Business Trip

My fingers tap dance across the steering wheel. I watch my own long digits Allégro and Allongé underneath the neon lights of the 24/7 diner. Performing a show for me. So young, so talented. Watch how they move. My middle and ring finger glisser and sauter away from my opposing hand. Breathtaking. Brilliant. My fingers plie, the first act almost over. Curtains will fall soon.

There is such a thing as boredom. Then there is sitting outside in a parked car, listening to the fat man beside you breathe while watching your fingers preform the first act of Swan Lake boredom. I have discovered such boredom.

“I think it’s about time we head on in, yeah?” My dancers retire back to being my fingers as I turn to the fat man in my passenger seat.

“I’d give it another forty-five. I think he saw us earlier. Rather play it on the safe side.”

“Morrison,” I’m whiny by nurture. Thanks, mom. “We’ve been in this car all day long.”

Morrison doesn’t care much for my whining. Or my complaining. Or my bitching. Or my moaning. Or me for that matter. But, I’m a good driver. So, he deals with it. Well, he ignores it

Most days I can let it go, entertain myself. But, I don’t remember the second act of Swan Lake for my fingers to dance and people watching is never fun when out in the country. Every boy and girl looks the same. Everyone walks two steps too slow. Car engines around us shake and rattle taking the same boys and girls in and out of the gravel parking lot. Forty five minutes is a lifetime prison sentence. I could hum to pass the time. So, I do. For about seven minutes.

“Fucking goddammit,” Morrison breathes out, “Shit.”

“I beg your pardon?” I laugh.

“Get out of the fucking car.”

I don’t tease him further, I pull the keys out of the ignition and tighten my coat around my body. On the other side of the car Morrison does the same. I lean over the top of the car.

“Who should we be this time, old chum?”

Morrison starts off towards the diner, “Ed and August.”

“Boring,” I skip to catch up with him, falling into his step, “I say we finally bust out Danny and Bill.”

“Absolutely not.”

I grab Morrison’s large hand, covered in callouses, “I think we make a lovely couple.”

My head goes to his shoulder, swinging our hands as we walk side by side.

Morrison pulls his hand back, “Not for this one.”

“You said that about the last three jobs.”

Morrison pushes the glass door open, a jingle of bells against plexiglass alerting everyone inside of our arrival, “I’ll probably say it the next three jobs too.”

I stand slightly defeated, walk in behind him under the dim lights of the diner, “You know, August, you’re no fun.”

“Hey, sugars. Just two?” an older woman with over lined lips picks up two menus from the host stand, stares back up at us.

“Yeah, just two.” Morrison confirms.

“You can follow me this way,” she leads us towards the back of the diner, seats us a booth, “Your server will be right with you.”

“Thanks so much,” I say.

“Lose the accent,” Morrison flips over the menu, scans it briefly before letting his eyes drift over the room.

“I’m not doing an accent,” I lie.

“Ed Fulmer isn’t from Alabama. Knock it off.”

“Very true, but Danny Ritman is from Savannah.”

“We are not doing Danny and Bill. Knock. It. Off,” he stares me down, “Ed.”

Our server is a scrawny teenager, a smear of red acne across his hair line and lower jaw. He walks like something is wrong with his leg. Probably because something is. A small heart shaped birthmark near his lower lip. Hello, Daniel. I’m so, so sorry.

Morrison looks at him only for as long as he needs to. Then back to his menu.

“Hey, guys, my name’s Daniel. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you both started with something to drink?” Daniel has his knee pressed into my side of the booth.

“Just two waters for right now,” Morrison doesn’t look up, already typing away at his phone.

“Daniel? What a small, little world we live in. My name is Danny,” the accent drips out of my mouth, causing Morrison to look up. Irritated. Pissed. Trapped.

Daniel laughs a polite, forced please tip me laugh. I laugh back of course.

“Very small world. I’ll be right back with those waters.”

Daniel disappears behind “Employee Only” doors. Morrison kicks my left shin.

“Very fucking cute. Let’s go.” he moves to stand up.

I kick his shin in return, sending him back down to the booth, “Go? Without our waters, Billy? Baby, I don’t think so. I’m parched.”

Morrison breathes in through his nose, “Sweetheart…we have water in the car.”

I don’t like looking at the people Morrison searches for, it’s one of the few downsides of being his driver. You have to look. You have to check. Then check again and again. Until you finally know. Until you’re one hundred percent sure, then you call it in. It makes me sick.

“I think we have time for a sip and a half, babydoll.”

I see Daniel from the corner of my eye, he sets the waters down on the table, “Do you need a few more minutes to look everything over?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Morrison and I lock eyes, both daring one another to repeat themselves.

“How are your milkshakes, Daniel?” I ask him, turning to his acne coated face.

“I don’t sell them a lot, but I know everyone on the staff likes them.”

“Okay, well, how about you bring us one vanilla milkshake with two straws,” I turn to Morrison, “That sound good, baby?”

If looks could kill, I would be dead in the booth, “Sounds good…sugar.”

Daniel nods, “Vanilla shake. Two straws. I’ll be back with it.”

Morrison stands up once Daniel gets out of sight, throws a crumpled twenty on the table, “Enough, Harold. It’s just business. Let’s go.”

Morrison always sounds tired when he;s about to do something bad. I stare down at the table. I wonder how much longer Daniel will get into his shift before someone shows up to stick a bullet in his head. I stand up and follow Morrison out to the car.

“You know what I admire about you, Morrison?”

Morrison doesn’t acknowledge me, he just opens the passenger side door and slips inside. Slamming the door behind him. I follow suit. Buckle up. Start the car, stare into the diner where I can see Daniel bussing our table free of it’s two waters.

“You always tip the dead good.”

And because I’m good at my job, I drive us off.