Lunch with the Do-Nothings at the Tammy Dinette

by Killian B. Brewer

  “Um, I’m looking for Hank.” It’s right there on his shirt, idiot. No, don’t point at it. “And the name on your shirt,” Marcus added as he jabbed his finger into the other man’s chest, “leads me to believe I have found him.” Put your hand down.

  The man stared at Marcus before dropping the wrench onto the car and wiping his hand down the side of his shirt. He stuck his hand out. “Indeed you have. Or I think you have. Kind of hard to think with as hard as I just hit my head. You got to give a fella some warning when he’s elbow deep in a Chevrolet.”

  “Sorry about that.” Marcus dropped his chin and gestured over his shoulder toward the waiting area. “I tried ringing the bell in there but I guess you couldn’t—”

  “It’s the music. I ought not to play it so loud, but I can’t stand it when it’s too quiet. Plus it gets a little lonely in here all by myself once Skeet goes running off. I don’t know why I let that kid…aw, never mind.”

  Marcus listened to the music pouring from the radio on a shelf in the corner. A high soprano voice pierced the silence between the men as it ran up and down a scale. “Is that opera?”

  “Yeah.” Hank grinned as he walked over to the radio and turned the volume down. “The public radio station plays it. It’s about all I can pick up in here but, luckily, I love it.”

  “Really? All those women screeching in a foreign language? I never could understand it.” Shut up, Marcus.

  “Well, I happen to like the way those screechy women sound and, as a matter of fact, I speak Italian so…”

  “Eh. Give me a good old country tune any day,” Marcus said, causing Hank to frown slightly, shift his eyes, and fold his arms across his chest. “Opera’s not really my thing but, hey, whatever revs your engine.” Why did you say that? Marcus blushed and he instantly regretted his clumsy attempt at a pun.

  “Rev an engine. Heh. Funny.” Hank’s face softened, and he dropped his arms again.

  “I am sorry I startled you.”

  “Like I said, serves me right. So…” The man stared, his eyes scanning Marcus up and down.

  “Sorry?” Marcus asked, unsure what the man was seeking. God, his eyes are gorgeous.

  “So did you just come in here to give me a concussion and insult my music or was there something I can do for you… mister?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Jesus. Quit apologizing. “Sumter. I’m Marcus Sumter. I was told my car might be here?”

  “Maybe. What model car?”

  “A yellow Fiat?”

  “Oh!” Hank’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “You’re the one Miss Richards walloped!”

  “Guilty.”

  “Whoo, boy. Yeah, your car is here. Well, what’s left of it. Afraid in a battle between that little European thing and Miss Richards’s Ford LTD over there, you didn’t stand much of a chance.” Hank pointed toward the red car on the other side of the garage. “Barely made a dent in her car, but your sardine can? Well…”

  “Is it bad?” Marcus cocked his head and chewed on his lip.

  “Well, you won’t be driving it out of here today.”

  “Shit,” Marcus spat out and dropped his head. “I was really hoping to get back on the road pretty soon.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Well, your sign out front says, Yes. I can fix it.”

  “Oh, that?” Hank chuckled and reclined, bracing himself against the fender and lifting one leg to rest against the tire. He picked up the wrench and flipped it around. “When I took over the place from old man Murphy, most of the people here didn’t know me or trust me. They’d all come in wanting him to work on their cars instead of me. I got sick of them always asking me ‘Are you sure you can fix it?’ so I added that to the sign.”

  “So, can you? Fix it?”

  “Eventually,” Hank drawled out the word. “You must not have seen your car after the wreck?”

  “No. I barely remember it happening. I woke up in the hospital with this stupid thing,” Marcus pointed at the bandage on his forehead. “Everything’s been a little foggy since then.”

  “Including your fashion sense?”

  “What?” Marcus asked and then glanced at the clothes he was wearing. “Oh, god. I forgot. These are not my clothes.”

  “I was going to ask you how many batteries that shirt took.” Hank laughed and pushed off the car. “I figured, with the Fulton county tag on the car, maybe those clothes are some Atlanta thing.”

  “God, no. My normal clothes were messed up in the wreck, and this old woman gave me…” Marcus tugged on the hem of the shirt, trying to cover as much of the loud plaid pants as possible. “Did you find a duffel bag in the car?”

  “Oh, I didn’t go into the car. Just towed it back here.” Hank placed his hand on the small of Marcus’s back and steered him toward the garage doors open at the back of the room. “Let’s go take a look. It’s out back.” Hank’s hand on Marcus’s back made a tingle run up his spine.

  Marcus walked into the lot behind the garage and groaned when he saw the twisted metal that had been his car. “Good lord!” The front end sat completely off kilter and the headlights were shattered like empty eye sockets. The hood stood open like a casket lid with pieces of the engine jagging into the open space. The front left tire was flat. The windshield and driver’s side window were milky from shattered glass, and the door sat slightly ajar, apparently unable to close correctly over the warped frame. He stared at the car, and his head begin to spin, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. Looking at it, I can’t believe all you got was that scratch on your head and a black eye.”

