Chapter four, Ryan present. He drums his fingers on the dashboard. Ryan
knows it has been annoying his partner to no end, but Sam just stepped
out to brave the torrential downpour, an odd weather system for January in DC.
It should be snowing, but it's not cold enough. Instead, there
are big fat drops of rain that beat down on the car loudly and unceasingly.
A crack of thunder shakes the official government vehicle in which he is sitting,
and a flash of lightning lights up the sky. Just then Sam flings
open the driver's side door and plops down in the seat, handing Ryan his
coffee black one sugar Decalf. He used to take his coffee with three creamers
and three sugars and as chalk full of caffeine as possible, but ever since
the doctor prescribed him blood pressure medication told him to cut out caffeine altogether.
He has also the cream for the calories. It would be a cold day
in hell, though if he cut out the sugar. A man can only
take so much. Sam shakes his head like a dog and scoffs at his
partner, dcalf, I don't know how you do it. What's the point
If you close your eyes, it tastes the same. Ryan takes a sip.
It's cold. Sam ignores him. I hate the rain. Yeah,
snow would be better. Yeah, for this ship, definitely, snow would
be better. Sam takes his plastic stir and drums it against the steering wheel.
This coffee sucks. Ryan takes one more sip, powers down the window,
and chucks the plastic cup out into the rain. Sam shrugs, next
time you're buying. Then. Sam takes the stir back into his cup and
takes another sip. Once we get this signal here, you're going to wish
that coffee had been regular, That caffeine pumpin through you, old man.
Ryan leans his head back against the headrest. Sam is right. They have
been canvassing this house for three days, which is a long time for federal
marshals to stake out one of their possibles. The call should becoming any minute,
and Ryan is ready. He has been a federal marshal in Washington,
d C. For twenty years. At fifty two years old, he is
not what he used to be, but he still feels that anticipation and adrenaline
surging through him every time he's on the job. The steakouts are still the
most fun. Ryan is at the ready, alert, always waiting for that
call to come. When it does, he goes into high gear. The
job of a federal marshal is very specific. Ryan and his partner Sam never
solve crimes, and they never care whether a fugitive is guilty. Their job
is simply defined them murderers, armed robbers, drug dealers, defendants who skip
court dates, rapists, prostitutes. Ryan and Sam hunt them down and chase
them all. It is a dangerous job, not for the faint of heart.
Ryan has participated in standoffs, high speed chases, and all that other
shit on television and in movies. He's lived it. He is the modern
day wild West cowboy, making sure the villain gets run out of town,
or so to speak. At least that's how he thinks of himself and the
work he does. This particular stakeout is one of the higher profile ones.
DC police had been tracking a known suspect in the area, a drug lord
named Marcus Donovan, known on the street as Maniac. Maniacs started off a
typical street thug, dealing marijuana and some crack as he rose up the ranks,
he began dealing the heavier stuff and dabbling in other criminal activity such as
weapons possession and armed robbery. Today, Maniac is wanted an armed robbery and
murder charges. He graduated to murder when police were tipped off by one of
their undercover guys. The police officer, who had been part of Maniac's gang
for months, had overheard Maniac confessing to another thug that he and two other
goons had killed three teenagers who owed him money for drugs. Allegedly, Maniac
and his crew had forced their way into the kid's apartment, tied them up
in the attic, and shot them all execution style in the back of the
head. They then took the money, jewelry, and drugs from the apartment.
