"I know but --"
"Eat. The. Fucking. Sandwich," he growled, stabbing each word with hard inflection. "Or we will talk about this when we get home."
I knew what that meant. He loved to discuss things with me. Unfortunately, he preferred to talk with his hands. My body was still sore from our most recent conversation. I could feel my heart quickening and my eyes becoming moist; I had to eat the sandwich. The alternative would be to risk another beating, and I wasn't sure my body could take another so soon. I picked up the sandwich and brought it closer to my mouth. The creamy sauce was lukewarm from the melted cheese but did not smell like ranch dressing. I recognized the aroma but could not place it. It didn't smell like food; I knew that. I looked at my father. He was watching me, waiting, daring me to refuse. I was confident he would prefer it if I did. He enjoyed our little 'talks.'
I took my first bite. It was not ranch dressing. I chewed and then tried to hide the disgust on my face as I swallowed. I took another bite. And another. I ate the entire sandwich as my father stared me down. He looked into my eyes the whole, agonizing time. He refused to look away until the sandwich was consumed. When my plate was finally cleaned, he smiled a condescending smile. Then he returned to eating his dinner, which by that point had become cold. I knew he would blame me for that later. At school the following Monday, Jack had told everyone what had happened, how my father had forced me to consume an entire bottle of white glue.
"You can seat yourself, hon,"
I let go of the memory and floated back to the surface of the present. A pretty waitress, no more than seventeen, was stocking napkin dispensers to my right. I blinked in her direction, aware of the glassy wetness brought to my eyes by the troubling memory. I smiled at her and nodded.
It was ten o'clock, and the restaurant was almost empty. I assumed most people were either in church or still nestled in their dry beds, which was where I would have preferred to be. Even though I had almost the entire diner to choose from, I selected a table in the back of the room, one intended for two. Out of habit, I sat facing the doorway. I flipped over one of the white coffee mugs that sat in the center of the table, indicating that I would like a cup. A waitress pranced over to my table. Not the young, pretty girl I had spoken to moments earlier. This woman was older, with shoulder-length auburn hair, streaked with grey. She noticed the turned over coffee mug and filled it immediately.
I read her name tag, Judy. Holy shit! She was a little rounder than I remembered. Her face had filled out, and her chin was a bit droopy, but she had the same almond-shaped eyes as her brother. Her lips, although wrinkled from cigarettes, were still as pouty as I remembered. Judy Fielding had once been considered a beauty. Now, ravaged by time, she was a shell of the vivacious girl I remembered. Was she still working in her parents’ restaurant? Was Jack still working there too? I tried to look casual as I scanned around for him.
"Can I get you a menu, love?"
I emptied two packaged creamers into the steaming cup and reached for the Sweet n' Low as I replied. "No, thank you. I know what I want." Judy pulled out a pad and paper and prepared herself to jot down my order. "I will have low-fat, Greek yogurt with an assortment of fruit. Then, a side of whole-wheat toast, unbuttered please."
Judy wrote it down and then looked at me with pleasant eyes before saying, "No bacon? No sausage?" I shook my head. She appeared surprised, "You aren't from around here, are you?"
I grinned, "What makes you say that?"
"Most men ‘round here treat bacon like its oxygen. They order it on everything." She took a moment to look me up and down. "And if you don't mind me saying so, your clothes scream 'Big City.’”
My grin grew larger as I nodded. "You're very perceptive. I'm visiting from Toronto."
Judy cocked her head to the side. "You do look familiar, though. Have you been here before?"
I nodded my head again, this time more cautiously, treading the conversation lightly. "Yes, but not for a very long time. I grew up here."
She seemed very excited by the revelation. "No kidding!" She cocked a hip, "I knew I recognized you from somewhere. I'm pretty good with faces, you know. Don't tell me your name. I wanna see if I can guess."
"Alright," I sighed, bracing myself.
She squinted her eyes as she once again looked me over. "You're a handsome fella," she noted. "I bet you're one of the Unis boys, aren't you?"
Larry and Lyle Unis had been two years apart in age, Larry being the eldest. The pair had been River Bluff royalty. Both had won the genetic lottery. With their perfect features and porcelain teeth, they could have been models. Aside from the slightly reddish tint of my hair, I looked nothing like them. They had been the epitome of perfection: star athletes and devoted volunteers. They had even been altar boys at St. Vincent's Church. Underneath the glowing facade, Larry had a rampant drug addiction: cocaine mostly, but he was indiscriminate. Lyle had developed a hankering for underage girls. Evidently, they had both moved away at some point. Why else would Judy think that I was one of them? They could have both been in prison for all anyone knew.
I shook my head.
She examined me further. "What grad class were you? That might help me narrow it down."
"Class of '99."
She repeated the year several times. She tapped her pen on the edge of her chin, going through a mental rolodex of River Bluff High graduates. She shook her head in defeat, "Sorry, Hon. I'm drawing a blank. What's your name?"
"Parker. I'm Lauren Grant’s older brother."
That failed to ignite any spark of recognition. "Nope. Parker Grant does not sound familiar."
I laughed. "It shouldn't. Grant is her married name. I'm Parker Houston."
She mulled that over for several seconds before her eyes widened. "The fag?" She spurted before quickly covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry, that was rude."
Yes, it was. I tried to contain the flash of anger that came over me. I reminded myself that small towns often bred small minds — a motto I had adopted over the years. Instead of ripping her to shreds, which was my immediate desire, I opted for a polite smile. "It's alright. I am a fag. Although I prefer not to use that word."
She nodded. "Right. Sorry again." Her once flirty and casual demeanour replaced by awkwardness. She suddenly seemed very eager to be anywhere else. I felt a momentary, habitual need to put her at ease, but I squashed it immediately. She deserved to squirm. "You're the last person I ever expected to come back here." Clearly. "What have you been up to?"
At this point, I had a couple of options. Option one would have been to embellish the truth and tell Judy about my fabulous job and my glamorous life. I could tell her I made millions a year. I didn't. I could tell her about the weekend I spent in Vegas with Celine Dion. I had been in Vegas the whole weekend but only spent ten minutes with the Canadian songstress. I could tell her that I knew Barbara Walters. Blatant lie. Or that I once went on a date with Neil Patrick Harris. A bigger blatant lie. All that information, false or not, would cause her to bow down to the awesomeness that was me. Option two would be to tell the truth without going into too much detail. I could tell her that aspects of life were fabulous and glamorous, but like everyone else, there was occasional turbulence. Option two would make me look confident, comfortable and down-to-earth -- It would also be far less enjoyable. I chose option three, complete evasiveness.