The Long and the Winding
Jane Gwaltney
She was so hungry...
She shivered and jammed her hands deeply into her pockets, snuggling into the linings to steal warmth from the folds. Crumpling her gloves with her fingers and squeezing them loosened the stiffness a bit.
His hand was seeking hers again.
"I'm too cold to even put my gloves on!" she laughed. "My hands are stayin' in my pockets."
He found her knee instead. "Just as good," he smiled.
"Well, you can use it as a gearshift soon, if I don't get something to eat-- Starvin'!"
The sign was just plain huge. 'The Waffle Palace'.Her mouth watered... Fluffy scrambled eggs-- No, an omelette. Pancakes... succulent blueberries topped with a generous dollop of whipped-- "What?"
"...Huh? What what?" Greg's eyes were empty saucers.
Her stomach growled. "Should've called this place 'The Cracker Box'. The crown of her skull thumped the headrest. "Just look up there. The sign's three times the size of the building!" She cackled through clenched
teeth."I guess they want to make sure people spot it from the highway." Greg hesitated, eyeing her. His hand retreated from the dangling keys. "Well, Jane. Wha' d'ya say? We goin' in?" He bumped her shoulder with his own.
She winced. Maybe it was that God-awful glare off all that shiny chrome and glass-- "Ow!"
"Ooh, delicate type, eh?"
"It's my eye. My left eye." She cupped a chilled hand over the throbbing orbit. "Maybe it's a migraine coming on. I do feel sorta' weird. And I'm prone to 'em when I go too long without a meal."
"Let's get in there, then." Greg switched off the engine.
Silence. She lifted her head...
In his motionless hand was a dripping spatula. His red and white striped shirt pulsated and screamed. His face bore no expression-
"No!"
Greg blinked, looked straight ahead, then back again. "Huh?"
"The guy behind the counter," she said carefully, minimizing lip movement.
Greg grinned. "Hat's kinda' funny, ain't it?"
"He's gouging my third eye!" She ducked and covered her head.
Darkness had swallowed the hills, releasing them one at a time into the startled headlights. Despite the wide expanse of empty highway and fleeting glimpses of countryside, she felt caged... confined. The hunger was claustrophobic.
Static chewed her nerves like a jagged sawblade. "You sure like to play with those damned knobs, don't you?"
"Yep, every chance I get." He raised his voice overtop a crescendo of guitars, upping the volume even further. "Hey... you know who this is?"
She hated it when he made her guess. "Just tell me. It's another 'eighties' band, right? The song's familiar, but I keep forgetting who's who."
"Ahh, your memory's slippin', eh?"
Slippin'... slippin', slippin' -- Her shoulder dipped into the sudden swerve, but she righted herself immediately when he put on the brakes. "Gas?" She was peeved, and unsure why.
"Another one of those big-ass signs lookin' at you, baby," Greg chuckled. "Wow, listen to this!" He dialed up the radio until the treble scritched... Her hands clamped over her ears...
He was out of the car and headed for the pay window, his lips puckered into a whistle. She loved watching him from the back, those cute buttocks flexing...
Too much was coming at her at once! Yes, this sign was equally huge, its angry black licorice outlines shouting GAS. The plastic monstrosity teetered precariously, affixed to the roof of what appeared to be a white-washed glorified outhouse.
She sighed, and her hands slid slowly from her ears. Hank Williams' nasally serenade was perching her on a barstool. She closed her eyes, grinned, and let the 'beer cheer' soak in. Salty fried pork rinds...
"Whaaaaaat'ya got cookin'?"
She laughed out loud. Greg was finishing the chorus as he pumped the gas. "Hurry up. Ah'm hongry!" she wailed.
He stuck out his tongue and holstered the nozzle. Rubbing her frosty nose, she squelched the radio's rapid fire commercial break and waited...
"Here y'are."
Dazed, she clutched the cylindrical object thrust into her hand, her neck stretching as they sailed past the pay window. She strained to make out the shape inside...
A bump in the driveway brought it into focus -- A cowboy hat framing a featureless face. Slim fingers fluttering a lazy farewell.
Her eyes zig-zagged to her crimped knuckles. A stifled scream emitted as a mere pinched squeak. Red and white blinked, alternating... merciless .
"Nice guy," Greg said, leaning into the pedal. "Said to give that peppermint stick to my lady."
It revolved like a Barber's pole. Alive. "Take it," she shuddered. "I need something real... not candy."
He bear-hugged her, then man-handled the wheel, zipping onto the highway ramp. "Accept no substitutes, huh? My kinda' woman, yep. I know just the place. Vittles and atmosphere, both. Hang on."
This was unfamiliar territory. She was an urbanite, damn it! She prayed Greg was headed toward home. Her home -- John Denver was crooning. She dove for the OFF switch.It was missing.
Country road, take me home...
The miles unrolled like an endless chafing ribbon. Not another car in sight. Desolate. "I don't see any restaurants," she whimpered.
Patsy Cline warbled her own misery, the phrase lilting high above, silhouetted by the lacy mesh of tree-tops edging the moonlit sky. Lonesome as I can be...
Suddenly, there it was--
"You'll love it," Greg assured.
The sign was colossal. Proudly, it displayed three garish bubblingletters: EAT.
"Delicious," she panted.
She reveled in the clink of authentic silverware, but the black and white checkered floor tiles dizzied her. Averting her eyes, she devoured the quaint delicacies on her menu. Ho-Made Chili...
A rustle, liberally spiced with gum snapping, jerked her to attention.
"Howdy. You folks made up your minds yet?"
Jane's upward glance forced a double take. Horizontal red and white stripes exaggerated the woman's hourglass proportions...
