Vacation Lost

The sea salt breeze swept up dust along the asphalt disturbing that sweet mirage of a flowing river across the mid-season cotton fields. The radio was left on though the songs remained choppy. We took the same route every summer and through some mysticism beyond my thirteen-year-old comprehension always bounced off lost on the back end of some one lane potholed road. This was about the time mom would corner dad like a kitten and a hawk and dad would shrug his shoulders, toss the crumpled-up map on the dash to the floorboard and pardon his own guilt by swerving into any one of the motels, gas stations, or bars too desolate to be condemned in the hope that they could ‘find themselves’ once more. I had always recalled them as the oddest pair, mom was a writer with the Austin-American for a while they’d always come over after dinner and sit around the puzzle table, the table where me and dad worked our puzzles. The men with their greasy hair I thought they must’ve showered with conditioner and glue. They wore black and tan suits and snickered when dad would do the dishes. I wasn’t supposed to see that, but I was short enough to sit along the staircase and be invisible, only listening. Mom would smoke cigarettes, to their dismay as well the only time I’ve seen mom smoke is when the men came, she’d run a hand along her forehead like she was searching for something I couldn’t see, and it annoyed me. I could tell it annoyed her too, it was such a silly thing she’d scratch and stroke her palms with a pen while rustling those stacks of newspapers. The men would laugh and watch mom for a time before talking amongst themselves, then dad would bring three cokes to the table, there were always only three men. After that dad would go sit on the porch and about this time, I’d fight to keep myself from falling down the stairs as my eyes shuttered and I went to bed. I was always the last to wake up though one morning I came down expecting breakfast and there was nothing, no sizzle of bacon or mom’s special coffee, or aftershave and cut strawberries. Only once happy puzzles puddled about the floor in pieces surrounding the table and even across the kitchen tile. 

The warm swelter forming along my cheeks was quickly calmed by a firm grip across the ridges of my bony shoulders. “I didn’t like those ones much anyway” dad said as he crossed beside me in brown patchwork pjs paying no mind to the chaos cascading across the carpet and treaded towards the fridge. “We can go out later today to get a new one” he continued. I knew he was lying, he lived for those puzzles and crosswords and the sanctity to build something with everything in arms reach. I forced myself to believe him though, he was lying for my comfort, and it was a strange concept, but I couldn’t make a scene. We had blueberry pancakes that morning with extra syrup and the pieces stayed on the floor for a good while. After that I never saw the men in suits again, but new people came over they dressed like mom and dad one was tall with a bushy grey beard and large pants, he always wore suspenders, the other one was a woman with short black hair curled around her face and wore flowing pastel dresses often. I didn’t have to hide when they came over and the man always brought cans of cookies, I think he must’ve run a bakery. I liked them more I think mom did too. “This place looks open” dad said as the sedan swerved into a dirt lot with a chipped white fence surrounding one half of it. Sat back into the field was a one room diner with square green pane windows made of thick glass. 

I could just make out the shadows of what patrons made up the interior, wandering about lost like us I suppose. A black chevy stalled beside us as a thin woman with frizzy red hair sprouting down past her shoulders and a lively, sharp face spun a toothpick in her mouth and gave us a grin. She pulled a red rag with splotches of black grease from her back pocket leaving a harsh stain on her denim shorts and wrestled with the hood. The flatbed was a sight, peaches, watermelons, and even some pecans had spilled out from their crates mixing into a toppled over jerry can...there must have been a hundred chickens screeching in unison like Uncle Steve and Aunt Pearl at church choir, in reality there were only about ten maybe, stacked atop each other in grim cages. Mom and dad seemed to forget their identities for a moment it seemed, just watching the comedic tragedy unfold before us. “Well,” dad finally said as he adjusted the wooden rimmed glasses along his bored face and worked up a small grin before opening the car door, we followed suit.

The red-haired lady paid us no mind she’d managed to get the hood open, I wanted to greet the chickens, but mother had me by the arm. As we drew slower each step to the diner, I couldn’t help but want to sit in awe at the endless fields of white clouds swaying with the wind, I wonder if this cotton stayed white forever. “It’s Ralphs” dad said pointing to a narrow sign a few feet down from the diner. Balanced on a bright red pole were a set of large green letters reading R A L P H S. The R was leaning itself on the A like dominoes. Beneath the sign was a rusted out white van tilted on the front axle due to a missing tire, the windshield was cracked like a spider web and the same lettering as the sign was on the door. As we stopped, I noticed the shadow of a person along the side wall and the edge of a dull leather boot. As I drew closer out of curiosity to the dismay of my parents, the boot had a body, as an ill man leaned against the whitewash brick walls a stream of red almost thick paint like liquid carved down the side of his face and streamed down his neck joining a slow puddle forming at the collar of his white undershirt beneath a dusty denim jacket. He didn’t notice me at first with his head tilted towards the sun and a white rag shoved violently up his nostril, his gut groaned. Dad got there first pulling me back not harshly but in a slow drawl, I could hear our shoes crunching the dirt. I suppose the man heard it too as he started back for a moment, the jerking motion made thick clots of red mucus glide to the ground before my feet. Almost in an instant mom was at my side and a half smile formed on the man’s face not covered by the rag. 

