Welcome to Deadwood

Chapter Five

   “Sweetie, you’ve got some customers sitting in your section,” Helen pointed out, as she brought a tray of empty glasses back towards the kitchen. I nodded and headed back out to the front of the restaurant, taking the small notepad from my apron pocket. 

   Helen was small and round, with a blonde perm and bright red lips. She had been the one to interview me, when I had applied for the job, but it turns out I was the only applicant, a side-effect of living in a population of less than five hundred people. Her uniform was a little scruffy, faded, considering the fact it was from the 70s, when the diner was first opened. In theory, it was the same pale pink as my shirt, which was a 50s cut, buttoned all the way up to the collar, but the uniform was now mottled with coffee stains and grease marks, memories from all the years spent in this place. 

   The diner was small, situated on the only main road in the entire town, with the original, retro fittings which now seemed far too kitsch. There was a jukebox playing ceaseless crooners, and coffee was being served constantly at the breakfast bar. It may not be my ideal job, but the place had a certain charm, tacky, a reminder from the past. More than anything else, I needed the money, for gas, for college, or else I’d be stuck in this town forever. 

   “Good afternoon, how can I help y’all today?” I slipped a small, yellow pencil from where I had tucked it behind one ear and held it poised over the notepad, reading to scribble down their order. It was a table of teenagers, all a little grimy looking, a couple with piercings and one with long dreadlocks. I had noticed this about Deadwood, the number of teenage hippies was significantly higher than in any other town I had visited. 

   “Hey, you’re in my chemistry class,” one guy pointed, smiling a little dopily; I thought I could detect the faint scent of grass, still clinging to their clothes. “The new Texas kid, umm, what’s your name, umm-” 

   “-Ethan!”  One of the girls exclaimed, widening her eyes dramatically. 

   “Yes, Ethan it is,” I laughed dryly, pointing to the name tag pinned to my shirt pocket, where my name was printed clearly in embossed lettering. “So, can I get you something to drink? The specials today are-” 

   “-Hey,” the first guy interrupted me, his brow furrowed, “what were you talking to Amaya Young about? Dude,” he turned to his friend and chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, “I’ve never seen that goth girl talk so much, I was starting to think she’d turned into a mute or something.”

   “We weren’t really talking about anything, just the work we were supposed to be doing,” I lied, chewing on the end of the pencil. 

   “No,” he refused to believe me, waggling his finger, “your bench was a mess at the end of the lesson, whatever you were talking about, it wasn’t chemistry.” 

   “Well, if you choose not to believe me,” I shrugged and scratched at my head impatiently, “I guess that’s up to you.” 

   “Hey, all I was saying was no one else has managed to get her to talk,” he replied. “Whatever you said to her, nice job, man, she’s pretty hot.” Putting out his fist for me to punch, the hippy from my chemistry class stared until I grimaced and turned to one of his other friends. 

   “If there isn’t anything I can get you, I’ll come back in a few minutes,” I sighed, turning away and hearing them mutter once my back was to them. Everyone seemed to hate Amaya, but simultaneously have this fixation with her, an obsession to find out what she was really hiding. I loathed people like this, people who loved hating other people, especially those who were different from themselves. 

   “Would you mind swapping tables with me?” I asked hopefully, leaning by the coffee machine as Helen filled up a new batch. 

   “Why? What’s wrong with those kids, honey?” She frowned, snatching up a handful of sugar packets.