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Location: Waffle House. Pines Holler. June 27.
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"Fucking Yankees."
Behind the Waffle House, next to the back door employee entrance, right near the dumpsters where the food waste got deposited without a second thought, Zoey Frye crouched with her head against the brick wall. The sun hadn't yet come up and Zoey had already taken her fourth break of the shift, but considering she wasn't typically a late night to morning worker, if anyone complained then they could have a strongly worded conversation with both of her middle fingers. Working mornings was more her speed, filling coffee mugs for people who liked the corporate conformity of an always open eatery that dealt equally in drunks as it did in fans of waffles that were slightly above frozen toaster quality, but she found herself taking on longer shifts these days. The pay wasn't that much better and early morning tips were basically nonexistent...but trips to the doctor didn't pay for themselves. Not to mention the lack of business so often meant she could sneak out to the back, set her portable radio out, and listen to the Reds get absolutely crushed by the Yankees.
The game was two days old and they didn't have another game until later today so what was a girl supposed to do in the meantime but catch up on what she missed? Top of the third and Jazz Chisholm hit a two run homer which put the Yankees up three to nothing. Zoey couldn't even be that mad about it, the Reds had already beaten the Yankees twice in this four game series and that was no small feat, but no one liked watching, or hearing, their team lose. With the playback going to commercial, Zoey took the moment to stand up and stretch her arms over her head. A car was pulling in to the parking lot, one headlight broken and the other flashing its brights, and the already exhausted Zoey slumped her head, bent over to pick up her radio, and turned towards the employee entrance, pausing to make sure the black apron and blue shirt that was her uniform were free of gravel and debris before heading back inside.
She was supposed to have a black cap with the company logo proudly displayed across it, but the name tag on her apron was enough corporate flair for her, so Zoey wore her Cincinnati Reds hat and if anyone of her managers complained well...as much as she would like to say she'd tell them to fuck off, the truth was she kinda needed this job. Fortunately, she had been here long enough now that a little dress code customization slipped through the cracks. Zoey Frye was just that good at filling coffee, suggesting how to order hash browns, and putting waffles on tables.
One of the few good parts about working a shift this early was during the pre-dawn hours there were generally so few customers that the Waffle House could operate with basically a skeleton crew. Zoey was the only waitress at the moment and there were only two people in the kitchen plus a busser. Quite the skeleton crew but unlike most Waffle House locations in more populated areas in the south, Pines Holler had remarkably few fights to break up. Plenty of drunks, but Zoey would rather a drunk asshole puking on their shoes than loud assholes who threw chairs and broke windows. One tier of customer came with having to talk to police and potentially showing up on social media; the other just meant having to wash her shoes.
The customer that had just arrived was waiting by the door and found a seat at the front counter, and Zoey was there to offer a cup of coffee if he wanted it. Everyone always wanted coffee at the Waffle House because they didn't serve alcohol so coffee was the next best thing. Someone drinking a beer before dawn was an alcoholic; someone who drank coffee at the same time was a productive member of society. Funny, that. The customer agreed to the coffee and within minutes Zoey was slapping an order slip to the guys working the line. "Pecan waffle, hash browns covered and smothered." There was a time where she didn't know what that meant. There was a time where she didn't find a small bit of amusement in explaining the preparations to first timers and tourists. A job like this, a place like this, she had to find what comforts and joys and distractions that she could. That was why Zoey leaned against a wall waiting for the order to cook and pulled out her phone, checking TikTok to see if the other notable waitress in town had anything new before mindlessly scrolling to something until she heard the ding of the bell.
Another waffle set in front of a customer. Another round of coffee refills to the people in trucker hats who were just killing time before going back on their way. Another morning in paradise.
"Another morning in paradise."
