I couldn’t believe I was here again. It seemed no matter how much I tried to avoid it, no matter how much I went out of my way to avoid this place, I always seemed to find myself here. Here at this lowest of restaurants, this haven of late night vagrants.
This… Waffle House.
“I don’t think he’s here,” Holly said beside me, scanning the windows. “Maybe we should just skip this and go on to Café Yoko’s?”
“No,” I said, stepping out of the car. “For all we know, they might have dropped by here and left. C’mon.”
Holly got out too, shutting the door. “Are you certain it’s going to be okay?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” I said simply. “I have quarters.”
The expression on the waiter’s face when we walked in the door was priceless. No doubt he never thought he’d see me here again. But we don’t always have choices in these things.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped at me, scowling the whole time. “Showing me your new sunglasses?”
I kept my temper down as I stared at him, Holly standing uncertainly beside me.
“He’s not here,” she observed, here eyes scanning the tables.
“Who’s not here?” the waiter jeered. “Your boyfriend?”
“Brent’s not my boyfriend,” she said angrily.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he answered her. He gave me a smirk. “I was talking to you.”
“Well aren’t you the comedian?” I said with a shallow grin. “Look, I’m not here to cause problems.”
“Really?” The waiter puffed his chest out. “Well then, I think you came to the wrong Waffle House.”
I shrugged off his attitude; he wasn’t worth my time. “I’m just looking for my friend, okay?”
“Then look somewhere else,” he said importantly, “and get out of my restaurant.”
I took a few moments to size him up, then frowned. “All right, Holly. Let’s go. This bastard isn’t interested in helping us.” I stuck my hands in my pocket as I turned to go, quickly making a count of what I had. Three quarters, I thought with a grin and gathered them into my hand. There was at least two more, but I doubted I would need them.
The juke box was only a few steps from the door. I had all three quarters in before the waiter even realized what I was doing.
“No!” he shrieked, charging towards me.
“Stop,” I said, my finger a mere inch from the music selection buttons.
The waiter froze in his tracks. “Don’t do it!” he hissed.
“If you don’t want to hear the Waffle House Song,” I answered simply, “why don’t you tell me whether or not you’ve seen Brent?”
“Like hell I’ll tell you anything! I’d rather-”
My hand came down, pushing the button with a soft click. “That’s one,” I said. “You want another?”
“I got nothin’ to tell you, you bastard,” he said, choking out the words.
My finger came down again, landing just on the button, but not pushing it down.
“No, wait!” he howled, “I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”
“Have you seen my friend?”
He shook his head emphatically. “I ain’t seen him. Not since that last night you two came here. Please!”
“Are you positive?” I demanded. “Are you absolutely certain?” I pressed the button again. The restaurant was so silent, the click sounded like a gunshot. “I have four plays left!”
“I swear! I haven’t seen a hair of him.” The waiter was practically bawling now. “God, I wish I had. Please!”
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Holly said beside me. “Let’s get out of here.”
I stared down at him, grinning cruelly, and then pressed the button four more times. The whir of the jukebox began, and through the glass I could see the electric arm move, pick an actual record off the stack, and then place it on the player. Sweet Home Alabama began coming out of the speakers.
“There,” I said, “that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
The waiter nodded at my words vacantly.
I turned to go and found myself staring at a gun pointed straight at me. Holding it was a tall guy with a ski-mask covering his face. Before I could get a smart remark out, the bastard swung a baseball bat at me. It struck me hard in the stomach and dropped me to the floor, winded but intact.
“Nobody move,” the guy shouted. “And everybody down!” He fired once into the ceiling, eliciting a few screams. Everyone dropped to the floor, covering their head with their hands. Holly ended up beside me, but her hands were fluttering just above my chest, as if she was afraid she’d hurt me worse if she touched me.
“Nobody move!” the guy said again, sounding a bit less sure of himself. He glanced around the room, and then shattered the glass cover of the jukebox with his baseball bat. He fired again into the ceiling, and then took his eyes off the customers just long enough to drop his bat and scoop up a handful of the records. Then, brandishing the gun at any one confused enough to look up, he darted out the door.
From behind the counter, one of the cooks slowly stood up, glancing from the shattered cover of the juke box, to the new set of holes in the ceiling, and back again. “God damn it!” he said angrily. “That’s why I keep telling management we should just switch to CD’s!”
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