Another roommate, who had been sleeping at his girlfriend's apartment that night,
came home the next day only to find them all dead. Sam and Ryan
have been canvassing Maniac's house in the Noma area for three days. North of
Massachusetts or Noma is known for being one of the most dangerous areas in DC,
and Ryan is growing tired of the scenery. This is the job,
though it's never been known for its esthetics. Ryan and Sam, along with
DC Metro Police, have a warrant out against this fucker. Now they just
need to wait for the call from their supervisor. Ryan knows Maniac is in
hiding. He and Sam have not seen him enter or exit the house since
they arrived. He is lying low, biding his time, like so many
of the other criminals do. A few individuals have come and gone through the
front door, but they look to be mostly tweakers out for a fix or
to sell. They are not who they want. They will all get arrested
if they are inside. When Ryan and Sam finally break down the door,
but it is Maniac they are really after. Sam sticks out his hand to
fiddle with the radio about how the goddamn thing must be broken. When the
call finally comes, it is dispatch calling out the ten twenty six, the
go ahead to apprehend the suspect. Sam yells a quick ten to four back
into the radio and he and Ryan jump out of the car, guns drawn.
They run up the dilapidated wooden stairs to knock on the front door.
State and federal police follow them, guns also drawn. They are tracking Maniac
also because he is alleged to have traffic drugs over state lines. Sam yells
into the door that the police are there and for Marcus to come out with
his hands up, where they will break down the door and everyone will be
arrested. Nothing. None of these guys ever come to the door, Ryan
thinks, smirking. He adjusts his gun arm as Sam yells again. Nothing.
On the third try, Sam yells, and afterward steps aside to let
one of the federal police officers use his battering ram. The officer pushes once,
and on the second try, the door gives way, splintering and swinging
open. The men rush in, with Ryan leading the way. Ryan yells,
get down, get down, as he runs through the house, pointing
the weapon up and down as he looks into closets, around corners and through
hallways. He has seen this vista a thousand times before. Attics of all
shapes and sizes hide in corners, some nodding off, some crying, most
with needles still stuck in their arms. Babies cry Toddler's scream. The furniture,
if there is any, is usually covered with dirty syringes, tie offs,
crack pipes, and white powder. This trap house is no different.
Empty soda bottles and chip bags cover the floor, and in the back corner
of the living room, a television blares a midday Judge show. It is
a smell that is always the most disturbing to Ryan. It is a mix
of yearnin feces, cigarette and crack smoke. Ryan places his forearm over his
mouth and nose so as not to breathe in too much of the rancid smell.
He kicks a bright red plastic toy ball out of his way as he
heads down the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees
three police officers run up the stairs as two others begin arresting the attics.
Downstairs. He hears Sam asking the most lucid of the individuals where maniac is
and telling her that she will face lesser charges if she gives him up.
The woman refuses. In front of him. Through the kitchen, Ryan sees
a black man in his early twenties sprint out the back door. He yells
to him to stop police, but the man continues running. Ryan follows him,
running behind him out the door. As the man jumps the back steps
and heads from the adjoy winning yard, Ryan yells into his radio, signaling
a ten eighty chase in progress and tucks the gun into his side. As
Ryan is sprinting toward him. The black man trips and falls, crashing into
a fence that lines the side of the neighbor's yard. Ryan tackles him,
falling on top of the man as he squirms underneath him. Shit man,
let me go. The man looks up as he wiggles underneath Ryan. It
is not Maniac. Ryan pins the man down on the ground with his left
arm and fumbles into his pocket for his handcuffs. With his right. He
is about to read the man his rights when his radio crackles into action.
The dispatcher is saying that Maniac has been apprehended. The subject is in custody.
One of the guys upstairs must have apprehended him. Ryan thinks, let's
go. You're fucked. Ryan says to the man, yanking him up by
his arms that are now handcuffed together behind him. I'm going to read you
your rights now. I suggest you listen. The man spits on the ground
next to Ryan. Ryan ignores him and walks the man into the back door
and through the house. He reads him his rights as they walk, pushing
him forward. With every step on the front lawn. Through the chaos,
Ryan sees Sam escorting maniac to a state police car. Other officers stand on
the lawn questioning the other inhabitants of the house. The toddlers and babies who
are taken from the house are in a huddle on the lawn, still crying,
while an officer kneels down to try to explain to them why they have
to go away for a while. Ryan tries to block out the cries of
mommy and daddy that he hears. He doesn't typically succeed. Ryan hands off
his arrestee to one of the state officers who will take him to county to
be booked. It looks as if the state and federal officers have a hold
on this one. He signals to Sam to come meet him by the car.
