Write Your Own Song

Chapter 28

Jack was becoming an expert on roadside diners and he realized, with his extensive research the past few days, that diners fell into three distinct categories:

1. The trendy hipster spot with gourmet coffee and new songs on the vintage jukebox.

2. The neighborhood staple. Good food, good talk, the regular guy sitting on the corner stool, eating his 8000th piece of cherry pie.

3. The shithole.

During the course of the kidnapping trip of absurdity, Jack had come to realize that Bobby had a knack for finding diners that fell into category number three. If there were letters not lit on the sign and trucks on cinderblocks parked out front, Bobby was sure to pull over. The latest was, according to the sign, 'hu k's' and had a tired dog tied up outside, panting in the hot sun. The mutt was begging to be rescued and Jack could relate.

"Another day, another diner. You're becoming predictable, Bobby." Jack yawned and stretched as Bobby pulled into the empty parking lot. "I don't feel like getting food poisoning today. There was a Howard Johnson a couple miles back. Can't we go there instead?" Jack figured it was a reasonable request.

"Whine, whine, whine," Bobby mocked with a high-pitched voice, slamming the car door behind him. This is how you see America, not at a Howard Johnson."

Jack slowly got out of the car, feeling like he'd been folded up inside a tiny box for a dozen days. "Well, no one told me seeing America meant getting a round of tetanus shots." He limped up to the entrance, grimacing as he pushed open the rusty screen door, the hinges grinding more than squeaking. Even the door was wondering why they were bothering with the place.

The inside did little to impress Jack. It's always a good sign when you have to duck to miss getting a length of used flypaper stuck in your hair. A woman at the counter nodded at them; her hair was teased so high it practically skimmed the ceiling. "Sit anywhere, fellas. Be right with ya." Every syllable was drawn out, drifting in the hot, heavy air.

Jack slumped into the booth in the farthest corner and fought the urge to lay his head on the table. Even if he couldn't get a decent meal out of this place, maybe he could shoot for a nap. Driving straight through the night wasn't the most conducive to a good night's sleep, not to mention that it currently felt like someone was making a fist behind his knee cap and slowly twisting it.

He fished his pain pills out of his jacket pocket and sat the bottle on the table as a silent reminder to his brother that he wasn't one hundred percent and perhaps he should take that into consideration. He would never admit it out loud, but friendly little hints never hurt anyone. A normal person would feel at least a small stab of guilt.

He remembered something else he had in his pocket and pulled it out with a grin, laying it on the table next to the pills.

Bobby sat down, somehow looking more refreshed than anyone who had just driven for twelve hours straight had any right to. Stubborn asshole.

"What the fuck is that?" Bobby growled.

"What the fuck is what?"

"Don't play dumb, Jackass. You know exactly what I'm talking about." He picked up the object he was referring to and winged it across the table, smacking Jack dead center in his forehead.

Jack picked it up and made a show of examining it closely. "Oh, this? This is what normal people would call a map. They use them for this thing called directions."

"Oh, you're hilarious. Shoulda skipped the rock star act and tried for world's lamest comedian."

"Maybe in my next life."