CHAPTER 2: ZOEY
I cringe when I hear DJ Zac on the radio. Hearing his voice always does that to me. Every day, he announces the same song with that ridiculous flourish of his that I have come to detest. I know he does it to impress me. Ever since we broke up three years ago because I refused his marriage proposal, he has become more and more persistent with his advances. I don’t know what I ever saw in the guy. He’s kind of creepy.
Once I found him lurking outside of my parents’ house. It’s where I still live above the garage in a separate studio. Another time, DJ Zac cornered me after work at the diner when I was closing up. The nerve of the guy - he actually suggested I open up the place again and make him something to eat. He said it’d be all romantic and stuff…argh, I could imagine nothing worse. There were other things too that I try not to think about, but they all have the same weird panache about them.
“Hey, Zoey. Is that loony still playing your song every morning?”
I look up from my position by the Formica chrome counter at the Jackson Family Diner that runs down the entire length of the establishment. It’s James Jackson, my favorite patron. “Good morning, James. You’re looking chipper.”
“Thanks, Doll.”
I watch James navigate his way through the diner, greeting the regulars as he goes. This same daily ritual always makes me smile. James reminds me of Clint Eastwood in the movie Heartbreak Ridge when he plays this Gunnery Sergeant close to retirement. I can almost imagine Sergeant James Jackson (alias Highway) speaking with that same deep, grating voice when he was still in the marines, “Oh, I’ll pop you a new asshole.” Or “I been pumping pussy since Christ was a corporal. I can tell you, the best-damned poontang I ever paid for was in Da Nang.”
Of course, James would never do that. He loved his late wife very much. It’s just the image of him I have. When he speaks he is just the same as Gunny Highway, they could be related.
“Zoey, where the hell are ya!”
See what I mean. He’s got a voice like a machine gun. Hard, fast and rasping. “Yeah, James. I am coming.” I walk up to where he is standing and still speaking to Jake, the mechanic, who runs the local garage. I wait patiently. To interrupt James when he is in mid-flow would incur his wrath. Even I am not immune to that.
James and Jake go on about James’s Gran Torino for like forever. Ever since I’ve worked at the Jackson Family Diner, these two men have the same conversation every morning. Jake tries to convince James to sell him his car. The latter never does. Then, Jake shifts to his next tactic (the same as every day). He complains that James never drives the car. To which James responds, “I always did until my dear Bethany passed away, God rest her soul. I never drove the car since. But I can’t sell her either. Reminds me of my gal too much.” And so the negotiation ends until the next day.
“Zoey, where the hell are ya?” Gunny Highway is back again.
“Right here, James,” I say, putting on my sweetest smile.
“Oh, there you are, Darling. I will have my usual. If that wouldn’t put you out any?”
I giggle. I never really do that because I hate acting all girly, but I know James loves it, and to me, he’s the sweetest man.
“Your usual is coming right up, Mister Jackson.” I walk away, barely holding back my next little giggle. One, two, three and…
“Don’t forget my cup of joe with extra sugar and cream, ye hear?”
I shake my head at the irony of it. Same as every day. “Have I ever, James?” I twirl on my feet in just the way he likes it.“Don’t you think that you should cut down on the sugar, James?” I add.
He waves his hand dismissively. “No damn way. I have been drinking that stuff like that way longer than you have lived, young lady. So just bring me my damn coffee the way I like it, will ya.”
I snigger. That’s my James Jackson and just the way I like him. The septuagenarian has the rough exterior of a meteorite but just about the softest core imaginable; that is if you were ever fortunate enough to reach it. I did, and I have not regretted a day since.
“And don’t forget my usual…” This makes me smile even more. It’s the same every morning. I have been serving the man for god only knows how long and he still tells me how he wants his breakfast. “Eggs – four of ‘em over-easy and with bacon, steak, and tomatoes,” he hollers, as he takes his seat in his usual spot right at the end of the elongated space to wait for his cholesterol bomb.
I head round to the kitchen. I do not need to pass the order through. Everybody knows James Jackson. First of all, he owns the place and second, the man’s an institution in Fall Creek. He has been living here all of his life. He never left except for his tour in Vietnam. He came straight back after that because he claimed there were Gooks all over the USA and that soon the country would become Korean. He may have spoken like that, but James has a good heart no matter how foul-mouthed he can be.