They will swing by county to find out if the other officers need any
help with the booking, but typically they are waved away. Sam jogs up
to the car and joins Ryan behind it. As they survey the scene,
Sam choose on a toothpick that he has fished from his pocket. Ryan places
his hands on the hood of the car, then looks up, running his
fingers through his hair. How's that coffee treating you just fine? Thanks,
County. Ryan nods, yeah, probably won't need us though. Sam agrees,
in which case, I say we go grab a beer on you.
Ryan nods again and opens the passenger side door. Sam slides into the driver's
side and starts the engine. One of the deputies on the lawn is taking
names of the suspects and gives them a salute. Ryan looks straight ahead as
Sam pulls the car away from the curb. Chapter five, Jessica passed.
Jessica had never really had much of a social life. Social lives were kind
of tough to have when one was homeschooled. When she turned seven years old
and realized her birthday party consisted of dinner ordered in from the local sushi place
and her parents drinking too much wine at dinner, she vowed to somehow become
more normal. She begged and begged her mother to find her a friend,
and for years her mother refused. Lisa Walker told Jessica that Jessica had her
mother and her father and that was all she needed. Jessica didn't buy it
and kept insisting she'd go over to someone's house. Anyone's house really to play.
When she was eight years old, Jessica was taken over to Robbie Miller's
house to do just that. There were a few problems with this. First
of all, Robbie was a boy. Jessica would have much preferred to play
with a girl of her own age. Secondly, Robbie pretty much kept to
himself the whole time Jessica was there. That little bastard didn't even want to
play legos. Jessica tried and tried to engage with him, suggesting they play
Hide and Seek or a board game, or swim in Robbie's pool, even
though Jessica had never liked swimming. Robbie staunchly refused all of these recommendations.
It was for these reasons that Jessica found him boring and unlikable, but then
again, she found most people boring and unlikable. The third problem with the
whole playdate setup was the fact that her mother had come along. Lisa Walker
had not just come along to talk with Robbie's mother, or to have a
cocktail with her, or to do any other thing that normal adults who accompany
their children on play dates would do. No Lisa Walker came to supervise,
and supervise she did like a hawk. For the forty two minutes Jessica was
at Robbie's house, her mother kept both eyes trained on Jessica and a grimace
on her face. No wonder Robbie didn't want to do anything, Jessica thought,
and she couldn't say she blamed him one bit. After that horrendous showing,
Jessica decided to let sleeping dogs lie and never to bring up having a
play date or a friend in general. Again. She got the sense that
her mother just wasn't having it and that she should resign herself to the fact
that her mother was unusually strict and controlling. On a daily basis, Jessica
was expected to have her classes, eat lunch, which typically consisted of a
turkey sandwich with mustard and cheese, carrots and milk, to her homework than
have dinner with her parents. Jessica was allowed one hour of TV a night,
and this was a program of her mother's choosing, usually Joe Millionaire or
American Idol. Then it was bedtime at nine pm up until the time she
was sixteen years old. Surprisingly, Jessica didn't feel animosity toward her mother for
these limitations she placed on her. She did, however, feel animosity towards
her father. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she spent most
of her time with her mother. As she taught Jessica her studies from the
confines of her home every day for seventeen years, she and her mother developed
a closer bond. She still found her mother to be a passive, aggressive,
weak idiot, but at least she wasn't a complete asshole like her father.
Her father seemed to like golfing more than he liked his family. Her
father seemed to like working more than he liked his family. Most nights,
it would only be Jessica and her mother eating something her mother had made for
dinner, or dining on takeout from one of the local restaurants because they never
went out to eat With no Martin Walker in sight. He'd come home late,
typically giving her mother some bullshit excuse as to why he had missed the
meal he had to work or was coming from drinks with buddies. Jessica knew
this was bullshit because her father didn't have any buddies. Much like herself,
her parents didn't have friends. The three lived into Funiac Springs, Florida.
