Chapter Twelve
As usual, I was up before the sun and had gone out on my daily five-mile run. It's a habit I picked up in the Corps and one I enjoy. I like running – it gives me some solitude, some quiet time in my own head, to sort through what's up there and either file it or discard it. Having that time alone clears my head and allows me to focus on the most pressing tasks at hand.
And this morning, there is only one task I feel is most pressing. I have a visit to make and it's one that while I'm not dreading it, it's one I'm not entirely looking forward to either.
I hop in the shower and wash away the sweat, letting the nearly scalding hot water cascade down over me. It's little things like hot water that I used to take for granted and really missed when I was overseas. Ever since I came back home, I relished a good, hot shower in a way I never did before. Like I told those two old ladies yesterday – it's the little things in life.
After toweling off and getting dressed, I walk out of the hotel room and drive back down to Main Street. I know there are now shops and restaurants all over town, but I don't know the new Sheridan Falls well enough yet to go venturing out. All I want is to grab some breakfast and go do what I need to do.
When I took my little walking tour of Main yesterday, I was dismayed to find that the Bluebird Cafe was long gone. In its place now, is a Starbucks. Of course, it's a Starbucks. Those things crop up like cancer cells – fast and everywhere. The Bluebird was awesome and I hated that it was gone.
I did find a place that looked like a reasonable substitute though. I park on a side street, get out of the car, and head for the Sunny Side Up Cafe. Honestly, it looks a lot like the Bluebird did. Which means, it looks like a greasy little hole in the wall – which is exactly what I want.
I step into the place and it's half-full of people getting their morning dose of grease and coffee – a terrific American tradition.
“Sit anywhere you want, hon,” the waitress calls to me from the counter where she's pouring a cup of coffee for an older gentleman.
I give her a wave and take a seat in a booth near the back of the diner. The morning crowd is a mix of what looks like the typical old timers who like to have a cup of coffee and a chat in the morning and business professionals who were stuffing their faces before heading in for their nine-to-five grind. Yeah, so glad I avoided that pitfall upon coming back to the States. PI work may not be glamorous, but it wasn't soul-sucking like cubicle life can be either.
I take the menu and give it a once over – not that I don't already know what I want. I just want to make sure the place isn't some secret vegan restaurant and my only options would be tofu-flavored gruel, brussel sprouts, or whatever it is those people eat.
“What's it gonna be, hon?”
The waitress has a kind face and genuine smile. She just looks like the kind of woman who laughs a lot and finds a lot of joy in life.
“How's your chicken fried steak?” I ask.
“Best in the state of Washington,” she replies.
“Sold,” I say. “Hash browns – crispy. Two eggs over easy, a short stack of pancakes, sausage, and a cup of coffee, black.”
“A man who knows what he wants,” she says with a mischievous grin. “I like that.”
“When it comes to food, I don't mess around.”
“Clearly not,” she says with a laugh. “It's a good quality to have in a man. I like a man who knows how to eat.”
I laugh and give her a smile as I motion to the ring on her hand. “A quality I'm sure your husband must have in spades.”
“That he does,” she chuckles. “Believe me, that man can eat.”
“Judging by the smile on your face, I have no doubt about it,” I say.
The woman cackles and blushes, shaking her head at me. “I'll go grab your coffee, hon.”
She leaves the table and returns a moment later, setting a mug of coffee down in front of me. She's still laughing and shaking her head, unable to speak, so she just walks away. I grin as I pick up my mug and take a sip, savoring that first splash of coffee on my tongue.
A few minutes later, she brings out my food – and I'm almost dismayed by the size of the portions. They're huge. My stomach grumbles though, letting me know it's not going to be a problem.
“Can I get anything else for ya, hon?” she asks.
“Not at the moment,” I say. “But I may need a forklift to haul me out of here when I'm done.”
“Good thing we've got one out back for those kinds of emergencies,” she says. “Give me a holler if you need anything.”
I nod. “Will do. Thank you.”
Digging into my mountain of food, I grunt with pleasure. The food is good – maybe even better than the food had been at the Bluebird. Whoever's in the kitchen knows what they're doing back there.
I devoured almost everything and when I finally push my plates away from me, my stomach feels ready to burst. I didn't normally gorge myself like that, but I was hungry and it was amazingly good. The waitress came back and cleared my dishes, nodding in approval at the cleaned plates.
“My compliments to the chef,” I say. “It was incredible.”
“You gonna need that forklift?”
“I think I might be able to roll myself out,” I reply. “But thanks.”
“Anytime,” she says and gives me a wink. “Really, anytime.”
She laughs and drops the check on the table as she walks away. I pull my wallet out and pay the bill, leaving her a generous tip. Feeling bloated but satisfied, I waddle out of the diner and look at my watch. It's a little past eight in the morning. Meaning, it's time.
With a sigh, I climb back into the car and pull away from the curb. I may not know where everything is in this new city, but I know how to get to where I need to go right now.