UNTITLED

I wrote this as part two of a series of stories based on my trip to Savannah. This is loosely based on a conversation at a diner after a long night. It also appears on my blog.

"I'm pretty sure that's the same plane," Tim said. He was staring out the goddamn window. He hadn't stopped staring out the window since we got to this shitty diner.

A loud crash came from the behind counter and the people in the booth next to us started clapping. It's so fucking annoying when people do that. You think you're funny? You think no one on earth has done that before you and you're the goddamn cat's meow because you, comic fucking genius, were the first one to think it'd be fucking hilarious to clap next time a waiter dropped some dishes on the ground? 

Fuck you, assholes. I rolled my eyes.

"You should drink some water; you look terrible," I said. But he kept staring out the window.

"Can you even see outta that thing? Makes the whole outside world look like one of them old timey pictures. This place is a shit hole. Is your coffee hot? I think they put this shit water in the microwave." Tim dabbed his forehead with a bunched up napkin he had just blown his nose in. Fucking disgusting.

"Here, have some water. You finished that whole damned bottle of Jack last night." I slid the brown plastic cup across the table until it bumped against the white ceramic in Tim's hand.

I was pretty hung over, too, but I never showed it bad as Tim. Goddamn, that kid had a talent for being hung over. I swear to god, he always looked like he was going to die the morning after. He was white and his shirt was yellow from all the goddamn sweating he did. Just disgusting.

"Helluva party last night, eh?" I said after a few minutes of silence.

"Yeah..." he trailed off. "I didn't do nothing stupid, did I?"

Tim always did something stupid, then would ask me if he had done something stupid. I used to be honest with him, but what's the point? Last night, he was sitting out on the porch, a cigar in his mouth, black socks pulled up to his knees and a belt wrapped around his neck like some sort of goddamn choke collar, not wearing a goddamn thing else and singing Dixiefuckingland at the top of his lungs. And that was before he finished the bottle. That's the beauty about being in the South: they're too damn polite to call the cops on you, even when you deserve it.

"Naw. You were fine."

"Good. Yeah. I don't remember being outta control."

Of course you fucking don't, you drunk asshole.

"Why you smiling, Sam?"

"Nothing. Just remembering a joke you told last night. You were in good form, Tim. Real charming."

"Yeah? What was it?"

"Don't remember. Did Endo say he was gonna meet us here or what?"

"Don't remember," he smiled.

"Yeah, asshole. I gotta take a leak."

Our waitress was standing in the corner near the bathroom, talking into the phone. She was damn nice to us when we our food came late, falling all over herself to apologize. Sweet old lady, probably worked at this diner since the start of goddamn time itself.

Whoever was on the other side of that phone was getting an earful now, though.

"You're not... yeah, but why aren't you...? Why aren't you on your way yet?... No, he can't come in. If you had told me yesterday, maybe he could've covered your shift. Get your.... no, just get over here soon as you can!"

She was still on the phone when I came out of the bathroom.

"Can you...? I know it's real short notice.... You know how he is! OK. Call me back."

Sounds like the first guy's a real asshole. Probably too drunk last night, sweating like Tim there. At least Tim was on vacation. That sort of fucking debauchery is alright when you're on vacation. Hell, it ought to be required. I bet those tight asses at work would be a helluva lot more tolerable if they got drunk and naked and sang Dixie off a porch once in a while.

I slid back into the vinyl seat across from Tim. He was staring out the damn window again.

"I'm pretty sure that's the same plane," he said and there was a loud crash from behind the counter.