Route 66

   The gas needle on his Vincent Black Shadow was edging toward empty already.  If memory served him right, there was a gas station in the next town.  Why he didn’t fill up his gas tank before setting off west, Presley hadn’t an answer.  The letter from his brother was enough to get him packing immediately and to set off.  There was work and money to be made. 
     An ominous glow from the town ahead indicated there must be a gas station on his way.  The light grey pavement rolled underneath his tires as Presley pushed 75 mph, the yellow dashes in the road flew by as soft light from the setting sun began to wane behind a few scattered trees—the open sky mixing tranquil colors of deep blue, yellow and burning orange near the horizon. 
     Presley saw a sign that said a service station was only a couple turns away once in town.  He turned on Pine Street and pulled into the lights where there was a diner inside, and Presley became hungry all the sudden.
     Brass bells attached to the door jingled as he pushed it open, and a sign said “Please Seat Yourself,” so Presley sat down in a booth--picking at the hardened fake leather that curved upward, like an upside-down valley, from the weight of too many country fried stakes smothered in gravy having been eaten there.
     “What can I get you today sir?” said the young waitress.  Her blue eyes lying coquet upon him…he was someone she never saw before.  She looked restless in her uniform. 
     “Coffee, please,” said Presley, coolly.  “Oh! And a cheeseburger with fries.”
     “Anything else?”
     “Not yet.”
     The waitress went back to the kitchen to tell the cook what to make.  She was too young and too beautiful to be working at a diner this late on a Wednesday evening—she was probably 16. Long brown hair fell to the mid of her back.   I wonder what her parents do to make her work like this, thought Presley.  She’s probably the daughter of some European immigrants, thought Presley.  And that’s why she’s working so late.       

     “Tell the gas attendant to fill up the tank and let me get a tube of that Burma-Shave for the road,” said Presley, standing at the checkout counter.    
     “Where you headed to?” the waitress asked.
     “West.”
     “How far to you think you’re going?”
     “As far as I can.  My brother’s got some work for me there out West.  I figure it’s better than sticking around here.  Every town’s the same old thing.” 
     “What’s your name?” she said.  “I got nothing here left for me.”
     “You’re a little too young to be thinking about running away aren’t you?”
     “Let me tell you something.  I’ve been in Normal far too long.  If you ask me, everyone in this town’s got one foot in the grave.  I’d rather take my chances with you along that dusty highway pointed west.”
     Presley was quiet.
     “Let me get a pint of that whiskey and a pack of Lucky Strikes.  When are you done for the night?”

--Lee Strubinger