Golden Greaser

- 3 -

     By the time eleven o'clock rolls around, I'm ready to throw about five thousand milkshakes at whoever tries my patience.

     Today was too long. Today was too much. Today was a day that happens far too often now. And I was getting fed up with it. 

     "You're on closing, Diana!" Ms. Truitt yells, grabbing her bag and stepping out the back door, leaving me to the empty restaurant.     

     As soon as I hear the back door pop closed, I sink into a nearby booth and tear the headband off of my head and throw it in the floor. 

   My curly black hair falls in front of my eyes, and I fall back into the booth, letting my muscles finally relax. Today was too much.

     Six tables for eight hours. I really must have lost them some business, because there was enough people there for everybody to wait at least two tables comfortably. 

     I sit up, finding the clock mounted on the wall. 11:12. Best be tidying up and getting out of here. I'd do good to be home by midnight. 

     So, I start in the back and work my way up to the front of the diner, wiping down all the tables and picking up all the extra bits of trash no one bothered about. Then, I clean all the milkshake machines and wipe down the barstools and countertops. Finally, I put all the cleaning equipment away and take the key that Ms. Truitt practically threw in my face and lock the back door and side door. 

     I go back to the bathroom and get my backpack, taking out my sweater and wrapping it around my body. 

    It was an October night in Tulsa, which meant it was pretty cool outside. And after sweating out every bit of moisture left in my body, the biting breeze would make cool turn into freezing real quick. 

     I step out of the diner, a yawn escaping my lips as I turn and lock both front doors.

    The streets are empty for the most part, a few late-night stragglers here and there. 

     I guess that was one good part about this job was that I got out late enough to get home without much of a problem. 

     Even if I did get jumped, I did have a blade on me. And buddy, I knew how to use it.

     As I make my way down the sidewalk, I round a corner that leads to my usual route back to the eastern side of town. 

    The eerie light of the streetlamps mixed with the moonlight casts unearthly shadows onto the buildings as I pass by. Although seeming somewhat sinister, there was a deep-set comfort in the scene that I couldn't quite explain. 

    But despite everything that went on within its little hemisphere, I loved Tulsa.  

    Train tracks push the soles of my shoes into my feet as I walk across, getting closer to home at this point in the journey. The wind bit into me, sending a quivering shiver up my body. 

    You're almost home, Diana. Keep going.

    Just keep going.

     I fumble with the keys and shove the right one into the lock. I push the door open quietly, knowing my dad's room was the first one as you walk in, and I had woken him many a time in the past. 

    Slipping my boots off and tiptoeing to his door, I peek through the opening the crack provided.

     As if on cue, a loud, rasping cough disperses the air. I wince. 

     He's getting worse. 

     All at once, he is thrown into a fit of thrashing, violent coughs that sends me right to his bedside.

     "Hey, dad. I'm back." I say, softly. Rubbing my hand lightly over his forearm.

     "Hey, baby." He mumbles, weakly.

     "How are you doing?"

     Another inaudible mumble.

     I swallow. 

      He was definitely worse.

     "We need to get you to a doctor." I whisper, bringing his covers up higher.

     No answer. His eyes don't even open.

      I would have taken him to the doctor long before this if we'd still had the car. But we had to sell that after momma left, and he would yell at me if I'd brought it up, and that "it was just a little cold" or "I don't need a doctor, we don't even have insurance to pay for anything!"

     This was much more than just a cold.

     His breathing was deteriorating into heavy, labored breaths. His body was becoming thinner and frailer, despite how much I tried to feed him. 

    Another fit of coughs rack his body and I just sit and watch, not knowing what else I could do.

    "Can I get you some water?" I ask, the scene breaking my heart.

     He mumbles something that sounds like a yes, so I take it as it is. 

     I walk to the kitchen, quickly filling a glass and grabbing a spoon. Then, I enter back into the dark room, turning on the small lamp at his bedside.

      He groans at the sudden change in light, but as I watch the water fill into the silver spoon, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. 

     I look up, the breath left in my lungs freezing in my nostrils.

     Blood.