A Stranger in the Land…Jeremiah 14:8
It was just one of those things he’d learned from a lifetime—well, fifteen years of one anyway—on the road. In a big city, crashing for the night in your car was best accomplished in an industrial area. No residents, no drunken assholes on their way home from bars, so generally speaking no nosy cops.
But in small towns, businesses are next to houses, and strange trucks on the street lead to questions. So in a small town, what you do is park behind the church. Any day but Sunday, that lot’s empty at night, and if anyone does see it, it’s probably a do-gooder with a Good Samaritan complex. In other words, a sucker unlikely to call the police.
Logan found a suitable house of worship—small, slightly shabby and with a parking lot shielded from the road—and pulled in behind it, in the shade of a large tree. He’d seen a diner a few blocks up the street on his way in, so that was an added plus. It was already past dusk and the place looked deserted, so he was probably safe from bingo players or choir practices happening. He threw his jacket into the back of his camper and set off to find food.
The diner was typical. Shabby formica tables, tired and dusty fake plants, a specials list in the window that clearly hadn’t been changed in years. A fiftyish waitress with a plastic rose pinned to the nametag on her bosom greeted him with an overly bright smile as he walked in. Five or six obvious regulars were scattered around the place, mostly at the counter, and they looked up when Logan entered with the usual small-town combination of curiosity and suspicion. He walked past them to a table in the back and sat down with his back to the wall.
The waitress approached with the menu. “Evenin’, honey. Can I get you somethin’ to drink?”
”You got beer?”
She pursed her lips coyly. “Not here, hon. Gotta go a ways and find a roadhouse if you want alcohol.”
Logan bit back a curse. Goddamn Southern towns. “Coffee, then. Two hamburgers, fries, make the fries well done.”
“How ‘bout the hamburgers?” She was taking a pen and pad from her apron pocket and jotting down the order; why, Logan couldn’t imagine, since it looked like he was the only thing in the place that had moved all day.
“Rare. Bloody.” He handed back the menu.
She gave him the coy look again. “Comin’ right up.”
Logan leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. If he hit the road as soon as it was light, he might make the Mexico border by late that night. Or if he slanted his route a little through Texas, at least he’d be sure of getting a beer at his next stop. One of the men at the bar had turned around and was regarding him with frank curiosity, and when Logan met his gaze the man inclined his head.
“You from outta town, mister?”
As if he didn’t know. “Yep.”
“From whereabouts?”
“Canada.”
The man broke into a smile. “Canada! You hear that, Ed? Man’s from Canada. That’s where me and Liz went for our honeymoon. Ni-agara Falls—boy, I tell you, that’s some sight. I ever tell you ‘bout that?”
“’Bout a million times, that’s all,” one of the other men called back. There was a general round of laughter, and the first man waved it off good-naturedly.
“Aw, you just hate that I c’n tell a better story’n you.” He turned back to Logan. “You ever been to Niagara Falls, mister?”
Swearing mentally, Logan wondered whether it would be more off-putting to say yes or no. Probably wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. “Yeah, I’ve been there.”
“Hear that? He’s been there. Well, ain’t it somethin’?”
Logan nodded shortly. “Yeah, it’s something.” The waitress came back with a cup of coffee and set it down in front of him. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing, honey.” She started to set down a small container of cream, but he waved it away.
“Black’s fine.”
His new friend at the bar spoke up again. “Doris, you hear? This feller’s been to Niagara Falls too.”
“Well, sure I heard, Denny. Ain’t a big enough place a girl can get away from the sound of your voice.” She gave Logan a flirtatious smile. “Denny’s a big traveler. Guess you are too?”
Logan gave a noncommittal grunt and hunched over his coffee, but it was no use. Denny was going to tell his story, come hell or high water. Over the next hour, he endured the tale of Denny’s honeymoon, a story about a drunken trip to Kansas City, numerous reminisces about Atlanta and Jackson and one excruciatingly long shaggy-dog story about Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Logan saw the punch line—“And ‘she’ was a ‘he’!” —coming twenty minutes in advance. It was like watching a stage show—all the other players obviously knew each story by heart and chipped in their oft-repeated observations on cue.
But there was an unexpected payoff. When Logan tossed a few dollars on the table for Doris and got up to leave, his new best friend Denny threw a comradely arm over his shoulder. “So, buddy, what’s your name?””
Logan shrugged the man’s arm off, turned and fixed him with a glare. “Why?”
Denny took a step back, looking slightly startled, but he gave a nervous smile. “Hey, no offense, pal. Just though a fellow traveler might be a little—“ He leaned in conspiratorially. “Thirsty. Know what I mean?”
One corner of Logan’s mouth twitched up. Then he held out a hand. “Name’s Logan.”
“Well, all right!” Denny grabbed his hand and clapped his shoulder. “Me ‘n the boys’re headed out—g’night, Doris sweetheart.”
“Y’all get on outta here. I gotta close up.” The waitress shooed the other men out. One of them slapped her backside as he went by and she squealed in feigned indignation.
Another thing about Southern towns—someone always has a convenient stand-alone garage “away from the women”. They didn’t have much beer, but after the single case ran out they produced a stash of moonshine that would’ve trashed an entire Confederate regiment. When Logan decided he’d had enough and rose to leave, three of them were passed out and Denny and two others were in a corner of the garage trying to harmonize to “My Old Kentucky Home”. Denny broke away when he saw Logan sidling towards the door. “Logan, buddy—you leavin’?”
“Yeah. Gotta head out early.” It was as friendly as he ever managed to be.
Denny’s eyes were watery. “Aw, man—gonna miss you, buddy.” He threw his arms around a startled Logan and hugged him. “You come back any time, y’hear?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Like when hell freezes over. He gave the man a half-hearted pat on the back and detached himself with some difficulty from the embrace.
“Me’n the boys’ll always be glad to see ya. Damn, I wish I was goin’ with you.” Denny wiped a hand over his eyes. “But Liz’d kill me, right, boys?”
“Damn right, Den,” someone slurred.
“Right. Right. Liz’d kill me.” Danny grinned drunkenly.
“Maybe next time, bub. Thanks for the drink.” Logan turned to go and Denny hollered after him.
“C’mon back soon. I’ll tell you ‘bout this time down in New Orleans…”
Logan walked quickly, letting the door swing closed behind him.
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Story Notes:
This story starts slowly, goes slowly, has entirely too much character exploration and essentially no superhero action. Be warned.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Meridien, Mississippi. A quiet little innocent Southern town...