I wait for his order by the kitchen. My colleague, Shannon, handles the counter, constantly refilling mugs with coffee or joe as they call it around here and passing on food directly from the kitchen. And me, I am in charge of the tables, always have been and always will, I think. I am a true Fall Creek girl. I will probably live and die here.
“Here ya go, Zoey. One Jackson special coming up.”
“Thanks, Orlando.” Every time I say the cook’s name, I have to stifle a laugh. He claims his parents named him so because he was conceived in the great state of Orlando. It’s, of course, a pile of crap. Orlando comes from Cuba and used to be called Manuel. But hey, we care what people want around here, so we play along.
“Your breakfast, James. Just how ya like it.” I place the plate on the table. I arrange the knife and fork wrapped in paper in front of him. “Enjoy, James,” I say before I intend to leave.
“Hey, sit down will ya?” His deep brown eyes sparkle at me. “If you are good, I might share some of my meal with ya.” He never does. He indicates with his head that I sit opposite from him. When I do, he says, “So, how’s the love life going?”
I blush. This is different to every other morning. He never asks me such personal things. “Um, well, I guess, not at all,” I blurt.
He frowns. He takes an eternity to say something. All the while he demolishes his plate like a man in his thirties. “Well, I think it’s about time a pretty girl like you finds a nice man,” he says between mouthfuls.
I study him closely. James Jackson never says anything without reason. He never once looks up from his plate all the while munching contently and alternating between slurps of his overly sweetened coffee. “You got someone in mind?”
James looks up, a sly smile playing on his face. He shrugs. “Maybe.” He says no more.
A smile materializes on my face. “Well you better because Fall Creek is not exactly famous for its guys, present company excluded of course,” I say, not wanting to push the matter too much. That never works with James.
He pops the last bite into his mouth and leans back, scrutinizing me closely. In typical James style, this perusal lasts like forever. “Anyway, I love your new song.” He thinks a moment. “Your ex is a real dick, but his taste in music is the best.”
This makes me laugh and blush a little at the same time. Sometimes, I think James is my biggest fan. “If only you were a music producer, I’d be filthy rich and famous by now.”
There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye when I say this. “Mm, I have connections in the business,” he says matter-of-factly.
I burst out laughing. “Ya do? Ya don’t say.”
He jiggles his shoulders. “Maybe.”
“Well, let me know when you can hook me up,” I say getting to my feet.” I pick up his empty plate. All ready for your cherry pie, James?”
“Sure.”
I turn to make my way back to the kitchen but stop in my tracks and look back at James. “Ya know, James, if you were younger, I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” I swear I can make out a shimmer of a blush creep up his neck. The rush stops before it hits his face. Yeah, I figured as much, James Jackson is too gung-ho to succumb to full-on blushes.
“Grandpa, are ya hogging Zoey again. Come on, let the girl get some work done, will ya.”
James looks around irritably. “Sit down, Hunter, and stop talking out of your ass. We gotta discuss the menu.” The look on James’s face does not broach argument.
The tall, burly guy, who is also my boss, with the dark hair sits down with a grunt. His face adopts an aggressive mien. “What’s wrong now, Granddad?”
“Why does there always have to be something wrong when I wanna talk to ya?”
“Because there usually is,” responds Hunter, looking quite pissed-off.
James laughs throatily. The sound comes out in deep wheezes and rasps, inviting a look of concern on my face. “Well, this time there is…” he turns his head to look in my direction, “how about that cherry pie and some coffee, Doll?”
“Sure, James…anything for you, Hunter?” Hunter grunts that he would like some coffee, making special emphasis that it should be black. The same as every day – do they all think I am nuts. For me, only James can get away with that play. “Sure,” is all I say in my sweetest voice.
“Don’t forget the whipped cream with my pie, Zoey,” yells James.
I wave my hand and have to stifle a laugh again as I make my way to Orlando in the kitchen. “What the fuck, Grandpa. Come on…Burritos are American or Tex-Mex!” Hunter’s irritated voice catapults through the entire diner.
“I won’t have that Mexican shit served in my diner, kid.”
I laugh to myself. Hunter has no guile. If he would only serve one to his granddad or better still let me do it, James would love them. I am certain of it. My lips form a straight line. It’s such a shame his grandson is such an ass to James most of the time. Thinking about it, makes me wonder how his other grandson is doing – Noah. I always had a soft spot for the guy when he still lived in Fall Creek. I wonder what happened to him? James hardly ever mentions him.