Jessica was born there, but felt no sort of way about the place.
It was too hot, too white, trash for her, too few people,
although since she never saw anyone anyway, she supposed the population of the
town mattered little. There was nothing to do, no one to see.
It was a humdrum existence. Martin seemed to find plenty of things to do.
He was always off golfing or drinking. Jessica assumed it was by himself
or out doing god knew what. At first, Jessica resented him for going
out and doing things while her mother and she were stuck in the house playing
school and being bored, But soon Jessica found that she didn't care. She
was perfectly content to keep to herself, do homework and watch Joe Millionaire on
Fox. She often wondered why her mother never stood up for herself and insisted
that Martin take her out, show her off, have some sort of life
outside of cooking pasta in the kitchen of fourteen oh three Done d Street,
but she never did. Perhaps Lisa, much like Jessica, didn't want to
spend much time with Martin Walker four times a year at the beginning of winter,
summer, spring, and fall, her mother would take Jessica shopping at
the Defuniac Springs Mall. Jessica enjoyed this. Lisa Walker still never let her
out of her sight, but it was something to do. Jessica liked getting
new clothes, even though no one besides her mother and father ever saw her
wear anything. They only went four times a year because, as Lisa Walker
said, it wasn't prudent to replenish your wardrobe more than once a season.
Jessica wanted to counter with the fact that it wasn't prudent to go shopping at
all other than for summer clothes because they lived in Florida and the temperature was
almost always over seventy five degrees, but she held her tongue. She wanted
to go shopping, so she didn't care how her mother justified it. So
Jessica was surprised one day in May, when she was a junior in filling
out college applications, that her mother burst through the door and announced they were
going shopping. They had already been shopping for Jessica's new spring wardrobe at the
beginning of April. For what Jessica asked capping her pen and shoving her folder
to the side for a dress. Silly, this is a special occasion.
What's the special occasion. Your father's company is having a party. He was
one of the top brokers this year. Good for him, Jessica was unimpressed.
Jessica didn't know what her father did for a living or care. It
was something to do with money. That was all she knew. She had
no desire to dig deeper into the world of Martin Walker. We're both invited,
it's tonight. Her mother could not contain her excitement. Okay, Then
Jessica stood up and reached for her purse that was hanging on the back of
the chair. I'll believe it when it happens. Oh, don't be so
negative, Jessica. Her mother scolded her. You know your father and I
used to I know, I know, Jessica cut her off. He used
to go out all the time to fancy parties and to meet celebrities. I
get it. Her mother pressed her mouth in a firm line, but didn't
reply. She reached for her keys, and Jessica followed her to the garage.
Her mother told her all the time about how before she was born,
she and her father used to go out to parties and fundraisers and charity functions
galore. She gave no explanation as to why they didn't. Now, Jessica
always got the feeling that her mother blamed her for this change in lifestyle.
She couldn't imagine why, and she knew it sounded strange, but it was
just a feeling. Jessica got. Another thing her mother and Martin always told
her was that they would be attending fancy parties and fundraisers and charity functions present
day. They never went. Something always fell through. Usually, Martin would
have some excuse as to why they couldn't go to whatever it was they were
invited to, and he would act like it was no big deal to begin
with. Jessica and her mother would get ready for said event and wait downstairs,
her mother making constant excuses as to why Martin was late while drinking wine.
