It’s been a long, summer night at the restaurant. Your predominately high school staff is relaxing in the back smoking section prior to doing their closing routines. You join them, knowing your paperwork cannot begin until the servers start cashing out. With a fresh cup of Cain’s coffee and a Camel light, you settle into one of the faded turquoise booths for your own break.
When the front door is opened, tugging on the air with a pop, everyone looks up, expecting either Tito or Morf to walk in. Instead, you see an obviously drunk townie stagger in and grasp the soda fountain counter to steady himself. He works his way down the length of countertop into viewing range. You take note of his appearance, half for your mental catalog of random people, half for the police report you are certain to fill out later. He wears a crusted painters cap, five days growth on his cheeks and chin, an unbuttoned and tattered shirt exposing sweaty chest hair, stained jeans and worn sneakers. He passes your booth and the stench of cheap whiskey fills your nose. You meet his eyes and give a polite nod as he drops into the next booth. You motion for Amy to get him some coffee.
She’s young, 16, and to her drinking is a glamorous party like she sees in the commercials. You watch her wrinkle her nose in disgust as she approaches the man, the reality of that illusion sinking in.
He’s quiet during those last few drags of your cigarette, so you leave him staring into that cup as Sarah tells you she is ready to cash out. You head back to the kitchen office, the girl in tow, to begin counting her money and closing the store.
Thirty-five minutes later, everyone is ready to leave. As Walker, that night’s cook, turns off the noisy oven hood, you can hear the commotion from the dining room. It’s a mix of laughter, a gruff man’s boisterous voice and the sound of something crashing. Pushing through the door, you find him revived by a few cups of coffee and fully animated. The kids are laughing at his antics, taunting him in a subliminal manner that clears his inebriation. You interrupt the performance, informing him that the restaurant is now closed and he will need to leave.
“I’m just waiting on Michelle,” signaling the oldest of your waitresses, “She’s offered to give me a ride home.”
The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. Michelle, 18 and rather naïve, has just made your evening more difficult. You ask her to come into the kitchen for a word.
“Michelle, are you kidding me?” you ask, trying to hold back your anger.
“I’ll be okay, _______. He’s kind of nice and I feel bad for him. He lives out in the country and I don’t think he can walk home,” she replies.
“I can’t allow you to do this. We don’t know anything about this guy. Please don’t do this.”
Her face sinks as what you are implying sinks in. She turns to walk out and says, “Well, I told him I would give him a ride. If you want, you can go too to make sure he doesn’t hurt me.”
Your head sinks as you contemplate the imposition just placed on you. In the dining room, the kids are grabbing their bags and heading toward the door, the man leading the charge. You exit the kitchen, turning the lights off as you go. Michelle turns around and continues walking backwards. She places her hands in front of her in the praying gesture and her eyes beg you for help. Her stubbornness breaks enough to realize the potential danger, but not enough to make her say no.
Right outside the restaurant, you pull another Camel from the pack, light it, inhale deeply and exhale slowly. The key clicks in the deadbolt and you give a tug on the handle to ensure that it locked. Hesitant, you turn around to see everyone reach his or her cars. You just want to go home, have a couple of beers and pass out on the sofa. You look at him, loud and abrasive and it offends your senses. A car ride to who knows where will surely further irritate you. He’s also strong enough to easily harm Michelle, if that is his plan. She fumbles with her keys as she tries to find you or someone willing to join her on the unknown voyage. You inhale deeply and hold it, reluctant to exhale.
If you chose to accompany Michelle in driving the stranger home, turn to page 2.
If you chose to write her off as a stupid teenager, assume that she will be okay and just go home, turn to page 30.
