I take the space in and immediately like the place. I eye the screen door, which has no screen now that I look at it. It’s just a wooden frame with a bunch of signatures on it, probably from people who have come through this tiny town. I run a hand over it, loving the history and wish I could feel the moments that took place as the people signed their names.
There’s a jukebox on the far side wall, lit up like a Christmas tree and playing a sound by Queen. The floors groan as I step forward, and the pops and crackles of bacon sizzling behind the counter has my nose leading the way to the bar, which is just as worn down as the door.
The woman behind the counter knows I’m not of age by how she’s looking at me, but she doesn’t say a word. She studies the bruises, the busted lip, the marks on my arms, everywhere. My entire body still hurts from that fight, but I have to keep moving along. I have to get to Isaac.
“You look like you’ve been through it, darlin’,” she says, drying off a pint glass in her hand with a white rag.
“Yeah, it’s been a rough few days.”
She leans over, and her lowcut shirt plunges to the middle of her bra, showing a lot of tan, wrinkled cleavage. She’s pretty. Has all her teeth. Her long brown hair is a bit dry, and she’s been out in the sun too much. She has on red lipstick and mascara, making her blue eyes pop. They aren’t innocent eyes. By the way she’s looking at me, I bet she has seen a lot of shit in her life. “What do you want to drink, darlin’?” her Southern accents drawls on.
“I’ll take anything you have on tap.”
“Sweetie, I might have been born, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Let me see some I.D.” Her fake red nails cut through the air as she turns her hand over, palm up, waiting for me to give her my license.
“Sure. I get that all the time.” I slug off my backpack and set it on the barstool next to me. I unzip the top pocket where I keep my fake I.D. and hand it to her. I only have it because Trevor and Mom get too fucked up to go get booze themselves half the time, so Trevor got me this I.D. It’s a good one too. No one has ever denied it.
She studies it, flashing her gaze from me to the license. It’s says that my name is Crystal Montgomery from Maine, born July 23rd, 1997. She hands the card back to me and then slaps her hand on the counter. “Damn, I wish I had your youth. I’d look like I was in my twenties instead of my damn fifties. Sorry bout that, little lady. I’ll get that draft to you right now. Do you want a menu?”
“Please,” I say, and my stomach grumbles a reply too.
“Sure thing. My name’s Dixie. Holler if you need me.” She sets the menu down and places the pint of beer in front of me. My mouth waters. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I’ve had a hell of a time, and you know what? If men and women can vote at eighteen, smoke at eighteen, go to war at eighteen, then I’m going to have a fucking beer.
Rules can damn themselves to hell. I was never good at following them anyway.
The beer is ice cold when I wrap my hand around the frosted glass. I bring it to my lips and guzzle it down, almost weeping with how good it tastes and how refreshing it is.
“Damn, darlin’. Slow down, I have more.” Dixie chuckles.
“Sorry, so thirsty. I know I should drink water, but—”
“Honey, you take a hit like that, you deserve a goddamn beer. How about an order of fried pickles, on the house, while you look at the menu?”
I wipe the foam mustache at the top of my mouth and the pint glass thuds against the aged countertop. Tears prickle my eyes from her kindness. It’s been so long since someone has gone out of their way for me, it’s hard to think kindness still exists.
“If it doesn’t put you out… I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
She waves a hand at me and scoffs, “Darlin’, you’re the first in a long while I’ve gotten to help. It ain’t no thing,” she says. “I’ll go put in that order. You go ahead and see what you want.”
I pick up the menu and beam a smile at her. As I’m reading, I can’t decide what I want. It all sounds good, but I think I’m going to go with the Rock Jollies burger. It’s a half-pound of angus beef with everything on it. I love food slopped through the kitchen sink. I love it all.
When she comes back, she has an order of fried pickles and sets them down in front of me. There’s a side of ranch dipping sauce, and the pickles are still sizzling from the fryer. “Here you go, honey.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. I pluck one off the plate and roll it around in my mouth because it’s too hot. I don’t care. I’m too hungry to give a damn.
Her smiles fades when her eyes land on the door. Her red lips squeeze together in discontent. There’s a few hard pounds of boots behind me, and whoever it is, she’s watching them like a hawk.
“Darryl, Hank, Bobby, I told you lot you ain’t welcome here no more.” She throws her hands on her hips and stares them down.
I pop another pickle in my mouth and turn around to see what the fuss is about. Three men, and all of them look like they’ve had a rough day on the farm with their dirty jeans and sweaty faces.
“Aw, come on, Dixie. Don’t be like that. We ain’t going to wreck another table.
