Darting her eyes around Ronnie the hostess, looking me up and down, she curls her lip in disgust. Turning her attention back to Ron, “I’m sorry, without a reservation we are all booked up right now. Perhaps you should try the fast food establishment down the street?” she quips. I feel her words like a slap to face knowing she is denying us because of me.
Glancing around the podium into the restaurant, I notice that the place is empty. Ronnie being the polite person she is, smiles. But this isn’t her normal charming smile, this smile is malicious and angry.
“Well, alrighty then,” she sing-songs syrupy sweet with her accent thickening. “I guess we will take our business somewhere else. I’ll make sure I tell Mama and Daddy Leeland about the wonderful hospitality Marco’s offers to its customers. How they offer up good business to other restaurants in town and how biased they are based on first impressions.”
Did I mention that Ronnie’s Dad is Mayor? I feel like Julia Roberts right now when Richard Gere goes off on those nasty shop ladies in Pretty Woman.
The hostess gasps when she realizes what she’s done, recognizing Ronnie’s last name, she quickly starts stumbling over her words in retreat of the venom she spewed. “N-no, w-wait, Ma’am. I-I’m sure I can find something, give me a minute. Please?”
“Oh, no, Sugar. That’s fine,” she sasses drawing out the ‘ine”, grabbing my hand, she throws her hair back, holds her chin high, turns on her heel, swishing her hips making her skirt float, she drags me back out the door with the hostess trailing behind us still mumbling her apologies.
When we reach the sidewalk, she’s fuming. “Oh, the gall of some people. That snarky bitch, looking at you like you were gum on the bottom of her shoe. They weren’t even busy. Why I never. Just wait until I tell Daddy,” she rages, flailing her arms around in the air. Taking a gulp of air, she looks to me. Seeing the hurt in my eyes, she calms, looping her arm with mine she grits a smile, “Come on, baby girl, we’ll walk down here and eat,” she says, stomping down the sidewalk dragging me behind her.
I should be angry at the way we were treated but after the train ride through Hell, I have been on for last month of my life almost nothing can take me lower than I already am. I’m saddened that people are so shallow and they judge others so harshly but I learned a long time ago people suck and I’m just trying to go with the flow. Hoping for a brighter light somewhere down the line. It’s easier to be invisible than to stir turds and create a scene.
Small shops line both sides of the street. Jalapa may have a college but it’s still a one-horse town. A Trader Joe’s, a Subway, a small specialty coffee shop, a quaint little market for Mexican foods leads to a sweet little 50’s style diner. Located right on the corner of Market Street and Main Street, Mr. Dave’s.
We stroll through an opening in a split-railed fence into a patio eating area filled with round plastic tables each topped with a red umbrella. Being November in Indiana, eating outside isn’t a possibility. Even though it’s an unseasonably warm 55 degrees right now, we decide to eat inside.
Stopping just inside the door, you journey back to the sock hop era. Wire back chairs with red padded seats and little round tables spread out on a black and white checked floor, a few small high-back booths sit along the outer edge of the wood paneled walls, facing windows showing the quiet streets outside. To our left is a long counter with a menu chalk board above it and workers rushing around in an open kitchen. The smell of fried food and grease making my already rumbling hungry stomach gurgle out loud.
Placing a hand on my stomach, I feel a rush of heat gather at my neck rising over my cheeks, “Sorry”.
A young girl standing behind the counter in front of the register, wearing a red shirt, black slacks with a checkered hat on her head greets us with a warm smile, “You’re in the right place for a growling stomach. Hi, my name is Stacy, may I help you?”
Looking up at the menu I see they boast ‘the best-breaded tenderloins in the country’, so that’s what I’ll try. Ronnie orders herself a veggie basket with a side of ranch dressing, a grilled tenderloin, and a Diet Coke. My mouth gapes at the amount of food she ordered.
Winking, she whispers, “Screw the diet today. I’ll just run it off tomorrow.”
I place my order for a tenderloin, fries and a root beer. Knowing I will not be burning off the calories later but not having the where with all to care. The girl takes our order on a menu pad, rings us up on an old push button cash register and gives us our total. Once we pay, she hands us a red, round plastic disc with the number twelve on it, telling us she will call our number when our order is ready. Taking our number, we select a booth by the windows so we can watch the world outside while we eat.
There is never a whole lot of bustle in Jalapa. The town shuts down and rolls up the streets at dark except for the handful of bars that stay open and a few all-night convenience stores. When the college lets out in May the town goes back to its sleepy ways until August when it once again floods with students. JSU is the heartbeat of this town, it thrives nine months out of the year and skates by the other three.
A few other customers litter around. A group of older men, probably in their 60’s, sit together at a collection of pulled together tables. They seem