Scott Dawson wasn't supposed to be here. That thought entered his mind as it did every morning where he woke up in a bed that was uncomfortable, to the sound of a screen door slamming back and forth down the road, to hacking coughs and exhausts banging down the road like gunshots. Mentally, he was back north in an apartment in midtown, within walking distance of the park, and every morning would see a different partner to wake up next to and exclaim how he was late for work but that there was coffee in the cupboard. He was supposed to walk into the firm with the kind of walk that exuded confidence and where everyone knew it was practiced at home until every swaggered step was perfect. In five or six years he'd be vying for partner. He'd finally meet someone that he could see himself settling down with. Having kids. Knowing his luck, having a moment of weakness and getting caught. "You knew what you were getting into when you married a lawyer like me" he would say. He'd call in a favor with a friend at the firm who handled divorces. He'd get patted on the back by Martin Stone, his mentor, as he revealed Dawson's name getting added to the firm. He'd made partner. "No self respecting lawyer only has one marriage, kid." Martin would say, and Scott would smile. Laugh. Make the papers for winning a case. That was what life was supposed to be for Scott Dawson.
Scott Dawson wasn't supposed to be here.
In Pines Holler. Jobless. Damn near homeless. Or unhoused, that was the preferred term by people in the city who paid way too much for coffee and argued over which bodega had the best bacon egg and cheese. This morning, like so many mornings since he came back with his hat in hand and his tail between his legs and no real honest reason given as to why he was back, Scott found himself woken up by the sound of Cory Wells. It wasn't his idea of an alarm clock, but then this wasn't technically his house and he didn't get to make the rules.
"Awoooooo yeah!" The unmistakable twang of Scott's uncle, Cousin Willie, badly sang along with the chorus of the song as the music played from a still working record player. If there was one thing Cousin Willie was proud of, it was his fishing pole, but his vinyl collection was no slouch. Half of it, as Scott had learned, had been his daddy's - Willie's words, not Scott's. Scott would never have called his father such a friendly term. From Scott's vantage point on the couch, he could see Cousin Willie in the kitchen popping the top of a beer. The clock on Scott's phone said it was a little after eight in the morning and the grim reality of the situation was that Cousin Willie usually was up before six. This must've been Cousin Willie being nice.
"I tell you, little nephew, they don't make 'em like this anymore." Cousin Willie called, somehow managing to speak over the music which was already at a volume that could charitably be called 'unreasonably loud for this early in the morning'.
"There's probably a good reason for that." Scott rose to a seated position, rubbing his forehead. When his uncle, Cousin Willie, said Scott could stay with him until Scott was ready to go back to the trailer from his youth, Scott didn't realize it came with, well, all the eccentricities of living with his only...generally healthy retaliative. It was too early to say Cousin Willie was his only living relative but given the facility where Scott's mom was housed...well, it wouldn't be that far off one day soon.
"The reason is 'cuz none of the so-called musicians today know what it's like to live. No wars to protest, no one sitting in circles injecting substances to unlock the creativity chakras-" "Creativity chakras?" - it's just people on the damn intranet pressin' buttons."
"Willie, it is way too early to discuss music with you."
"Didja hear that people as close by as Chattanooga are gettin' chips put in their head? Makin' 'em more like robits. Swear to God!"
"Oh, no, it's even earlier for that, too." Scott rose to his feet, the blanket that had been covering him dropping to the couch cushion behind him. He made his way to the bathroom, the closed door doing little to mute the music still playing, but at least for the moment Scott could gather himself as he looked in the cracked, dirty mirror and splashed his tired face with lukewarm water. He hadn't shaved in weeks and it was noticeable now. What had been simple shadow was now patchy, unkempt facial hair. His forehead wrinkled as he counted the bags under his eyes.
Just a year ago he looked like someone on the way up. And now, he didn't even want to know what bottom looked like if not this.
Leaving the bathroom after the routine was finished, teeth brushed, face washed, shave still not done, Scott grabbed a collared shirt and at least tried to make himself presentable. Appearances were everything. That was true in a town like this as much as it was in the high octane world of legal disputes. How was it that he even missed wearing suits, not because they were comfortable, but just because it made him feel...more. "I'm heading out. Breakfast. Maybe I'll come back with a job."
"Whoa, not so fast, little nephew. I'm comin' with ya. For the breakfast at least. Yeah, I gotta get somethin' in the gullet 'fore I hit the fishin' trail."
"The...fishing trail? Sure. Whatever. I'll drive."
"You ain't got a car."
"You do. You don't have a license."
