***

Logan stared blankly at the old cable car, stuffed up on cement blocks and shoved into a small space of concrete between towering glass bank buildings. He dropped his cigar into a stream of muck and drainage floating down the sidewalk gutter, and pulled the brim of his dingy cowboy hat over his brow. Shoving his grimy hands into his pockets, he strode up to the door. It was rusty chrome with a plastic window, and probably hadn’t been cleaned since the car was constructed.
“My kinda place,” Logan muttered under his breath, kicking chunks of mud from his boots as he walked in.

She had fluffy red curls, obviously dyed, and scented with a thousand menthol cigarettes smoked less than an hour ago. Wrinkled bags hung under her eyes, but bright blue irises greeted him with a false sense of warmth. She was a tired old grandma, maybe a mother of four deadbeats, and a husband that died tragically somewhere.
“Howdy honey,” she grinned, baring nicotine-stained teeth. Dimples around the edges of her mouth revealed braces for at least five years. “Just one of ya, eh? C’mon. Looks like you need a table in the corner.”

“Beer, if you got it. Coffee, black, if you don’t.” Logan grunted as he slid into the dimly lit booth at the far end of the diner.
“Sure, hon.” The waitress smiled. “Name’s Betty. Call me if ya need me.”
“Yeah.” Logan opened the menu, staring down at the descriptions of various plates of greasy food, made by some hairy backed Mary in the kitchen you only got a glimpse at behind the counter.

After a minute, he shut the menu and stared out the window. Rusty old Bonnevilles and Town Cars jogged down the street, spitting out plumes of thick exhaust. Overhead, the sky melted into smog and low-lying rain clouds, blocking out the sun. Logan shuddered and reached for the ashtray between the crusty salt-and-peppershakers. Rings of day-old maple syrup stuck to the underside of every thing on the table, including the empty bottle of ketchup.
Betsy bounced back to the table on white Keds with holes in the toes and untied laces. She slid a dark brown bottle of Budweiser across the lacquered linoleum surface. Logan managed a small grin.

“On the house, honey. Looks like you need it, eh?” She pulled a notepad out of her apron and licked the tip of her ballpoint. “What’ll ya have?”
“Steak and eggs.” Logan grunted. “Steak barely dead, eggs with Tabasco, potatoes, don’t care what style. Whatever’s handy.”
“Absolutely, sugar.” Betsy smiled and trotted off.

Cigar smoke hung around Logan’s head as he tossed a swig of malt down his throat. Behind him, the door creaked uneasily on its hinges and swung open, upsetting the rickety coat rack.
“Oh, hey Cass,” Betsy grinned as she poured water into the glass of an old trucker parked at the counter. Logan turned around lazily, taking a drag on the cigar. He lifted the brim of his hat and looked over the empty booths to a young woman, tossing a raggedy denim coat over the rack.
“Hey Betsy, sugah.” The girl sighed. She tied a frilly white apron around her waist and adjusted the long white sleeves she wore under the puffed shoulders of her uniform. The young girl walked over to the counter and up to the kitchen window. Betsy pointed to the waiting food and then to Logan’s table.

“Steak and eggs?” Cass asked, holding the heavy tray over her shoulder as she placed a rolled napkin full of silverware on the table in front of Logan. He grunted and took another gulp of the beer.
“Talkative, ain’t ya, sugah? Well, enjoy.” Her voice was thick with Southern drawl, somewhere closer to Jackson than Atlanta. Logan tilted his hat, just enough to see the silky tendrils of dark mahogany hair that fell over her spine.
“Thanks,” he smirked as he picked up his fork.

After awhile, Betsy quietly cleared the empty plates away and emptied the ashtray. Logan got to his feet, leaving a generous tip stuffed between the condiments. He slid out of the booth and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, heading back towards the door.
“Where ya headed, stranger?” Cass called out as he shoved the door open with his shoulder. Logan turned, picking up a toothpick from a nearby dispenser and placing it on his tongue.
“No idea,” he sighed, taking a moment to glance at her face. A few streaks of platinum fell over her face, sticking out like a stripe on a skunk. Her eyes were harsh, dyed a bright emerald green, but dulled and jaded by a difficult life.
“Wish I could go.” Cass frowned, picking up a ceramic coffee cup and wiping it out with the edge of her apron.
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, hope you figure out where you’re headed.” Her soft lips turned up into a gentle smile, and the dark eyes watered, ever so slightly. “Maybe we’ll meet up again, someday.”

***
End.