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“What sounds good for dinner?” Pop asks Exton and me as we cross the Mississippi line into Louisiana.
“Anything works for me,” Exton offers as I stay silent. I shrug in order not to get the ire of either of them for not participating.
I’d expected we’d stop at a hotel somewhere around here to break up the trip. I am sorely mistaken and just plain sore. I haven’t been upright or awake for this length of time for so long that I’m tired of sitting, definitely out of practice with conversation and in fucking pain.
I’m also jittery. Not a ton, but enough. I can feel my pulse, and that’s not something I would saybefore. It thrums at my neck and pounds inside my ears. I consciously still my fingers since I know everything inside me is vibrating and I need to look less on edge.
Somewhere outside of New Orleans, Pop pulls into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant with huge yellow letters glowing from the roof. “Does this look okay?”
“Sure.” I unbuckle my seat belt as Exton says, “Works for me.”
If I could create a caricature of a Cajun cabin on the bayou, it would be this, only on a much smaller scale and without the neon writing.
It’s our second stop, and the first where I’ve realized how much I need to take the edge off. The first stop I was still coasting on what I took as we left the house. I’ve had too much caffeine, which is a diuretic, and it’s exacerbated the jitters. The former has all but left me, and the latter is doing a number on my guts and my bladder.
I make my way out of the vehicle, fighting to not audibly groan at what it takes to do so. The twisting and stretching pulls and tugs something inside me that isn’t interested in being manipulated in this way. Waiting for Exton or Pop to grab my walker is almost as emasculating as my dick’s refusal to participate in life.
“I’ll meet you at the table.” I grit my teeth as my brother and Pop pull open the front double doors of the restaurant. “Need to hit the restroom.”
It’s not a lie. I do my business, taking way longer than I’d like, but needing all the time I take.
Today to and from the car is more than I’ve walked in any given day, and my arms are sore from their reliance on the walker. My body—folded to sit to walking longer distances to fold again—misses my bed and not being required to be overexerted.
I make my way to the table in the mostly deserted restaurant and set the walker aside as I drop ungracefully into the old wood chair. The menu is comprehensive and one I’d pore over in the days we’d play in New Orleans. But nothing here makes my mouth water. Nothing makes me wonder if I’m missing out. Nothing makes me wish for a fat wallet so I can taste one more dish.
The server comes around taking drink orders and placing French bread and hush puppies on the table.
“Water for me please,” I offer to Exton’s and Pop’s request for tea. I can’t handle any more jitters. I need the half a tablet I took in the bathroom to kick in and mellow out my nerves and smooth out the edges of my pain.
“Are you ready to order?” the young girl asks when she drops our drinks on the table.
I offer a hand to Pop, not wanting to be the focus.
“I’ll take the sampler.” He folds the menu and looks at Exton, a smile dancing around his mouth. “Not a word about cholesterol. I’m in Louisiana.”
“I’d like a shrimp poboy, please.”
“Blackened or fried?”
“Blackened.”
“Fully dressed?”
“Just as it comes. Thanks.” He takes a long sip of his tea. He always comes off easygoing. Exton is intense, but only those who truly know him know how much.
“And for you, sir?”
Sir. Apparently long gone are the days when I was the man at the table to flirt with, to slide a number to, or to ask for a quickie in the bathroom. The last one is gross and a no-go, but at least I wasn’tSir, the bearded cripple who doesn’t grab a woman’s attention.
“The seafood gumbo, please.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m Hailey if you need anything.” She tucks the menus under an arm and bounces to the kitchen.
“When did they start looking so young?” Exton muses, not asking either of us specifically.
“When did we start looking so old?” I ask back.