"Course I don't, little nephew. The government already got my blood when I was born, damn my mother for that, God rest her soul, but they ain't gonna have my identity in their little computer network. Plus, no jury duty."
"Willie, speaking as a lawyer, you'd never make it past a round of voir dire."
"Well lookit you, speakin' French on me. Fancy city boy over here. Well, sill view plate to you too, little nephew."
"...I'll pull the truck around."
"Fucking Yankees..."
There was another lull in service and Zoey found herself taking yet another break behind the building, again listening to the replay and hearing the game sink further and further away from the Reds. The sun was up now and by Zoey's watch she should've been relieved by now. Every minute she was still on the clock was another number added to her time and a half benefit. Of course, the reason that she was still, unfortunately, on the clock might have had something to do with the fact that at some point between her last break and now, hours since she had arrived for this overtime, the power around Pines Holler went down suddenly and unexpectedly. Fortunately, Zoey's radio ran on batteries but unfortunately, while other businesses might've closed, Waffle House merely moved to Yellow on the index.
One of the first things Zoey learned during her orientation was that Waffle House remained open 24/7. She knew that going in, of course, she'd known Waffle House was open on major holidays thanks to personal experience, but what she hadn't known was that 24/7 meant come hell or high water the Waffle House opened its doors. Hurricane? Tornado? Flooding? The doors were open. There was a little joke among people who were frequent patrons of Waffle House: if ever the place was closed that was when it was time to panic. The Waffle House Index was quite a real thing.
Which was why Zoey only sighed as she heard a car in desperate need of a new muffler pull into the parking lot.
"Aw, little nephew, I hate this place. You know I like griddle cakes." Cousin Willie protested, but when food was on the menu he was more of a beggar than a chooser.
"They're open, Willie. And they're not as packed as Husker's probably will be." Scott turned the engine off, noting the scant number of cars in the lot. He'd never known a Waffle House to be crowded and yet...they never seemed to close down. Good enough.
"Now, see, you remember Huskers but not your own address. Naw, I'm kidding. Mi casa, two casas."
Zoey waited by the front register as the new arrivals made their way inside. She recognized Willie. One of the many...characters that made a town like this...a town like this. But the guy who came with him she'd never seen before. He looked old. Like older than he probably was, and if ever there was a man who looked like he needed coffee, it was him. Which only made it more unfortunate that coffee was temporarily off the menu. "Willie, how's the bait business?"
"Boomin'. You get arrested this year?"
"Workin' on it. You guys can sit anywhere open."
"We'll take a booth."
"You guys should know, we're on a limited menu right now thanks to the whole...electricity thing. No waffles, no coffee. Grill items only. Eggs, bacon, you know." Zoey waited with her notepad for Willie and his guest to order, sweat already starting to form on their foreheads. Hers as well, but fortunately she had her Reds cap on to help deal with it.
"No waffles? Does that mean you can finally make me a griddle cake?"
"Still no, but maybe next time, Willie."
"Say, you're young, right? Tell my nephew here about the chips they're putting in brains of kids. Makin' 'em robits."
Zoey could see the embarrassment on the nephew's face and the fact that he was even reacting like that suggested to Zoey that this scruffy looking weirdo must not have been a close nephew. People around here were just kinda used to Willie's ramblings. Some found them amusing, others found them annoying; Zoey was somewhere in the middle. It was never boring when Willie was having a conversation. "I think that's the generation after me, Willie. But that's why they call them Generation Alpha. Like alpha programming." The trick to dealing with Willie? Indulge his crazy talk with bullshit of your own.
Willie slapped the table hard enough to rouse Scott from his facepalmed depression. "Generation Alpha! See, what did I tell you, little nephew? It's happenin'! Pretty soon they're gonna be walkin' among us. Heck they already got people in suits makin' videos made by robits. Generation Alpha. Goddamn."
"Can I just get a ham and cheese omelette. With...hash browns?"
"How do you want them?" Zoey could feel it coming. A little slice of joy in an otherwise joyless job.
"Uh...cooked, ideally." Scott blinked at the waitress, eyes scanning the menu for any option he missed and then looking across the table for Willie to help.