His skin was reminiscent of leather left out in mid-July sun. Then the nametag, dad got to it first. “Ralph, is it? Are you alright?” He spoke cautiously, still backing away, I found the gesture rude and attempted to plant my feet which made the ordeal even more obvious. Ralph didn’t speak for a moment; he was an average height but had great meaty arms that made him appear a giant to me. “Damned sunshine always makes my nose bleed...” he finally said keeping one palm on the rag and extending those sausage fingers to shake my dad’s hand who begrudgingly accepted. “Y’all aren't from around. Only same three folk come here since Pa went on down.” I wasn’t sure what he meant and looking up at mom and dad I could tell for once we all had the same mind. “Well come on then, it’s a long way to get lost out here I’m sure you're hungry.” Ralph’s words trailed off as he started ahead of us, he walked kind of funny like how I imagined a bobblehead would walk. I tried to imitate it, but dad squeezed my shoulder, so I stopped. I didn’t notice the redhaired lady until we got into the diner, and I saw her in a hairnet, ultimately defeated by the frizz, and an apron stood over a stovetop through an opening into the kitchen, she was pretty. “I gotta get out of this mess, but just take a seat an uh seats at the bar are a little wobbly, I’d take the booth.” 

Ralph sauntered behind the bar and pushed through a door to the kitchen. I could hear chatter the red-haired lady was named Cheryl. We found a seat at a small table by the window with red suede booth seats. The interior was humid, the air felt used up. I felt my shoes stick to the tile floor and imagined the wet sponge and empty mugs. Two people who I spied as shadows earlier sat at the far end of the bar closest to the jukebox and framed pictures in the corner of the room. Two men they were dressed like laborers, I noticed a fishing rod leaned against the bar and what I’d only guess was a tackle box on the floor that the larger man dangled his feet over from the stool. They had sharp and sunken eyes, both of them. One was noticeably older though they both bore their age, with early receding hair and mouth wrinkles around their cheekbones. One gave us a glance for just a moment before turning back to the mug of beer before him. They contrasted to dad who had a rectangle face with high cheekbones and beady eyes like a rabbit, his hair was straight and lanky, mom always cut it, with the bangs just above his eyes. I felt like an intruder. “What’re you having? The catfish looks good.” Dad said pointing to a hanging wood sign above the bar top engraved with the daily specials. Mom sighed and eyed a square television on the opposite corner of the bar from the laborers, it was a tiny picture and silent so George Strait could sing over the juke. Mom read the subtitles though, Bill Clinton was giving a speech of some kind, it was no bother to anyone. Dad was a fan of him I think, I know they don’t like him much outside of Austin though according to the newspaper mom used to work for it was Bush or bust. Mom didn’t care for either of them, I noticed she coughed and scowled the same way she did watching the television at home. Ralph entered from the kitchen now in a plaid red shirt, a towel over his shoulder holding a pitcher of water in one hand and a tray of glasses in the other. 

The water was nice, but the ice tasted funny. Dad got the catfish which came seared in a bath of oil and brusselsprouts on the side. Mom just got the cucumber salad, soothing on the tongue compared to the warm grease sleeked off the fish skin. I ended up with a shrimp platter and potato wedges. The shrimp was delicate, and you could easily suck them out from their skins. The potatoes were thick but tender. We ate softly, which I assumed left Ralph in confusion as to what we were enjoying. I eyed him from behind the bar occasionally glaring over and scratching his forehead before he went back to attending the other two patrons. They knew each other from the ease of conversation and gestures as Ralph would fill their mugs in one brief motion with a smile and they’d all laugh. I didn’t know what to think of this place that so desperately wished to be abandoned, reserved for Ralph to call upon amongst his children and occasionally drive by to watch the ivy reclaim its roots and smile. I didn’t think Ralph had much of a family though, at least not like mine, he seemed to have outgrown his. Maybe Ralph was a homosexual, I didn’t know much of what that word meant other than someone who spent a lot of time alone. Mom and dad told me not to use words if I didn’t know what they meant, especially words to describe other people.