The Wolfman

and saw a dusty black 1973 Mach 1 drive slowly past the restaurant, heading west. It then made an illegal U-turn and pulled up into one of the parking spots outside. The black car could have kept on going, but it didn’t. The engine revved up once, and then was shut down. I didn’t know it at the time, but things would never be the same again.

TWO

The black car rested in a space between my truck and Abraham’s gold-colored Buick. I’d never seen the Mach 1 before. Evelyn was the kind of place where if you stuck around long enough you got to notice these kinds of things. I knew right then that this guy wasn’t a local. He’d probably even want to see a fucking menu.

The driver got out, alone. He was a youngish kid, late twenties. He was of average height, and maybe a little more wiry than the typical underwear model. He was wearing Italian boots with squared-off tips and a pair of those jeans they sell at the high-end places that are a little fucked up and worn out already. An Italian corno hung from his neck, dangling from a thin gold chain. He had on a white T-shirt that looked slept-in, with one greasy fingerprint smeared across its front, and over that was a light leather jacket, the kind with lapels and such. It was the kind of jacket that cost just about as much as a month’s rent in a nice neighborhood, but it looked like it would disintegrate in the rain. The leather jacket I had back at the house was the real kind, with zippers and studs all over the fucking thing, the kind that would still look good if you fell off a motorcycle and slid down the road on it.

The kid had on aviator shades, and five-o’clock shadow framed his chiseled, prettyboy face. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and slicked back across his head with oil. Hanging down over his forehead like a vine was a single lock from his bangs. He was wearing a ring on his left pinky. It flashed in the light, and then I saw what it was: a birthstone. Opal. I couldn’t even smell the guy yet, but I already wanted to hit him. He reached into the car and took out a fancy camera, which he slung around his neck by the strap. He raised the camera to his eye and snapped off a pair of shots of the outside of the restaurant. Up along the top of the building was an old neon sign that read LONG JOHN’S.

He slammed the car door, looked into the backseat through the dusty window, then climbed the three stairs outside the restaurant. The door opened. The little bell jangled. He stepped in.

If Abe wasn’t in the bathroom, I would have thrown his drunken ass through those double doors to avoid dealing with this prettyboy.

The kid stood near the door, the sun beaming in behind him, and he was perhaps a little hesitant to venture any farther. After all, there wasn’t anyone in the place as far as he could tell. After a long minute he turned his eyes my way and saw me staring at him through the long window in the wall. He seemed to let out a sigh of relief. I breathed deep, made no motion to draw shut the paper, made no attempt at disguising the fact that I was trying to read his life with my eyes—a nervous habit of mine ever since I came back from overseas. I think I might have even given him the evil eye.

He got the hint and took off his shades, folded them up, and stuck them in the collar of his shirt.

Roy Orbison’s “Mean Woman Blues” was playing on the radio.

“Are you open?” he asked in an even voice.

With that smirk on his face, I felt like throwing the pot of hot coffee at him, but I never did like the sound of a man crying.

“Yup,” I replied.

He stepped across the black-and-white tiled floor and took a seat at one of the stools in front of the counter. Once there, he took the camera from around his neck, sat it next to his elbow, and gave the restaurant a good looking-over. There was a clock above the counter similar to the large, bland industrial-type ones that some might remember from grade school. Along the walls were a handful of framed pictures of horses.

After another long minute of silence, he became fidgety, seeing as how no one was coming to help him. He began to pick at a hangnail, and once he discovered that doing that didn’t exactly get his goat going, he reached into the pocket of his fancy leather jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He wedged a cigarette in between his puckered lips and then looked at me again with raised eyebrows.

My nonfriendly expression had not changed, nor would it until Abraham decided to get out the bathroom and do his fucking job.

“Can I smoke in here?” the kid asked.

My reply: “I don’t know. Can you?”

He looked down at his own hands, his wiggling fingers, as if trying to solve an equation. “Can you?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out another smoke. Lit it. “I can smoke wherever the hell I want,” I said.

“I see,” he said. “May I smoke in here?”

“You can smoke wherever the hell you want, kid.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes, you go into a little place like this and the smoking or no smoking depends entirely on the, uh, the proprietor of the place. On personal tastes, you know? I mean, I’ve been in little diners like this …”

“This ain’t a diner,” I said loudly. “This here’s an honest-to-God restaurant, arright? The kitchen is second to none.”

“Sure,” he said, looking away again and lighting up. “It’s just that back where I come from there aren’t a whole lot of honest-to-God restaurants called Long John’s.”

“Yeah? And where would that be?”

“What’s that?”

“Where are you from?” He said, “New Jersey.”

“Well, in that case, mind your own business.”

This was not turning out to be a good day for me.

“Jesus, guy, whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”

“I don’t know. It died with the Duke, I guess.”

He laughed. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Nowhere,” I said.

“Why’s this place called Long John’s?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“What’s your story, kid?”

“No story. Just making conversation.”

“The guy that opened this place up back in the thirties was named John. Used to be called just John’s, but back when this place opened it was the warmest place to be when the cold months set in. Because of the big oven back here. Because of that, he changed the name, like an inside joke. Being in here was like having on an extra pair of thermals. Simple as that.”

“That’s nice,” said the kid. “The outside is very retro. Very nice.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It makes my fucking heart melt.”

“So with that kind of long-term rep, with this place being reputable, seeing as how it’s been here so long, where is everybody?”

“Where else?” I said. “Church.”

“That’s nice too.”

“Yeah, that really makes my heart melt.”

“Mine too,” he said, chuckling. “Whatever, kid. Listen, what’s the story?” Something about the kid—him being so friendly—rubbed me the wrong way. Like sand in a condom, maybe. Or steel wool. “What? No story, just …”

“You trying to pick me up or something?”

“God, no.”

“You ask an awful lot of questions for someone who just wants a coffee and a scrambled egg, or am I just presuming? You here to use the commode?”

“What? No, I’m parched, actually. I’d love a cup of coffee. And an ashtray.”

I stood silently for a spell to see if I could hear Abraham in the bathroom, but I heard nothing. I angrily