"Fucking yankees..."
Behind the Waffle House, next to the back door employee entrance, right near the dumpsters where the food waste got deposited without a second thought, Zoey Frye crouched with her head against the brick wall. The sun hadn't yet come up and Zoey had already taken her fourth break of the shift, but considering she wasn't typically a late night to morning worker, if anyone complained then they could have a strongly worded conversation with both of her middle fingers. Working mornings was more her speed, filling coffee mugs for people who liked the corporate conformity of an always open eatery that dealt equally in drunks as it did in fans of waffles that were slightly above frozen toaster quality, but she found herself taking on longer shifts these days. The pay wasn't that much better and early morning tips were basically nonexistent...but trips to the doctor didn't pay for themselves. Not to mention the lack of business so often meant she could sneak out to the back, set her portable radio out, and listen to the Reds get absolutely crushed by the Yankees.
The game was two days old and they didn't have another game until later today so what was a girl supposed to do in the meantime but catch up on what she missed? Top of the third and Jazz Chisholm hit a two run homer which put the Yankees up three to nothing. Zoey couldn't even be that mad about it, the Reds had already beaten the Yankees twice in this four game series and that was no small feat, but no one liked watching, or hearing, their team lose. With the playback going to commercial, Zoey took the moment to stand up and stretch her arms over her head. A car was pulling in to the parking lot, one headlight broken and the other flashing its brights, and the already exhausted Zoey slumped her head, bent over to pick up her radio, and turned towards the employee entrance, pausing to make sure the black apron and blue shirt that was her uniform were free of gravel and debris before heading back inside.
She was supposed to have a black cap with the company logo proudly displayed across it, but the name tag on her apron was enough corporate flair for her, so Zoey wore her Cincinnati Reds hat and if anyone of her managers complained well...as much as she would like to say she'd tell them to fuck off, the truth was she kinda needed this job. Fortunately, she had been here long enough now that a little dress code customization slipped through the cracks. Zoey Frye was just that good at filling coffee, suggesting how to order hash browns, and putting waffles on tables.
One of the few good parts about working a shift this early was during the pre-dawn hours there were generally so few customers that the Waffle House could operate with basically a skeleton crew. Zoey was the only waitress at the moment and there were only two people in the kitchen plus a busser. Quite the skeleton crew but unlike most Waffle House locations in more populated areas in the south, Pines Holler had remarkably few fights to break up. Plenty of drunks, but Zoey would rather a drunk asshole puking on their shoes than loud assholes who threw chairs and broke windows. One tier of customer came with having to talk to police and potentially showing up on social media; the other just meant having to wash her shoes.
The customer that had just arrived was waiting by the door and found a seat at the front counter, and Zoey was there to offer a cup of coffee if he wanted it. Everyone always wanted coffee at the Waffle House because they didn't serve alcohol so coffee was the next best thing. Someone drinking a beer before dawn was an alcoholic; someone who drank coffee at the same time was a productive member of society. Funny, that. The customer agreed to the coffee and within minutes Zoey was slapping an order slip to the guys working the line. "Pecan waffle, hash browns covered and smothered." There was a time where she didn't know what that meant. There was a time where she didn't find a small bit of amusement in explaining the preparations to first timers and tourists. A job like this, a place like this, she had to find what comforts and joys and distractions that she could. That was why Zoey leaned against a wall waiting for the order to cook and pulled out her phone, checking TikTok to see if the other notable waitress in town had anything new before mindlessly scrolling to something until she heard the ding of the bell.
Another waffle set in front of a customer. Another round of coffee refills to the people in trucker hats who were just killing time before going back on their way. Another morning in paradise.
"Another morning in paradise."