"Yeah, I'll have a country fried steak and hash browns," Greg piped up. "Oh, and coffee. Long drive. Tryin' to stay awake."
"Uhh..." Jane was glued to the name tag. It read: WAITRESS. "Chili," she mumbled. "And strong hot tea."
"Right away, sugar, and did you want-- "
"Yes. Sugar for my tea... I always-- "
"I meant crackers, hon'." The waitress rolled her glassy doll-eyes. Cellophane packets spilled from her hand onto the table, reflecting the ceiling bulbs. "Be back with your drinks."
Jane pinched together a knot of skin between her eyebrows, and closed her lids as she massaged.
"You better take something for that headache," Greg reminded. "I'll bet this place sells aspirins."
"They don't work. I have my prescription stuff with me, but can't take it on an empty stomach. Hope it's not too late. Once a migraine takes hold, it can last for days. The timing's crucial."
Heyyyyyy, good lookin'...
Her eyes flew open, and Greg snickered.
"I don't believe it!" she gasped. "Hank Williams again." She twisted all the way around. A flat black disk was spinning inside a juke box. Heavily adorned with glitz and glamour, flickering colors in its base kept rhythm with the tune. Entrancing...
"You gonna' eat? Thought you were starvin'."
She turned. "How-- The food... already? I didn't even hear the waitress."
"See how you are? Bet you weren't listening to me rattle on about high school either." Greg slathered butter on a roll.
A shimmering pool of orange grease encircled the chili. Nausea blunted her appetite. "Oh, I was listening... really."
"Sure." An enigmatic smile appeared. "There'll be a test, later." He winked, and sopped up the pepper-speckled white flour gravy with his bread.
She grabbed her spoon and forced down a mouthful, hoping the spices would clear her head. "Hot chili," she announced, giggling at the contradiction.
"So when ya' gonna' marry me?" Greg asked. He offered her a metal and glass container.
Automatically, she accepted it. But an answer wasn't available. Her smile frozen, she plunked her tea bag into her steaming cup and studied the container. It read: SUGAR.
She stirred the fragrant brew sluggishly, mulling over the meaning behind tonight's road trip. No doubt about it -- "Friendship" had reached its destination. Greg had taken her to meet his mother...
Jane had a relationship on her hands.
The realization was as electric as a cattle prod. "Hmmm. In sickness and in health?"
He nodded.
"I'm sick a lot."
"I'm fearless."
She covered her eyes with her hands, soothing the ache with emollient blackness. "I guess I can take my medicine now."
He was ordering a root beer, his voice odd. Distant, yet very close...
After midnight, searchin' for--
"Will you be havin' dessert tonight, folks?"
Jane's eyes bugged. "Wow... has anybody ever told you how much you resemble Patsy Cline?"
The waitress' pouty red lips parted into bawdy laughter. "Every single time Patsy's playin' in the juke box! Ain't never failed yet-- right, Hank?"
Greg spoke up from behind his menu, his voice odder still. "What? No 'pea-can' pie? Well, I'll be dipped in gravy!"
Jane's head swiveled back to "Patsy", and for the first time she noticed the patches on her uniform's breast pockets. The right side read: TIP. The left: PLEASE. A guffaw slipped out.
Silence...
Everyone had turned. Everyone was staring. Gravy dripped from an old-timer's gray beard...
Jane rummaged frantically through her purse until her prescription bottle materialized. The only remaining trace of "Patsy" was the guest check, so another glass of water seemed unlikely. Popping the cap, she shook two tablets into her palm.
"Well, I think I blew it." She sighed, then read the label aloud. "Ergotamine Tartrate, one milligram. Important: Take two tablets during pro-dromal phase to abort migraine."
Background chatter had resumed, blending into a smeary buzz, but the voice from the opposite side of the booth broke through. "Beggin' your pardon, but what's a 'pro-dromal' phase?" Hank nudged her hand with his icy cold brown bottle. "You can wash 'em down with this, if ya' like."
She doused the biggest waffle she'd ever seen with red and white striped maple syrup, declining his proposal with a shake of her head. "It's a bunch of weird symptoms at the beginning of a migraine attack, also called an 'aura'. People have been known to experience vivid auditory and visual hallucinations just before it hits full force."
"Hmmm..." Hank twirled a toothpick with his tongue. "Y'mean folks hear an' see things that ain't there?"
She unwrapped a chunky pat of butter and nodded vigorously. Her eyes rested on his string tie, which was held together by a glittery diamond studded guitar clasp. He was adorable! "Another waffle, Hank"?
"Yes, ma'am. Sure goes good with root beer, by golly." He took a hefty swig and cocked an eyebrow. "Ain't y'gonna' take your pills? Memory slippin', eh?"
Suddenly, he slammed his hat on the table. "Aw, shucks! Just an observation, but you're too purty for pain, lady. Kick its butt!"
Amazing. The dull throb had already backed off since she'd started on the waffles... Triumphantly, she dropped the tablets back in the bottle and replaced the cap.
Hank responded with a grill of pearly whites. Could be dentures, Jane thought. But at this point, it didn't matter. No doubt about it. Hank was by far the liveliest dead music legend she'd ever encountered. The romantic rogue type. The kind of man she'd always wanted to spend time with. A lifetime, perhaps...
His hand was appreciatively patting "Patsy's" behind while he paid the check.
Well... maybe not.
Ok... so Hank was driving, and Jane had no idea where. She cuddled up close as he switched on the radio.
Her own voice oozed from the speakers: The country? Sure! Nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
A sideways glance caught the billboard-size road sign as they sped past. It read: COMMITMENT. Population... Undecided
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