After an hour passed the scheduled time when they were supposed to leave,
Martin would come home, tie askew and sigh as he placed his briefcase on
the counter. After putting on his best I'm tired face, he would whine
and moan about how it had been such a hard day at the office,
and how would it be okay if we just stayed home tonight and I'm exhausted
and blah blah blah. Her mother would console him, patting him on the
back and would say, of course we can stay home. Your coworkers will
understand. Let me order us in something to eat, and Jessica and her
mother would take off the new dresses they had bought just for the occasion,
and they would all sit and watch TV while she ate pizza and her parents
drank wine. That was always how it went, so needless to say,
anytime her mother wanted to take her shopping for a special occasion, Jessica was
never too optimistic. This time was no different. They went to Sax's Fifth
Avenue and Lisa Walker picked out a deep blue dress with a plunging neckline for
herself, and Jessica got a yellow dress with a swirly skirt. She felt
the dress was too young for her, but when she saw the price tag,
she decided to keep quiet. It was four hundred dollars. Jessica had
never owned a four hundred dollars dress before, for she felt special and very
pretty. Her mother then picked out tiny pearl drop earrings for herself and Jessica
and matching Bengal bracelets. As she was paying for the jewelry, her mother
suddenly turned to face, her eyes flashing excitedly, Let's go get her hair
and makeup done. What do you say? Lisa Walker looked at Jessica and
grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the salon. It will be a special
treat. Jessica let herself be pulled along. She was excited. She had
never had her hair and makeup done before, and she thought maybe this time
it would be different. Maybe they would go to her father's company party,
where she would talk to grown ups about things like politics and current events and
the law thinks she was interested in and had researched extensively. She would wear
her pretty yellow dress and Martin's co workers would probably mistake her for a year
young broker at the company, and she would laugh and explain that, oh
no, she was just Martin's seventeen year old daughter, and the co workers
would gasp and exclaim, but you're so beautiful and so wise beyond your years,
how can that be? And Jessica would simply smile and sit the champagne
that she would have taken with no questions asked. This was the scenario that
played over and over in her head. She didn't even mind when, while
the Korean girl was doing her nails, her mother told her a little too
loudly not to take the tag off her dress, you know, just in
case we need to take it back. Jessica found this to be completely ghaush
and mortifying, but she was in such a good mood she didn't let it
bother her. Two hours later, hair and makeup done and dresses on,
she and her mother sat across from each other on the living room couch.
Her mother was drinking wine and Jessica was eating a book. Her father was
supposed to be home at seven pm in order to take them to the function.
At seven oh five, Jessica heard his car in the garage. She
stood up, smoothing her dress. Her father had never arrived home on time
before. Maybe they would actually be going. Her father came in the back
door, and her mother greeted him with a kiss. Jessica waited expectantly.
Lisa, Jessica. Her father greeted them as if he were across the table
from them. In a high stress litigation matter you both look lovely, he
finished, without actually looking up at them. Instead, he headed for the
wet bar against the back wall in the kitchen. There he poured himself four
fingers of whiskey. He typically drank wine. The three of them stood in
uncomfortable silence until Martin finally spoke again. Lisa, I'm exhausted. It was
quite a day at the office. The boss was on my ass all morning,
and I just can't drag myself to the function, not tonight. He
took a sip from his glass. Jessica's mother patted him contritely on the head.
There there, That's okay. We understand, don't we, Jessica.
Let's just order a pizza and relax. Jessica, can you get me the
pizza delivery menu? Jessica ignored her. She was seething her father had fooled
them again. But Dad, isn't this party for you, for you being
the best broker or something. Don't you think you should probably show up at
your own stupid party. Martin's face darkened and he placed his glass on the
bar. I said, he started pausing between every word for emphasis. I
said, I tired. We are not going end of discussion. Jessica Marie
Walker. He turned to his wife, I will take pepperoni and pineapple on
my pizza and order a salad. I'm going to lie down with that.
Martin headed to the couch while Jessica's mother was already on the phone with the
pizza store. It was on speed dial. Jessica glared at her mother.