Scott Dawson wasn't supposed to be here. That thought entered his mind as it did every morning where he woke up in a bed that was uncomfortable, to the sound of a screen door slamming back and forth down the road, to hacking coughs and exhausts banging down the road like gunshots. Mentally, he was back north in an apartment in midtown, within walking distance of the park, and every morning would see a different partner to wake up next to and exclaim how he was late for work but that there was coffee in the cupboard. He was supposed to walk into the firm with the kind of walk that exuded confidence and where everyone knew it was practiced at home until every swaggered step was perfect. In five or six years he'd be vying for partner. He'd finally meet someone that he could see himself settling down with. Having kids. Knowing his luck, having a moment of weakness and getting caught. "You knew what you were getting into when you married a lawyer like me" he would say. He'd call in a favor with a friend at the firm who handled divorces. He'd get patted on the back by Martin Stone, his mentor, as he revealed Dawson's name getting added to the firm. He'd made partner. "No self respecting lawyer only has one marriage, kid." Martin would say, and Scott would smile. Laugh. Make the papers for winning a case. That was what life was supposed to be for Scott Dawson.
Scott Dawson wasn't supposed to be here.
In Pines Holler. Jobless. Damn near homeless. Or unhoused, that was the preferred term by people in the city who paid way too much for coffee and argued over which bodega had the best bacon egg and cheese. This morning, like so many mornings since he came back with his hat in hand and his tail between his legs and no real honest reason given as to why he was back, Scott found himself woken up by the sound of Cory Wells. It wasn't his idea of an alarm clock, but then this wasn't technically his house and he didn't get to make the rules.
"Awoooooo yeah!" The unmistakable twang of Scott's uncle, Cousin Willie, badly sang along with the chorus of the song as the music played from a still working record player. If there was one thing Cousin Willie was proud of, it was his fishing pole, but his vinyl collection was no slouch. Half of it, as Scott had learned, had been his daddy's - Willie's words, not Scott's. Scott would never have called his father such a friendly term. From Scott's vantage point on the couch, he could see Cousin Willie in the kitchen popping the top of a beer. The clock on Scott's phone said it was a little after eight in the morning and the grim reality of the situation was that Cousin Willie usually was up before six. This must've been Cousin Willie being nice.
"I tell you, little nephew, they don't make 'em like this anymore." Cousin Willie called, somehow managing to speak over the music which was already at a volume that could charitably be called 'unreasonably loud for this early in the morning'.
"There's probably a good reason for that." Scott rose to a seated position, rubbing his forehead. When his uncle, Cousin Willie, said Scott could stay with him until Scott was ready to go back to the trailer from his youth, Scott didn't realize it came with, well, all the eccentricities of living with his only...generally healthy retaliative. It was too early to say Cousin Willie was his only living relative but given the facility where Scott's mom was housed...well, it wouldn't be that far off one day soon.
"The reason is 'cuz none of the so-called musicians today know what it's like to live. No wars to protest, no one sitting in circles injecting substances to unlock the creativity chakras-" "Creativity chakras?" - it's just people on the damn intranet pressin' buttons."
"Willie, it is way too early to discuss music with you."
"Didja hear that people as close by as Chattanooga are gettin' chips put in their head? Makin' 'em more like robits. Swear to God!"
"Oh, no, it's even earlier for that, too." Scott rose to his feet, the blanket that had been covering him dropping to the couch cushion behind him. He made his way to the bathroom, the closed door doing little to mute the music still playing, but at least for the moment Scott could gather himself as he looked in the cracked, dirty mirror and splashed his tired face with lukewarm water. He hadn't shaved in weeks and it was noticeable now. What had been simple shadow was now patchy, unkempt facial hair. His forehead wrinkled as he counted the bags under his eyes.
Just a year ago he looked like someone on the way up. And now, he didn't even want to know what bottom looked like if not this.
Leaving the bathroom after the routine was finished, teeth brushed, face washed, shave still not done, Scott grabbed a collared shirt and at least tried to make himself presentable. Appearances were everything. That was true in a town like this as much as it was in the high octane world of legal disputes. How was it that he even missed wearing suits, not because they were comfortable, but just because it made him feel...more. "I'm heading out. Breakfast. Maybe I'll come back with a job."
"Whoa, not so fast, little nephew. I'm comin' with ya. For the breakfast at least. Yeah, I gotta get somethin' in the gullet 'fore I hit the fishin' trail."
"The...fishing trail? Sure. Whatever. I'll drive."
"You ain't got a car."
"You do. You don't have a license."
