My daughter, Laura, recently moved about ten miles south of Plymouth to the old gold rush town of Sutter Creek. As a result, the route my wife and I take to see her has changed. I know no longer routinely pass the 4 Corners Café on my trek toward the Sierra foothills. So since my little adventure at the café I haven’t seen the place, and quite frankly I don’t know if I want to. But deep inside I have always realized that the 4 Corners Café is like a big psychic magnet that is always calling me back. I know that it’s just a matter of time before I once again open its door and order a piece of apple pie and a hot cup of joe.
I never realized that the café might reach out to me.
On our way up to Sutter Creek, Trish and I stopped at the Flying J truck stop down at Flag City. Flag City isn’t really a city. It’s a collection of fast food joints, an overnight R.V. campground, and a small hotel that sits where Highways 12 and 5 cross each other. It’s a pit stop for people bound for south toward L.A. or to Northern California and beyond.
The Flying J has a restaurant, and we decided to stop and have breakfast before continuing the one hour drive to Laura’s. We hadn’t been at the truck stop for a while and were taken aback when we discovered that the J’s restaurant with its huge truck driver portions was now a Denny’s. Don’t really like Denny’s, but we stopped anyway.
I won’t draw this out too much because frankly it’s not much of a story. As we ate breakfast, I kept noticing a young waitress waiting on tables on the other side of the restaurant. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I checked her out a couple of time, cognizant that even after thirty years of marriage it’s still not a good idea to have your wife catch you eyeing waitresses. In the midst of our Grand Slam breakfasts I almost forgot about her, even though the coffee should have jogged my memory.
We rose to leave. Trish went out ahead of me to have a quick smoke in the parking lot before we continued our trip. I headed toward the cashier, check in hand, when I heard a voice behind me.
“Hi, David,” it said.
I turned. It was the waitress. For a second recognition still evaded me. Then I remembered. Several months ago I went to the 4 Corners and Betty Jo wasn’t there. In her place was a young waitress, a teenager I surmised in her place. This was the waitress.
I was dumbfounded. This was the second time I had encountered once of the 4 Corners denizens outside the café itself. The first, of course, was the illusive Irby. Now there was this one.
“Hello,” I replied carefully.
“I’m Stella,” she replied. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Got a new job,” she said.
“I see,” I replied. “What happened to the old one?”
“It’s Betty Jo. She’s just too hard to deal with.”
It was then that I saw the resemblance between Stella and the new and improved Betty Jo. They could have been sisters. Now here is where it got weird.
“You two related?”
“Oh, yeah, we’re related,” she said with a little laugh.
“How? Sisters?”
Her eyes widened. She looked at me as if I had just said a terrible joke.
“No. We’re not sisters. Betty Jo is my daughter.”
I froze. From behind me the cashier asked me if she could help me. I turned, thankful for the distraction. My heart was beating heavily. I paid the bill. When I turned back Stella was gone.
As I left the Flying J heading toward Trish and my aging Chevy truck, I asked myself, “When is this shit going to end?” That’s a good question. A question I am unprepared to answer. But as we drove our way to the foothills it came to me.
This shit is never going to end.
I never realized that the café might reach out to me.
On our way up to Sutter Creek, Trish and I stopped at the Flying J truck stop down at Flag City. Flag City isn’t really a city. It’s a collection of fast food joints, an overnight R.V. campground, and a small hotel that sits where Highways 12 and 5 cross each other. It’s a pit stop for people bound for south toward L.A. or to Northern California and beyond.
The Flying J has a restaurant, and we decided to stop and have breakfast before continuing the one hour drive to Laura’s. We hadn’t been at the truck stop for a while and were taken aback when we discovered that the J’s restaurant with its huge truck driver portions was now a Denny’s. Don’t really like Denny’s, but we stopped anyway.
I won’t draw this out too much because frankly it’s not much of a story. As we ate breakfast, I kept noticing a young waitress waiting on tables on the other side of the restaurant. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I checked her out a couple of time, cognizant that even after thirty years of marriage it’s still not a good idea to have your wife catch you eyeing waitresses. In the midst of our Grand Slam breakfasts I almost forgot about her, even though the coffee should have jogged my memory.
We rose to leave. Trish went out ahead of me to have a quick smoke in the parking lot before we continued our trip. I headed toward the cashier, check in hand, when I heard a voice behind me.
“Hi, David,” it said.
I turned. It was the waitress. For a second recognition still evaded me. Then I remembered. Several months ago I went to the 4 Corners and Betty Jo wasn’t there. In her place was a young waitress, a teenager I surmised in her place. This was the waitress.
I was dumbfounded. This was the second time I had encountered once of the 4 Corners denizens outside the café itself. The first, of course, was the illusive Irby. Now there was this one.
“Hello,” I replied carefully.
“I’m Stella,” she replied. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Got a new job,” she said.
“I see,” I replied. “What happened to the old one?”
“It’s Betty Jo. She’s just too hard to deal with.”
It was then that I saw the resemblance between Stella and the new and improved Betty Jo. They could have been sisters. Now here is where it got weird.
“You two related?”
“Oh, yeah, we’re related,” she said with a little laugh.
“How? Sisters?”
Her eyes widened. She looked at me as if I had just said a terrible joke.
“No. We’re not sisters. Betty Jo is my daughter.”
I froze. From behind me the cashier asked me if she could help me. I turned, thankful for the distraction. My heart was beating heavily. I paid the bill. When I turned back Stella was gone.
As I left the Flying J heading toward Trish and my aging Chevy truck, I asked myself, “When is this shit going to end?” That’s a good question. A question I am unprepared to answer. But as we drove our way to the foothills it came to me.
This shit is never going to end.
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