SPN Short Stories

Bobby

Driving the impala, watching the road rush past, listening to the Violent Femmes' "Never Tell". I drive past an old diner that Bobby took Sam and I to when we were kids. I try not to think about my childhood too much, but Bobby gave me some of the best memories I have. Slowly, my mind drifts and I'm no longer on the interstate.

"Alright boys, let's get something to eat!" Bobby says as we pull into the parking lot of a new diner that had just opened up not to far from Sioux Falls. We're walking toward the entrance and I look down at the sidewalk. Sammy is stepping on all the crisp, brown leaves, apparently satisfied with the crunching sound they make.

When we sit down in the booth- Bobby on one side, Sam and I on the other- Bobby tells the waitress that we'd like a beer and two sprites. Dad lets us have beer- well, he doesn't stop us from drinking it, anyways- but Bobby told me that if you drink before you turn eighteen, you could get sick. So I don't allow Sammy to drink anymore. The waitress leaves Sam with a coloring page and a couple crayons. Content, he sets to work completing the word search.

I look up to see Bobby watching a flock of birds out the window. I study his face, noting all of the scars I'd all but memorized in the millions of times that I'd stayed with him. He notices me staring and turns to face me.

"How ya doin, kiddo?" He asked, inquiring about how dad has been treating us since we left Bobby's last month. I tell him about the motel rooms and the new schools and I hear him mutter something under his breath that sounds like, "that sonuvab*tch."

Just then, the waitress comes back with our drinks and asks us what we'd like to order. We ordered the same thing we always do from diners like this: Sammy got chicken fingers, I got a bacon cheeseburger, and Bobby got an American club sandwich.

After the waitress left, Sam continued his word search. He only had two words left. He always was good at academics; he was better than me, anyways.

Once again, I turned to watch Bobby. This time, he was watching Sam color a plate of spaghetti with a green crayon. He was smiling. That's another reason I liked Bobby; he accepted us for who we are and didn't try to change us like dad did. Bobby let Sam color spaghetti green and didn't care that green isn't it's natural color. Dad would've told Sam to color it red, like it's supposed to be.

I notice Sam's eyes look up and catch on something. I follow his gaze to the waitress with our food, walking towards us. She set the food down in front of us, smiling as Sam cheered. Sam's always happy; I make sure if it. Plus, he's always happy to get good food.

"How is it?" Bobby asks, pointing his fork at our plates.

"Yum!" Sam says as he has a mouthful of food.

"It's really good. Thank you." I reply, making sure to thank Bobby. Bobby just smiles and says, "Enjoy it, ya idjits. You deserve it."

The pleasant memory fades as I pull into Bobby's driveway. I pass the wood chipper that's come in handy several times and the broken 1967 impalas that I use for parts when I need them. I knock on the open door as I walk in.

"Dinner's ready, ya idjit!" Bobby calls from the kitchen. He's sitting at the table with a beer in his hand and his faded and torn baseball cap on his head. "How ya doin?" He asks, though this time, it's not about the run down motel rooms or the ever changing schools. This time, it's just Bobby being the father that he is.