Drive by James A. Gollata
To drive all day. I would say fair. Rain and traffic and rush. Sometimes bad tips and sometimes no tips. People are all mostly the same. I drive.
On the way to the hairdresser on a hot day they say turn the windows up and on the way back they say the same.
They go to bars friendly on the way out and more friendly on the way back. I get tips then.
People give you tips for different reasons. Sometimes for opening doors. Sometimes for carrying things. Sometimes for nothing at all.
Sometimes they talk. Sometimes nothing. It’s OK. I drive and drive.
A guy I drove once told me he would join a club. A society. The rules were strict. You had to be religious. You had to follow a certain way. You had to believe. You had to obey. He would join. He would obey. It would be hard.
I saw him again one day. It was my break. I went in to have coffee and smoke. He didn’t smoke. He sat two stools down from me. He didn’t smile. He looked at his eggs.
The waitress was busy. She wore an apron and a good look. She stopped and filled his cup. She said how come no smile today.
His head jumped up. It said none of your business.
She said but usually you smile and kid around
He said none of your business louder.
The big cook came out. She said what is wrong.
The waitress said I only asked
The guy said she smarted off.
The big cook said is that right.
The waitress said but I
The big cook said another word.
The waitress looked at her.
She looked at him.
Then she looked at me. I could see the sadness in her eyes, her disappointment.
She cried.
She ran into the kitchen.
I drank my coffee. I left some money. I left a tip. I walked out. I drove away. I never went back. I don’t like that kind of religion.
I drive. I drive and drive.
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About the Author
James A. Gollata
Born: Manitowoc, Wisconsin, USA
Now resides: Richland Center, Wisconsin, USA
Bio: Write mostly brief pieces while living large in a tiny town surrounded by big hills. Drive, previously published in Fox Cry Review, was engendered by an incident in a small cafe in a relatively enormous city. Always regretted not speaking up for the belittled waitress, but then there would have been no story. Will write until they pry my pen or keyboard from my cold, dead fingers. I’m a minimalist, and I’ve said too much already.
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image by sundreaming.