The glare went unnoticed. She then flipped her father off. No one could
see it because she was already halfway up the stairs, stamping her feet and
taking them two at a time. She ran into her room and slammed the
door. She tore the pearl earrings out of her ears and pulled the bracelet
off her wrist. Jessica threw them both in the trash can next to her
desk. She then pulled her new yellow dress over her head and flung it
on the bed. Without hesitation, and with great pleasure, she ripped off
the price tag from the top of the dress, just because her mother had
explicitly told her not to. Chapter six, Ryan present it's way too hot
to be wearing a leather jacket. Ryan realizes it's too hot to be wearing
blue jeans, but jeans are one of the few clean laundry items in his
apartment, and he all but threw the remaining dirty clothes into his duffel bag.
When packing. He forgot how hot this damned desert sun can be.
It makes him uncomfortable standing and sweating in the sun for so long. He
doesn't know how these desert people do it. He'd go crazy being this hot
every goddamn day. The clerk at the Super eight Kingman had looked at him
suspiciously as he checked in. Ryan assumed that was because he was wearing a
leather jacket when the temperature was a hundred degrees outside, and because he never
took off his sunglasses while he talked to her. Ryan didn't want to be
rude, but they had only exchanged a few words, and the Native American
clerks seemed like she had better things to worry about than some white man behind
her counter not taking off his sunglasses. Ryan had assumed she had seen weirder
and worse. Plus, he had just driven two thousand, three hundred miles
with one stop overnight for a three hour rest before hitting the road again to
drive the remaining ten hours of his thirty four hour trip. He was not
concerned with how he looked or smelled. He always stayed at the Super eight
when he came to Peach Springs. He chose it the first year he came
to check up on her because it was the cheapest motel around. Back then,
in nineteen ninety five, it had cost fifteen dollars a night. These
days it was forty two dollars a night. Because price inflation was a bitch.
Ryan kept staying there because it remained the cheapest motel in the area.
Also, he was a creature of habit and he liked knowing that he would
be someplace familiar when he came around. Even though the Super eight Kingman was
a good thirty five miles outside of Peach Springs where she lived, it was
a stone's throw from the truck stop where she worked. Ryan didn't like hanging
around Peach Springs to keep tabs on her. He felt slimy and stokersh even
though that's exactly what he was. He knew he was, but he didn't
want people in the town knowing that as well. Indians gossip a lot,
and Ryan wanted to avoid the scrutiny as best as he could, so he
stayed at the Super eight and went to the truck stop. Most days he
was there, he ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the diner.
Inside. The food was decent and new Kingman Butler was severely lacking in dining
choices, but those weren't the reasons why he ate there so frequently. It
was just to see her. It was just to make sure she was doing
okay. A few years ago, he figured the smart efficient thing to do
would be to inquire about her schedule, to inquire about her shifts, and
to come in to eat at the truck stop during the times when she worked.
But he soon put aside that thought, realizing not only would that make
him seem completely creepy and scary, but also that he enjoyed being in the
restaurant. Even when she wasn't there. He still felt her, He still
saw her face as he sat in the cracked plastic booth, somehow easily convincing
himself that she was safe even when not in his presence. The diner was
his safety blanket of sorts, so was the super Eate. This is why
he traveled between the two locations for as long as his schedule allowed him to
stay in Arizona, typically a week was about all the time he could get
off before his next assignment, So for a week he would sleep at the
motel, eat three meals a day at the diner, and in between them,
sit in his car parked at the side of the truck stop, where
he could see in the diner windows without attracting too much attention. He could
keep an eye on her without being seen, and she would never notice him.
He had never once taken off his sunglasses in the twenty three years he
had been coming to Arizona to see her, unless he was alone inside his
hotel room. And now he's back. Ryan stemps out of the sedan,
noting that the car is already starting to get stifling after only two minutes,
and looks around at the familiar landscape. What a shit town, he thinks.