"Course I don't, little nephew. The government already got my blood when I was born, damn my mother for that, God rest her soul, but they ain't gonna have my identity in their little computer network. Plus, no jury duty."
"Willie, speaking as a lawyer, you'd never make it past a round of voir dire."
"Well lookit you, speakin' French on me. Fancy city boy over here. Well, sill view plate to you too, little nephew."
"...I'll pull the truck around."
"Fucking Yankees..."
There was another lull in service and Zoey found herself taking yet another break behind the building, again listening to the replay and hearing the game sink further and further away from the Reds. The sun was up now and by Zoey's watch she should've been relieved by now. Every minute she was still on the clock was another number added to her time and a half benefit. Of course, the reason that she was still, unfortunately, on the clock might have had something to do with the fact that at some point between her last break and now, hours since she had arrived for this overtime, the power around Pines Holler went down suddenly and unexpectedly. Fortunately, Zoey's radio ran on batteries but unfortunately, while other businesses might've closed, Waffle House merely moved to Yellow on the index.
One of the first things Zoey learned during her orientation was that Waffle House remained open 24/7. She knew that going in, of course, she'd known Waffle House was open on major holidays thanks to personal experience, but what she hadn't known was that 24/7 meant come hell or high water the Waffle House opened its doors. Hurricane? Tornado? Flooding? The doors were open. There was a little joke among people who were frequent patrons of Waffle House: if ever the place was closed that was when it was time to panic. The Waffle House Index was quite a real thing.
Which was why Zoey only sighed as she heard a car in desperate need of a new muffler pull into the parking lot.
"Aw, little nephew, I hate this place. You know I like griddle cakes." Cousin Willie protested, but when food was on the menu he was more of a beggar than a chooser.
"They're open, Willie. And they're not as packed as Husker's probably will be." Scott turned the engine off, noting the scant number of cars in the lot. He'd never known a Waffle House to be crowded and yet...they never seemed to close down. Good enough.
"Now, see, you remember Huskers but not your own address. Naw, I'm kidding. Mi casa, two casas."
Zoey waited by the front register as the new arrivals made their way inside. She recognized Willie. One of the many...characters that made a town like this...a town like this. But the guy who came with him she'd never seen before. He looked old. Like older than he probably was, and if ever there was a man who looked like he needed coffee, it was him. Which only made it more unfortunate that coffee was temporarily off the menu. "Willie, how's the bait business?"
"Boomin'. You get arrested this year?"
"Workin' on it. You guys can sit anywhere open."
"We'll take a booth."
"You guys should know, we're on a limited menu right now thanks to the whole...electricity thing. No waffles, no coffee. Grill items only. Eggs, bacon, you know." Zoey waited with her notepad for Willie and his guest to order, sweat already starting to form on their foreheads. Hers as well, but fortunately she had her Reds cap on to help deal with it.
"No waffles? Does that mean you can finally make me a griddle cake?"
"Still no, but maybe next time, Willie."
"Say, you're young, right? Tell my nephew here about the chips they're putting in brains of kids. Makin' 'em robits."
Zoey could see the embarrassment on the nephew's face and the fact that he was even reacting like that suggested to Zoey that this scruffy looking weirdo must not have been a close nephew. People around here were just kinda used to Willie's ramblings. Some found them amusing, others found them annoying; Zoey was somewhere in the middle. It was never boring when Willie was having a conversation. "I think that's the generation after me, Willie. But that's why they call them Generation Alpha. Like alpha programming." The trick to dealing with Willie? Indulge his crazy talk with bullshit of your own.
Willie slapped the table hard enough to rouse Scott from his facepalmed depression. "Generation Alpha! See, what did I tell you, little nephew? It's happenin'! Pretty soon they're gonna be walkin' among us. Heck they already got people in suits makin' videos made by robits. Generation Alpha. Goddamn."
"Can I just get a ham and cheese omelette. With...hash browns?"
"How do you want them?" Zoey could feel it coming. A little slice of joy in an otherwise joyless job.
"Uh...cooked, ideally." Scott blinked at the waitress, eyes scanning the menu for any option he missed and then looking across the table for Willie to help.
"Fucking yankees..."