Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

But Harold had better things to do.

Two minutes later, I was asleep.

Chapter Four

The diner was called Dina’s Corner Dine-In.

It was half full at 7:00 a.m. on a Monday, and I guessed it was slammed come the weekends. The patrons were mostly men, a healthy mix of white collar and blue collar. Slacks sat next to blue jeans. Wingtips conversed with work boots.

I could feel the stares as I walked in and took a stool at the counter. Maybe it was because I was limping. Maybe it was because I was grimacing with each step. Maybe it was because I was the first new face they’d seen in weeks. Either way, the looks were brief, the conversations halted for a single breath before resuming.

The counter was black Formica, clean and polished. Half the stools were occupied, and I took the one on the far left. The man to my right had a thick mustache and was clad in a flannel shirt and a tan Carhartt jacket. Warm for what promised to be a day in the mid-eighties, both in temperature and humidity. The hand cinched around his coffee cup was worn and callused, a farmer’s hand.

I glanced at my hands. I had a blister on my thumb from playing Tetris, but otherwise, my hands screamed of a life of money and privilege.

A fiftyish woman politely but efficiently took my order for two Belgian waffles, a double order of bacon, an apple juice, and seven Percocet.

I’d slept from sundown to sunup and I felt rested, but my body was in shambles. There was a deep bruise on my left buttock that ran down the length of my thigh. My left shoulder was swollen and stiff, and I could barely lift my arm six inches. But both of these injuries paled in comparison to my ribs. Each time I exhaled it felt like someone was spreading my ribs with a crowbar.

There was a stack of Tarrin Weekly near the entrance and I’d grabbed one on my way in. I flipped through the small paper, reading about the many church revivals the coming weekend, a couple of teachers who were retiring after the school year ended the following week, the results of the Little Miss Tarrin pageant, and Mayor Paula Van Dixon’s reelection bid for her tenth straight term.

A different waitress appeared behind the counter and said, “I hear you’re looking for some Percocet.”

She was cute, early twenties. Her stomach was just starting to round out, and I guessed she was halfway into her pregnancy.

“Or a morphine drip,” I quipped.

She laughed, then handed me four blue capsules.

I squinted at the pills. “Um, I think these are Advil.”

“Best I could do.” She smiled. “But, I mean, at least they’re gelcaps.”

“Hallelujah,” I muttered, then added, “Don’t think I won’t Yelp about this.”

She snickered, then asked, “What’s the other guy look like?”

“Green and about thirty feet tall.”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

“I fell out of a tree,” I explained.

I told her the story.

A few minutes after she left to greet a table, my food came. I ate two bites of waffle, then two pieces of bacon, then washed the four Advil down with apple juice.

The cute waitress returned after checking on her tables and asked, “The Humphries Farm? Did you buy it?”

“It was handed down to me in a will.”

“Are you a Humphries?”

“Not technically. It’s a long story.”

Her gaze told me that someday she would like to hear all the details, and I started to have serious doubts that the father of little Billy-Bob-To-Be was still in the picture.

Who knows, maybe she was a chubby chaser.

“No one has been out there for a long time,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s in pretty bad shape.”

While I had her there, I asked her the names of the electric, gas, and water supply companies. She let me borrow one of her pens, and I wrote the names down on a napkin. Then I asked if they had a Yellow Pages.

“A Yellow Pages?” she asked in disbelief. “Why?”

“So I can find out the phone numbers of these places and call them.”

“Why don’t you use your phone?”

I pulled my phone out of my front pocket and showed her.

“A flip phone? I didn’t even know they still made those.”

A group of five men walked through the door, and the waitress told them she’d be right with them. She pulled an iPhone out of her apron and slid it over to me. “Here, you can borrow mine. Just, um, don’t scroll through the pictures.”

I finished off my breakfast, then spent the next ten minutes looking up the utility companies on the waitress’s phone and setting up accounts with each. I could expect both the electricity and gas to be turned on at some point later in the day. The water supply company said they would send someone within the hour.

I was still wearing the same thing as yesterday: jeans, a black T-shirt, and blue Asics, and I was in desperate need of a shower and shave.

Speaking of getting clean, I searched “Tarrin cleaning services” and got one hit. A company called Tarrin Cleaning Services.

Creative.

I called the number, but no one answered, and I left a message.

The waitress stopped by a minute later, and I gave back her phone. I told her all the nude pics I saw were extremely tasteful.

She enjoyed this.

I attempted to give her twenty bucks for her troubles, but she wouldn’t accept it.

Back outside, the traffic on Main Street had doubled. A number of kids with backpacks were walking on the sidewalks, headed to their respective schools. One kid had a cowboy hat on, but for the most part, the kids were dressed just like the city kids. Lots of skateboards. Big headphones. Bright colors.

I drove to the middle of town and parked in front of a home goods store called, quite fittingly, Kim’s Home Goods.

Why was it that every store had to be someone's?

Dina’s Corner Dine-In.

Joe’s Automotive.

Nancy’s Music and Jewelry.

Morris’s Loans.

Bob’s Accounting Services.

Maybe I should open a shop.

Thomas’s Buttons.

A bell rang as I