Chili Fries

I have no idea where this one came from, other than the fact that I was sitting in the Smokehouse (which is the restaurant) and actually had just about this entire experience. Having just flipped through some of The Sound and the Fury in a vain attempt to study for my midterm, it inspired this little foray into things.

For the most part, this story is as true as anything else I write.

Chili Fries

It occurs to him that he is hungry, so he turns around and heads for a crosswalk. He could jaywalk but it doesn’t occur to him to go back for food until he’s already passed the restaurant so he walks in a circle. Maybe someone saw him and thought it was a silly thing to do but he’d just tell them that he was being a law-abiding citizen.

The restaurant’s empty except for the cook in the kitchen so he puts his bag down in a seat and waits until the owner gets back, then orders his food and a drink and sits down. Some song that he’s never heard of but sounds like a remix of Stayin’ Alive comes through the speakers and he frowns in annoyance because really did someone need to make a bad song worse by rapping over it?

Oxford intrudes upon his thoughts (not for the first time) and he remembers going to the little diner for breakfast all by himself in the mornings when he woke up feeling like death because of the night before and the Greek behind the counter would yell at his wife and she’d yell back and the food was greasy and life-giving. Then he thinks about the woman in the café that sat across from him and he thought he knew her, he did, so he’d asked “Do I know you?”

She seemed surprised to be spoken to beyond a request for the salt but she gave the question some thought and replied. “I don’t think so.”

“You look dreadfully familiar.” He says by way of apology and wonders if maybe it’s the glasses or the hair that did it but she looks like someone he’s written before and that confuses him terribly.

A group of high schoolers spills into the restaurant and one of them asks if they can sit in the seat where he put his bag. He shrugs and starts to move the bag but the girl suddenly seems shocked at her own boldness and withdraws. “In a New York Mood” drifts over through the speakers and he wonders if he’s ever been in a New York mood beyond his sister’s wedding before he went to college and they played “New York, New York” and he was drunk and the family formed a kickline and danced around.

“Where are you from?” he asks and wonders whether or not it’s just the hangover that’s making him this outgoing.

He doesn’t remember what she said but he remembers that it was a region to the north of them. “I’ve been here for the last five years.” She says with a grin. “Found a job out of school.”

He’s surprised because she doesn’t look that old to him but he nods sagely. “Well then we couldn’t have met before, because I only just got here a few months ago. I’m from the States.” He’s always liked the phrase “the States” because it’s so short and easy to say plus it doesn’t imply that they all agree (and he knows they don’t).

His gaze flicks up to the television and there’s a man setting himself on fire, but he’s wearing a fireproof suit so it’s okay. Jeff Gordon advertises Jeff Gordon’s racing career and he catches a comment from one of the highschoolers about needing a dollar in quarters and for a second his hand goes to his pocket but he has no change so he goes back to eating and watching the man set himself on fire.

A boy comes in and all the girls raise a ruckus over him because somebody said he liked somebody else and he denies it. In that moment it’s obvious that he likes the girl who’s teasing him the most but she’s completely oblivious to the boy’s awkward advances and he wants to give the boy a reassuring pat and tell him that it’s okay, she’s probably a bitch anyway but he doesn’t because that would be rude.

“Perhaps time travel’s involved.” She says, winking at him. He blinks, confused (that was supposed to be his line, wasn’t it?) for a moment but then he smiles a broad grin and admits that it’s a possibility.

“You haven’t time traveled, have you?” He asks idly, secretly hoping that she’ll nod and they’ll have an adventure.

“I’m afraid not,” she admits, and then he realizes that he finished his bacon and eggs and tea and really he should stop wasting her time but then she says “have you?” and he’s got to stick around just for a little while longer, just to answer her.

His fries are gone, and the highschoolers are all trying to pay for their food, rooting around in purses and pockets for spare change while a nondescript pop-rock song plays and he grabs another drink and waits and waits and waits. There’s another man in there with him and he can almost feel the man’s hatred of these children in his way, in his restaurant and the urge to tell the man that he really needs to relax and take life as it comes seizes him but what does he know anyway? It’s not worth offending anyone over.

The girl who asked if she could sit at his seat shies away from him as he approaches the counter to pay and he’s confused, because he’s never thought himself to be particularly menacing but he seems to come off that way despite his best efforts. He wonders if everyone’s always going to shy away from him but he knows that’s not true because the girl in the café hadn’t.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since he came in but his watch is back in the States to be repaired and he’s forgotten to wear the replacement he bought—but the wall clock tells him he’s got to get moving only he doesn’t want to, because he’s got something here and the worst thing that could happen would be for it to stop too soon.

But of course he gets up and makes a bow to her, saying that it was nice meeting her. “We should do this again sometime,” he jokes, and as he’s turning to leave he hears her say “Yes, we really should” and the world seems a little brighter as he steps out into the crisp winter air and heads to the college, feeling a slight pang of regret that he’d never found out her name nor told her his own—but maybe they’d run into one another again sometime soon (but they didn’t, he recalls—and maybe that was a good thing, because after a moment like that it’s really hard to top it).

The man takes his money (the smallness of the bills still seems odd to him, he’d gotten used to the almighty pound) and gives change back, and the highschoolers are gone and now he’s gone too, out the door and halfway down the street, thinking about Oxford.