The same thought goes through his mind every year. Who in their right
mind would want to live here? As he fumbles with the car keys in
order to automatically lock the doors, he sees her leaning against the wall of
the truck stop, smoking and staring at him. He feels as if the
wind has been knocked out of him. He wasn't expecting to see her until
he set foot inside the diner, but there she is, right in front
of him. She is wearing a white tank top with a small hole near
the right bottom corner, and a pair of indecently short jean shorts. Through
the flimsy tank he can see the outline of a triangle shaped bikini top,
both sides of which are flush against her skin. Because of the almost complete
lack of breast tissue on her chest, she has the upper body of a
twelve year old boy. The daisy dukes barely cover her ass cheeks, where
there is more of a shape to her. She is wearing hot pink tattered
flip flops, with one of the straps being held together with duct tape.
Her skin is white, almost alabaster, with small freckles dotting a good majority
of it. Her brown hair comes to just below her shoulders, and as
he watches, she snaps a black hair tie off her wrists and winds it
expertly in her hair until it becomes a ponytail, all the while never taking
her eyes off of him or removing the cigarette from her lips. At least,
he has always assumed her hair is brown. Ryan realizes he's never looked
at her before without sunglasses. On, and they turn everything to a darker
hue. He is suddenly overtaken by the urge to see her true hair color,
to touch it, and smell it, but he does none of these
things, and nervously adjusts his sunglasses instead. She continues to look suspiciously at
him, pursing her lips into a small shape. She flicks a cigarette to
the ground, places her hands on her hips, and slowly cocks her head
to the side, as if studying him. Her eyes move up and down,
taking him all in, sizing him up. She speaks first, Hey,
glasses your back. Long time no see it is the most beautiful sound
he has ever heard. That nickname. He loves kids named Ryan don't grow
up having a nickname, and she was the first person ever to give him
one. He never takes off his sunglasses around her either. He wants to
God he does, but he hasn't, and he won't. What are you
doing out here? Shouldn't you be inside working? Freedom mimes smoking with her
right hand, putting two fingers up against her lips and pulling them away from
her face. Got to quit those things, they're bad for you inside,
Ryan winces. He hates sounding like her father. Didn't you use to smoke
glasses? Sure everyone did, but it's not the same. It was a
different time. Yeah yeah, Well what else am I supposed to do out
here in reservation country? It's so boring you need to smoke. If not,
everyone go crazy with nothing to do. Ryan ignores this comment and instead
heads for the door of the restaurant. You coming, it's too hot out
here. Freedom kicks her feet as she follows him, sending sand spraying up
around her ankles and Ryan's she's like a little girl, Ryan thinks, acting
out and pouting. Freedom shows him to a booth by the window, where
Ryan has a lovely view of the parking lot to the west. She sits
down across from him, twirls her hair in her fingers. Dakota's been on
my ass all day, buggin' me wants me to entertain all the truckers.
That sounds thrilling. Ryan picks up a menu and pretends to look at it,
but in reality, he is studying her. She looks slightly more gaunt
than last year, like she's lost weight. She's always been thin, but
this time she looks like a rail. She continues talking about the truckers.
I ain't in the mood you know not today? Don't say ain't Freedom gaffas
glasses you're always trying to correct my english. Give it up. I ain't
ever gonna talk all proper like U DC folk. Now she's making fun of
him, taunting him. Besides, what are you gonna have? Don't act
like you don't know that menu like the back of your hand. It ain't
change none since you've been here last. I'll have the ruben hold the Thousand
Island dressing coming right up. Freedom scoots out of the booth, and,
with not even so much as a glance back at him, heads toward the
kitchen. Ran wonders if she'll continue to sit with him while he eats.
