Amber by Dan-Dwayne Spencer (e book reader .TXT) 📕

“Man, look around, this is a parking lot. There’s not a rose bush anywhere around here. Your smeller’s broken,” he laughed. “I’ll be happy to knock the shit out of it and make it work better. You know, like a stuck vending machine.”

“No…no, but thanks for the offer—I think.” It was one of those times when a guy had to lie to save face. Literally, save his face from being pounded by Dugan’s massive fists. “I don’t smell it anymore. My mom bought some crap lotion and I must still have some on my hands.”

“Okay, but the offer is good anytime you need it.” A gregarious grin grew across his face. “I mean, what are friends for—right?”

I opened the glass door, and he stepped past me. We headed straight toward the sign above a petitioned doorway marked Trucker’s Pit Stop, a fancy name for the restrooms. On one side it had a stick figure of a woman and on the other, a man. We were in the right place; it was time to do the kind of business we couldn’t fit into coke bottles.

I exited the restroom before Jimmy and loitered by the door waiting on him. Finally, he came out wringing his hands and smelling them. “Nice smelling soap,” he commented.

I leaned close and whispered, “Jimmy, never leave a restroom smelling of your hands.”

“Why the hell not? Here you smell. It’s some flowery stuff, lavender, I think.”

I retorted, “Hell no, I’m not smelling your hands.” He put his hand on my face. Dugan was just being Dugan, and there was nothing I could do about it. I pushed his monstrous mitt away. “Never mind. Let’s find Roger.”

With that, we headed for the truck stop café. We walked through an arch with a sign: The Watering Hole. I scanned down the row of booths—no Roger. Across from the booths stood a long bar and beneath it, stools affixed to the floor. A large number of truckers occupied the row of stools. A hand popped up halfway down the line and Roger leaned back so we could see him.

Only one seat was available by the redheaded Roger. Consulting no one, I bravely plopped down on the padded stool. Jimmy stood behind me, one of his massive hands weighed heavy on my shoulder to remind me I hadn’t first offered him the spot.

I swung my feet under the bar and took a menu from the clip attached to a napkin dispenser. The diner had all the charm of a well-worn 1940s era hot spot. The bar’s long stretch of depression-green linoleum was dotted with worn scars, one in front of each stool; memorable marks made by servers sliding plate after plate across the scuffed surface. The thought hit me. Places like this had history and its share of ghosts. In the middle of August, surrounded by sweaty truckers, I shivered. Holding the menu and staring, I tried to focus, but deep inside a sadness distracted me.

“The hamburgers are great,” Roger enunciated through a mouth full of burger. “The waitress will be back in a minute.” He sucked a gulp of soda from his straw and swallowed. “Rose said for you guys to decide what you want. She took a takeout order to the parking lot. A regular customer is out there waiting for his supper.”

“Rose? Who’s Rose?” Jimmy asked. I could feel his stare on the back of my neck.

“She’s the waitress, and real choice too.” He put his hand under his shirt and thumped his chest, making it appear as if his heart was beating through his shirt. “Guys, I think I’m in love.”

A teenage girl in a broomstick skirt and a peasant blouse pulled low across her shoulders stepped behind the counter and headed our way. Little flowers decorated her winding braids, and a dozen beaded necklaces dangled around her neck. On her nose sat round wire-framed glasses with quarter-sized pink lenses. I knew when Roger said she was choice, he meant she was a looker, and he was right. She had something innocently attractive about how her tiny ceramic beads hung half in and out of the top of her blouse.

Roger informed us, “That’s Rose.” He suddenly stopped chewing and his eyes fell half-shut—zombified by hormones.

I recognized his hormone-fueled expression, and I had no intention of watching Roger make a fool of himself by boyishly flirting and telling her juvenile jokes. I swung around and looked up at Jimmy. “Let’s get the booth behind us. There’s not enough room up here.”

He nodded. It was better than standing. So, I slid across the vinyl seat on the side closer to the wall and Jimmy took the seat across from me. He grabbed up the menu as I stared out the plate-glass window into the parking lot. From there I could see the Mustang and the fuel pumps too. The world outside appeared frozen in a single magic moment between twilight and dusky darkness.

The neon lights above the pumps flickered to life. Under the lighted canopy, a trucker stretched his legs while he chatted with the gas attendant. Above, the canopy lights gleamed with the words Diesel and Regular.

I shuddered as a tingling ran up and down my spine. The next instant the neon flashed, and the only lighted word remaining on the canopy read: Die. A power surge made the letters strobe bright and dim, bright and dim. Inside of me, something dreadful stirred. I wanted to look away—but couldn’t.

Rose came to take our order, and I forced myself to read my menu. Laughing, I passed off the creepy goosebumps crawling up the back of my neck. “Better get your sign fixed,” my voice had a slight tremor. “No one is gonna want to get gas under that canopy.”

“What are you talking