  Marcus reflexively patted his eye. He spread his legs wider to steady himself as the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift. Tears began to sting the corners of his eyes, and he bit his lip to stop it from trembling.

  Swinging the wrench beside him, Hank walked over to the car and peered through the back window. “Yep. There is a duffel bag back here. But I’ll probably have to get a crowbar to get this—”

  Marcus crossed to the back of the car, took the wrench from Hank, and smashed the back window. Angrily swinging the wrench around in the opening to knock the pieces of glass loose, Marcus turned his head to the side to avoid the flying shards. When the opening was clear, he stuck his arm in and grabbed the strap of the duffel bag and pulled it out. He flung it over his shoulder and dropped the wrench onto the pavement. He spun on his heels and began storming back into the garage.

  “Or you could do that,” Hank mumbled behind him as he stooped to pick up the wrench.

  Marcus took a few more steps toward the garage and stopped. His eyes flashed with each beat of his heart, and rivers of cold sweat ran down his temples and between his shoulder blades. “Um…I suddenly don’t feel so good. Could you…” Marcus dropped the duffel and tried to steady himself. He saw the sky above him spinning as he began to fall backward. Marcus braced himself for impact until Hank’s arms wrapped around his chest from behind.

  “Easy there. Why don’t we sit you down?” Hank pulled Marcus into the garage and sat him in a chair. He knelt and looked into his eyes. Marcus’s stomach flipped again; he was unsure if it was from the panic attack or the intent stare that Hank gave him. “You going to be all right? Let me get you some water.”

  “No. No. It’s fine. I just. Oh, god.” Marcus dropped his head into his hands and tried to slow his breathing.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Please, just let me sit here for a second.” The paved floor of the garage between his feet and the tips of Hank’s work boots blurred in and out of focus. Oh god. What have I done?

  “I’m getting you some water.”

  Hank’s boots disappeared as he hurried into the waiting room. As soon as the coast was clear, Marcus hopped from the chair and bounded to his discarded duffel bag.
You idiot. He snatched the bag from the ground and slung the strap over his shoulder. He hurried across the garage as quietly as he could. Just as he reached the doorway, he heard Hank’s voice calling from behind him.

  “Dude? Where are you…”

  Marcus lowered his head and stormed down the street away from the garage with the weight of the duffel bag banging against the backs of his thighs. Keep walking. Keep walking. Don’t look back. He stopped to look at the street sign on the corner and his knees grew weak again. The letters on the sign blurred behind the tears in his eyes, and he staggered around the corner. Just keep walking.

  Chapter Five

  Marcus scurried around the two-story brick building on the corner without a passing glance behind him. His pulse thumped in his ears, and sweat ran from his temples and hairline, stinging at the cut on his forehead. He steadied himself against the side of the building, leaned back, and tilted his head toward the bright blue morning sky. He dropped his duffel bag at his feet. The building’s red brick, which had been heated by the morning sun, sent soothing warmth through his back and shoulders. He bent and placed his hands on his knees, trying to slow his breathing and the pounding of his heart.

  As the spinning sensation began to die down, he stood and took a few more deep breaths before looking around to orient himself. Where the hell is that diner? Marcus scanned the buildings across the street, but the flashing in his eyes made it hard to focus. You just need some food. Food will help. He took a few more breaths and swallowed the lump in the back of his throat. God, you idiot. How could you make such a fool of yourself in front of a complete stranger? And a hot stranger at that. Marcus closed his eyes and placed his hand on the bricks. He felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. Don’t be him. Don’t be him.

  “Excuse me.” A high-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Marcus opened his eyes and focused on the face in front of him. A young man stood staring at him with blue eyes wide open and expectant. His mouth was twisted to one side in a look of concern. His brown hair was buzzed close over his ears but was longer on top and swept into a pompadour. Oh, thank god. It isn’t him.

  “Are you okay?” The boy angled his eyebrows toward his nose.

  “Um…yes. I just feel a little…dizzy?” Marcus fumbled out his words between gasps of air. “And I’m lost.”

  “Ha!” the boy laughed loudly and dropped his hand from Marcus’s shoulder. “How could you get lost in this Podunk town? There are only four streets in the whole downtown.”

  “Well, as I said, I’m a little dizzy and I couldn’t read the signs.”

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest, covering the words Guys and Dolls printed on his T-shirt. “Are you Marcus?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good. Come on.” The boy held out his hand and jerked his head to motion down the street. “I figured you were him. Or some homeless person. God, those clothes! Did you dig them out of a ditch? But we don’t often have homeless people here, so I figured you must be him. Let’s go.”

  “What?”

  “Nonnie told me to come find you. I’m supposed to bring you to the Tammy.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay. That’s what I was looking for.”

  “Well, we haven’t got all day.” The boy shook his hand toward Marcus and looked at him with an impatient smirk.

  Marcus took the boy’s hand and stumbled slightly as the young man jerked him toward the street.

  “You think it’s from the wreck?”

  “What?”

  “The dizziness. Frankie said Miss Myrtle was in the diner this morning and said some redhead was in the hospital yesterday because Miss Richards rammed the bejeezus out of him. Well, I saw the red hair and that big old bandage on your head, and just figured—”

  “Yes. That was me. But can we talk about something else.”

