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1
SHELBY
Iput the plate of biscuits and gravy down in front of the customer and can’t help but look up and noticehimstanding on the sidewalk again. He's been there, in the exact same spot outside the supermarket, every lunchtime for the last week.
With his crisp suit and tie, he looks out of place among the poverty-stricken, local inhabitants. The area of Pharr where I live has a rundown, small-town vibe; its struggling residents occupy the most mobile homes per capita in all of Texas.
I shrug his presence off. Whatever he wants, it’ll have nothing to do with me. A handsome, rich man rescuing a poor, city girl from a living hell only happens in fairy tales.
This is real life, and I've got customers to serve.
“What can I get y'all?” I ask a man and woman who appear to be a couple.
They are obviously tourists; the maps spread over the table and the fanny pack are a dead giveaway. I don’t know why they’ve chosen to eat at the run-down diner I work in. The red leather chairs are tatty and in desperate need of re-covering, and although the white plastic tables are clean, they’ve seen better days.
Why the fuck anyone would want to visit Pharr is beyond me.
“Could you recommend a local delicacy?” the man responds, his strong British accent sounding cute. “My wife and I want to try as many new dishes as possible on this holiday.”
“Well, I’ll be. You're from England!” I exclaim. Like it's the first time I've ever met anyone from there.
“We are. We're from Kent. Just outside London,” the man replies with a smile.
I'm glad he added the last bit. I wouldn't have a clue where Kent is, but I've heard of London. Having never left Pharr, I don't know much about the rest of the world.
“What y’all doing after this?” I question.
“We're driving from here to Los Angeles, hoping to take in as much of the country as possible along the way. It's just so vast, and there’s so much to see,” the man replies.
“Well, you've just got to have biscuits and gravy,” I recommend. “It’s a favorite around here.”
In truth, it’s pretty much the only food on the menu that’s edible. We’re not exactly five-star dining, but in a city where most residents live below the poverty line, we provide food at cheap prices, along with a generous helping of grease. Let’s face it, when you’re hankerin’ for food, you’ll eat anything.
“That sounds perfect. Bring us two plates, please,” the woman requests, and I scribble the order down on my pad. “We’ll have two cokes as well.”
“What type?” I ask. “Coke, to a Texan, is any carbonated beverage.”
“Coca Cola, please,” she confirms.
“I'll get that out for you straight away,” I say with a nod.
As I walk away, I pass by the diner window and notice the man has disappeared. He’s probably returned to his wealthy, privileged life.
The rest of my shift passes without any drama. The friendly tourists leave me a big tip, which I'm very grateful for. It means Mom and I won't have to rely solely on the scraps from the diner kitchen for the next few days, not that Mom eats very much anyway. I might be able to afford some fruit or maybe some vegetables that haven't been deep fried. Even a fresh apple would be nice.
“See you later, Fred.” I grab the bag of leftovers I’ve collected over the course of the day and wave goodbye to my boss.
It's past ten pm, and when I step outside, the cool air of the late evening hits me even though I’m still wearing my diner uniform, which consists of black leggings and a long-sleeved red shirt. It’s cold for this time of year. I inhale deeply, clearing away the stench of fries and burgers. The polluted town air fills my nose instead, but it's still smells fresher than the odor of grease I’ve been breathing in for the last eight hours.
Clutching my bag of scraps in one hand, I make my way through the busy streets toward my mobile home that sits on the outskirts of the city. The home I share with my mom is rundown and hasn't been decorated since the seventies, but with my mom's issues after my dad died, it's all we've got to live in.
The one-bedroom, mobile home is in darkness when I arrive, which suggests my mom is out. I'm kind of grateful for that as I don't want to have to handle the shit that comes with her, tonight.
After opening the door, I step inside and flick the switch to turn on the lights.
Nothing happens.
“Fuck’s sake.” I grumble, running my free hand over the top of my head in frustration.
