand, and saluted me with her right. “Have a good day, Atticus.”

I gave a sharp nod and brushed the wrinkles from my pants. “See you tomorrow, Scout.”