  “Okay. Like what?”

  “Like who are you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The boy stopped abruptly, dropped Marcus’s hand, and turned to face him. “I forget everyone don’t know me yet. But they will someday. I’m going to be a big star on Broadway. Then I’m going to do TV and movies. Me and Frankie got it all planned out. Once we save enough money to get to New York. And then, bam! My name in bright lights all over Times Square.”

  “And what name are we going to see?” Marcus couldn’t follow the boy’s words, which seemed to bounce from thought to thought just as he bounced down the sidewalk, jumping over cracks on his way. Despite the clunky workman’s boots he wore, the boy was surprisingly light on his feet.

  “Raffield Warner the third!” The boy puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Ain’t it classy?”

  “Oh, you’re Helen’s grandson.”

  “That’s me! Pleased to meet me!” The boy bowed slightly.

  “I thought Miss Helen said your name was Skeet.”

  “Well, everyone here calls me that, thanks to my granddaddy.” The boy wrinkled his nose before turning to amble down the street as Marcus shuffled along beside him. “On account of me being a third, my mama wanted to call me Trey, can you imagine? Like a cafeteria tray? Ugh. But, when I was little, my granddaddy said I was always buzzing around bugging everybody like a mosquito. Skeeter. Which became Skeet. It stuck. But I don’t think Skeeter will look very good on a marquee.”

  “No. Probably not.” Marcus chuckled. The boy’s excited babbling should have set Marcus’s nerves on edge, but after the mad rush of the panic attack in the garage, he found the boy’s twangy voice oddly soothing. Skeet’s voice grew louder as he nattered on about the plays he was going to do someday. The boy never turned to look back to see if Marcus was still following him, but skipped on ahead with his hands gesticulating wildly with every word. By the time they stopped walking, Marcus’s heartbeat had returned to a normal pace and the spinning in his head was nearly gone.

  “Here we are. The finest little diner in all of Marathon, which, conveniently, is also the only diner in all of Marathon.” Skeet swept his arms out and gestured at the building they faced.

  The diner took up a quarter of the city block; its silvery siding glimmered in the morning sun. A metal bracket jutted over the diner door and held a bright neon sign that flashed “The Tammy Dinette: Stand by Your Ham and Eggs.” Below the sign, two tall and wide single-paned windows showed the bustle of the crowd inside. Marcus could see that most of the booths along the windows were occupied, and a tall redheaded waitress stood next to one of the booths furiously scribbling on a pad and nodding her head.

  “Let’s go,” Skeet said as he hopped to the door and yanked it open. He swept his arm across his body and said in a terrible British accent, “After you, my good sir.”

  Marcus grinned at the boy and stepped into the diner. The sudden rush of country music mixed with the murmur of the restaurant crowd, the smell of greasy food and coffee, and the glare of fluorescent lights from the Formica tables and countertops flooded Marcus with a sense of relief and comfort. He could feel the last bits of tension slip from his shoulders as he watched the two waitresses in pink uniform tops and skirts scurry from table to table as different patrons raised their hands to get each woman’s attention.

  “Georgette?” Skeet called to the redheaded waitress. “Georgette!”

  “Skeet, what do you want? I’m so in the weeds here I need a lawn mower.”

  “Will you tell Frankie I’m back? I’m going to take Marcus here to sit with Nonnie, but I’ll wait for Frankie at the counter.”

  “She’s five feet in front of you at the register. Tell her yourself,” the woman said as she shooed the two men away with her order pad. “Paulette? Did you get table four?”

  “That’s Georgette. Her mama, Miss Francine, owns this place. She’s probably back in the kitchen. That other waitress with the black hair?” Skeet pointed across the room. “That’s her other daughter Paul
ette. And then Frankie over there with the blond hair is the youngest. She’s my best friend.”

  “Georgette, Paulette, and Frankie? Why not another ‘ette?”

  “Her real name is Frankette, but that’s just awful. We’re going to have to change it in New York.”

  “Ooh. Yeah.” Marcus winced. “Why not Yvette or something?”

  “Oh, each girl is named after her daddy. So it had to be Frankette. Miss Francine is our own Liz Taylor. She’s had three husbands. George, Paul, and Frank.” Skeet shrugged and waved his fingers toward Frankie at the cash register.

  Marcus twisted his head to take in all the sights around the diner as he followed Skeet through the occupied tables scattered around the center of the room. The pink walls were plastered with posters of Tammy Wynette and various country singers, some of whom he recognized but most of whom he did not. Old album covers and records, the occasional mirror, and clusters of photographs of people eating in the diner filled the few empty spots between the posters of women with big smiles and bigger hair.

  “Wow, it’s crowded,” Marcus said as he stepped around a table and followed the long counter that ran most of the length of the room. All but a few of the aqua stools were taken. “The Waffle Barn was never this busy.”

  Marcus was so caught up in watching the frenzy of the staff that he didn’t notice Skeet had stopped walking until he had bumped into him from behind.

  “I know I’ve got a cute ass, but you could buy me dinner first?” Skeet drawled over his shoulder as he ticked his right eyebrow upward.