under the big black sun: a fable
From inside the Holiday Grille they see Mac coming. Recognizably borderline something or another. The bluejean jacket and dark striped dress slacks imply the worst possible miscalculation.
He proceeds through the inner half-doors after some difficulty with the opposite-angled swings. Smiling hello to a somber business suit he claims a stool, leaving one space between. The not-pleased counter waitress halts her conversation.
The businessman arches an eyebrow toward the intruder's proximity, as though in a public restroom when someone starts small talk from the next urinal.
"Hey. How y'all doing tonight."
The waitress wipes the counter, looking down. "Hi."
"How about some coffee. Bet you got some of that around here, huh?"
The businessman watches Mac being amused by his own joke. The waitress wipes. Picks up a salt shaker, puts it down. Looks off through the large plate glass windows opposite the counter. There's a motel there. The businessman turns his cup in the saucer. After a space of contemplation, the waitress goes down to the coffee pot, lifts it and looks. Then she pours a cup and brings it to Mac.
There's no one else in the place.
The waitress answers the wall-mounted phone: a female friend, likely also of the precision-shade blonde sisterhood. Assertive murmurs follow.
Eventually she surrenders the call. She looks at the businessman and wipes the counter down again. Facing away from him she moves without progressing in any definite manner.
Mac watches them, back and forth.
The businessman seems to be fidgety at the distance the waitress is keeping. He finally takes a good look at his neighbor, and his irritation layers into a kind of beleaguered dissatisfaction as Mac begins to speak.
"Tell you what. I bet they've got some pie in here. Don't you? This is the kind of place they have pie." The joke again. His face engages the businessman, maniacally friendly.
"Pie," the businessman says. "It seems a distinct possibility."
"Yes sir. That it is. How about you ma'am? Don't you agree?"
The waitress is looking through the plate glass windows across from the counter, over the motel parking lot. She seems to hear sounds. "Pie." Monosyllabic. As if a question. "It's not no good. I wouldn't advise you. If you know what I mean."
Mac, thrown. Everything is kind of dead now.
"Know what? Some guys took a shot at me. Can you believe that. Just sitting there in my Fury at a red light. Just a little while ago, about ten blocks up. You might have heard it. Bang. I mean, it was really like Bang bang. Bang." Mac's lips percussive for effect.
"This," the businessman says, "is now that kind of world." Swirling his coffee cup.
"Didn't get me though. I mean, I moved. And I moved fast, let me tell you." Pause for effect: no effect observed. "My windows were open. It's not going to cost me any money."
The businessman whistles—a tune that makes the waitress notice. She laughs. The businessman cocks a finger at her, drops his thumb. Bang. Then he points through the window at the motel. Bang. She laughs.
"And you know what. I don't think they even knew me. They just acted like they did. I bet they had never seen me before in their lives. They were colored guys. But I didn't know them."
The businessman's eyes on Mac like lightning. He's black. He stands up and moves down the counter where the waitress has drifted.
"Hey. I didn't mean nothing." Mac looks to the waitress, who's even more icy than before—that look of seeing everything but him.
The businessman taps his coffee cup. He stands up and walks to the restroom. The waitress finally slides Mac a slice of lemon icebox and becomes preoccupied with wiping salt shakers.
He's going to ask her something, he's not sure what, whenever she comes his way again. As the businessman turns the corner of the counter she is in the highly visible act of refilling his cup. The businessman, sitting down again, eyes Mac once. Still here. Mac finishes the pie in three jabs of the fork and pours more sugar into his coffee.
The businessman succeeds in directing the glance of the waitress through the window again. He manages to point out a particular room in the motel. "Yeah, sure," she wipes. This goes on.
When Mac absently edges the saucer back she brings his check pronto. He fumbles with the coffee, finally finishing his last mouthful, spinning dimes to bounce off the saucer.
Her move to meet him at the register is the quickest of the night. Mac feigns searching for bills in his pockets. Finally paying with loose change he asks, "Hey, what kind of perfume is that you got on? I might buy some for my sister—"
She manages to roll her eyes without moving her face at all. With a glance toward the businessman she begins to wipe down the counter. "K-Mart," she says, a hoarse laughter. "Lord. That's all I know."
