Page 3 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

This isn’t forever, Em.Nope. This is just a quick detour. A very quick detour that’s turned into three years. I mean, three years could be a really small amount of time if, say, you live to be a hundred. I mean, it’d be hardly any time at all, right?

But then again, if my life ends tomorrow, three years will feel like an eternity to my 26 years of life.

And I’d spent themhere. I don’t even have a good reason forwhyI’d spent them here. That’s sort of my problem, though. Always has been.I don’t know when to leave.

“Roni, when those onion rings come up, will you take them out for me, please?” I ask the only ally I’ve managed to make in the last 36 months — as if referring to the past three years in months somehow makes the time seem less.

She looks up from her phone to nod, then looks back down, typing furiously. Her bright purple fingernails fly over the glass screen in a fasttap, tap, tappingsound. I can only imagine the latest catastrophe herlatestboyfriend is putting her through. Maybe I don’t know when to leave, but Roni doesn’t know how to pick ’em. We’re both problematic.

Pulling out my guest check pad, I sigh, then head to table 19, singing softly with the oldies that play on repeat 24/7. Roni hates it when I do this, so I pipe up and sing to her as I walk away. My only goal is to bring a smile to her face.

“Won’t you staay, just a little bit longerrr,”I sing while swaying away from her.

It works, breaking Roni away from her phone and lodging the smallest of smiles on her face. Not that you could even callit a smile. She doesn’t really smile. But a smirk, that’s peak Roni right there.

She mouths,“I hate you,”and I smile a truly outrageous smile in return. I have the sickest sense of wanting to put my fingers to my face to feel the lines, the way my mouth turns up. I want to behold the fact that my face still knows how to do that. It’s still possible. I don’t think I’ve smiled like that in a month, maybe a year.Maybe three years.

Turning back towards my newest table, I gulp and stare in awe at the man seated there, drumming his long fingers across the sticky plastic menu as he watches the sunrise through the smudged window pane. My heart seizes at the sight.

At first glance, he doesn’t belong here. This man does not belong in Eddie’s 24-hour roadside diner that hasn’t seen a mop in years. This man belongs on the cover of a magazine or in the movies. Maybe a board room or even a battlefield.

But when he senses my presence and turns to face me, I seeit. It’s etched in the deep grooves of his forehead. The lack of laugh or smile lines. The lack of life in his eyes. Oh, how wrong I was.

This man belongs, just like the rest of us.

Sometimes, I wonder if Eddie’s is actually purgatory. Like everyone who’s stumbled in here is actually dead, and we’re just the holding cell.

Recognizing he’s just another broken person, I relax. If he turned around with a megawatt smile, I would have been too nervous to serve him. Roni says I’m a lovesick fool who doesn’t know how to act around men. She’s right about the last part, but I’m not lovesick. I’ve never been in love. Can’t be lovesick when you don’t even know what you’re missing, right?

My mouth slides to the side in not quite a smile but not a frown. Just a kindred offering that I hope says,“I see you. Iknow this. French fries won’t fix your problems, but they might help.”

He nearly mimics the gesture, and so, without letting an awkward silence fall between us, I ask, “What can I get you?” I use a gentle voice. The same soft, delicate sound I would use if I came across a wounded animal in a forest. Not that I spend any real time in forests. But I’ve certainly imagined it enough.

The man clears his throat, “Uh, a full stack of pancakes. Side of bacon. Three eggs, fried. Side of biscuits and gravy, and…” He eyes the cherry pie sitting on the breakfast bar underneath its clear plastic dome, but he shakes his head, “a glass of orange juice.”

I jot down his order, and a second later, he says, “Thank you,” awkwardly, like he forgot his manners.

Looking up, I smile at him and offer a sliver of kindness in return. “You’re so welcome.” Same soft voice for the wounded man.

Double-checking the order before I rip it off the pad to pass to George, I can’t help but wonder how a man looks as cut as he does, eating like this. A strange thought tugs at the rear of my mind, but I ignore it, pouring his glass of OJ.

Setting it down in front of him, I turn to leave, but he stops me. “Do you have a pen and paper I could borrow?” he asks.

“A pen, yes. But will I get the paper back?”

His cheeks tinge a light pink. “Well, no. Can I justhavethe paper?” I laugh gently and pass him a spare guest check pad and a pen. It’s only after I’ve passed it over that I realize I’ve given him myfavoritepen. Vintage, from the Grand Canyon. On it, it says,“The biggest hole in the west.”It always makes me want to giggle when I see it. Not that I ever actually do, but the thought that it might is nice.

He scans the pen quickly, and his mouth upturns slightly. “I’ll make sure you get this back.” He holds up the pen, much to my relief.

“Itismy prized possession.” I’m not really joking, but that doesn’t matter. I walk away quickly when one of my other tables motions for me to refill their sodas.

I walk past his table a few more times before his food comes out to bring him a glass of water and drop napkins, that sort of thing. I don’t say anything, but each time I pass by, he has another note scribbled on the back side of the blank guest checks.

It’s not intentional, but occasionally, I get a glimpse of what he’s written. Seems nonsensical at first, but when I deliver his food, he fails to cover the last note before I read it.

No funeral. Please. It’s my one request.

Love you, sis. I’m sorry.