Sometimes she does, and sometimes she doesn't. It depends on how busy she
is that hour and what kind of mood she's in. She can be fickle
or downright rude and ignore him. Ryan doesn't mind the fickle, but he
dislikes the rude and hates being ignored. He has to remind himself that she
has no idea that he drives thirty four hours just to see her, and
that if she ignores him, his feelings are hurt. Ryan takes her every
action personally, which he knows he shouldn't. It's not like she knows what
they are to one another or anything about their past relationship. He's chiding himself
for having such pussy esque thoughts. When Freedom walks back with his sandwich,
she places it in front of him and sits down again in the booth across
from him. Ryan suppresses a smile, so she is going to sit with
him. The dressing is on the side. She points to a small paper
cup filled with thousand island dressing that is dangling precariously off the side of the
plate. I see that. Yeah, well, Eduardo in the backs,
not so good on the English if you catch my drift. I told him
to leave it off, but he put it on the side instead. Freedom
finishes her sentence and looks at him expectantly, as if daring him to comment
on such a mundane statement. That's fine. Ryan nudges the paper cup off
of his plate with the tip of his knife and picks up his sandwich.
Evidently this humorous Freedom, because she starts to giggle. What you got against
Russian dressing glasses? Nothing but this? This isn't Russian dressing, Okay?
Freedom rolls her eyes. What you got against thousand island dressing? She hits
the word thousand an island hard, denoting her sarcasm. Don't like it.
Freedom, who seems bored, reaches for her cigarettes in her apron and lights
one myself. I don't care for them. Russians didn't they hack everybody?
Or something something like that. She is chatty today. Ryan continues eating the
sandwich tastes like a cigarette because of the lingering smoke in the diner, and
because of the smoke, Freedom is blowing in his face. But Ryan doesn't
care. He'd rather have her here talking to him cigarette smoke or not,
than have her be out of her sight or God forbid, waiting on another
table. Lucky for him, he seems to be the only customer save for
one trucker sitting at the bar. Ryan gets jealous when she talks to other
men. Hell, he gets jealous if she talks to other women, especially
that drunken cunt of an Indian who was her boss. He could kill that
fat bitch for treating Freedom the way she does. Freedom is still talking,
going on and on about Russians, or maybe now it's about the Mexican Wall
he's not quite sure. Ryan takes the opportunity to study her. She is
a passionate person, and once you get her on a roll, she never
shuts up. She talks like she knows what she's talking about, but Ryan
isn't sure she does. He is eating and half listening when Freedom suddenly snaps
her fingers in his face. Ryan, startled, looks up, Hey,
glasses Hello. She draws out the last word to convey her annoyance with him.
He's just spent all of six minutes with this woman, and already he
seems to be annoying her. Story of his life? Sorry, what was
that? He puts down a sandwich to give her his full attention. I
said, what's with that car of yours? You a cop or something?
What makes you think that it's a badass looking car? It is? Ryan
grabs a few French fries, dipping them in and ketchup and pretends to be
nonchalant, but secretly he is excited that she thinks his car is badass.
Yeah kinda. I mean everyone else here got trucks, you know, same
old, same old. You're different, You're like an international man of mystery,
like that movie. She seems proud of herself as she stubs out her
cigarette into the ashtray that looks like it hasn't been dumped out since last week?
What movie Austin powers you know? She seems exasperated. He's now spent
ten minutes with a woman who is caught on to the fact that he's also
a complete moron again the story of his life. Before he can comment,
Dakota rumbles out from behind the counter where the trucker is sitting and yells to
Freedom to get back in the kitchen. Ryan doesn't understand why, seeing is
that there is no work to be done, but what does he know?
Freedom looks at him, puts two fingers up to her head in the shape
of a gun, and metaphorically pulls the trigger with her thumb. She exit
the booth without another word. She is busy for the next twenty minutes and
doesn't return to Ryan's table, Busy or Dakota is keeping her away from him.
Ryan thinks he gets to be quite the conspiracy theorist when it comes to
her. He finishes his sandwich and tries to get her attention at the back
of the rest, but he is unable to as she seems to be fighting
with Dakota for a majority of that time. Frustrated, he gives up and
leaves a twenty dollar bill on the table. He pushes open the side door
of the restaurant and heads to the car, where he will sit and wait
for a few hours. He will be back for dinner.