The Last of Her Kind

Summer of '73

Darren walked with a noticeable limp, just one of many souvenirs from a war he couldn't quite leave behind. It was only a short distance from the bus stop to Matty's Diner - he was absolutely famished and was hoping the wait staff would be friendly enough for the trip to be worth it. He could feel eyes on him, the locals immediately suspicious of the large duffel bag and military fatigues he wore. He didn't bother challenging their stares, keeping his eyes on the dusty looking building with a hand-written sign that promised 'fresh pie!'

Besides, the worst they could do was run him out of town. Wouldn't be the first time.

The bell over the door rang when he opened it, but nobody in the diner seemed to pay it any attention. The wait staff bustled about, serving hot meals to families still wearing their Sunday best. On a chalkboard above the kitchen, the Sunrise Special was a bargain at less than 3 bucks a head, and came with a sizzling side of bacon and bottomless coffee. Matty's Special was a large 1/2 pound burger with hot sauce and some onion rings on the side. Darren's mind went back and forth between the two, and the limited amount of cash in his pocket. Which would keep him full for longer?

"Take a seat anywhere," a passing waitress told him, casting an eye in his direction just long enough to avoid hitting him with her tray. "Hannah will be with you shortly."

Darren nodded, walking along the wall to an empty booth at the end. He sat down on the soft fabric, noting that a split in the cushions revealed the rubbery yellow foam inside. A couple of younger kids stared at him from their tables, their food instantly forgotten. Hushed reprisals from their parents did little to stifle their curiosity, but harsher tones did get them to return to their meals.

"What can I get ya?" Hannah appeared as if by magic, her eyes fixed on a small yellow notepad. She was in her mid-forties, her white and yellow uniform faded by hundreds of washes. Darren stared at an old ketchup stain on her apron, wondering if it was older than he was.

"Sunrise Special," Darren told her, pulling out a wadded fiver. He set it on the table then stuck his hand back in his pocket. There were only a couple of bills in there now, and he really hoped they weren't a pair of Washingtons.

"How do you want your eggs?"

"Scrambled." Darren tugged on his duffel bag, pulling it farther under the table. He used to love his eggs fried, but couldn't eat them if they were too runny.

"Coffee?"

"Black."

"Got it." Hannah vanished, returning a second later with a slightly chipped mug and a pot of coffee. She poured it, the familiar, bitter aroma drifting across the table to tickle Darren's nose. She slid it toward him along with a small plate of toast. "You look hungry. This will get you through until your order is up."

"Thank you." Darren held the mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into his knuckles. He never used to like coffee, had never touched it before Vietnam. The smell of it transported him to those early morning patrols, time spent with Little Mike, Dwayne, and Hayden. It was the calm before the storm, a moment of silence in a world that had become too loud. Closing his eyes, he could almost smell the jungle around the edges of his memory, hear Dwayne teasing Little Mike about his height.

Naturally, Little Mike had been nearly seven feet tall.

"Good morning, son." He wore a light brown jacket with a star pinned to the outside, hitching his belt up before sliding into the space across from Darren. Lost in thought, Darren hadn't even seen him walk up to the table.

"Morning, Sheriff." Darren kept his eyes on his coffee. This conversation rarely went well, so the less he said the better. He had learned six months ago not to lose his temper with the law. On the plus side, the couple of days in lockup had saved him some money.