You Can't Always Get What You Want Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered on the aged yellow formica; raucous laughter exploded from the counter. Like magpies on a telephone line, the good old boys of Arco perched on the cracked chrome stools at “Idaho’s (self-proclaimed) Best Greasy Spoon,” Gert’s Diner. Gert herself was at post behind the counter, bingo wings a-flapping, cackling at some off-color comment from her adoring fans. It was the Saturday brunch, big lie about a small fish crowd. They epitomized Arco; holding on to the past and what they wanted to believe as life slowly slid into inert existence. Bridget didn’t particularly care for them, but a job was a job and waitressing was hers; 6:00 am to 1:00 on Saturdays, and after school until 5:30 during the week. She wanted to get out of the tiny town and see the world, but she never really felt that she had an opportunity to do so. Therefore, she kept her thoughts to herself, dismissing them as unimportant in the face of daily activities in a small town. “Enjoy your meal,” she said, sliding a plate of hash browns onto the counter. “Can I get some catsup?” “Yes, indeed.” She walked purposefully back into the kitchen to refill a bottle. Gert continued to propagate good spirits among the crowd. The good old boys roared with another round of laughter, drowning out the sound of the cowbell on the door as it opened and snapped shut behind the dark frame of Ralph Sutter. He glanced around the diner and silently made his way to the end of the counter opposite the crowd of regulars. No one seemed to notice his presence. Bridget emerged from the back, holding a bottle smeared with catsup with her index finger and thumb, catsup smeared all down the front of her checked yellow apron. “Here you go. Enjoy.” “Little messy there, eh girl?” said Gert, “Get on down to the other end, got another customer h’aint been helped yet.” “You got it.” Bridget recognized Ralph, as the two had gone through the same tiny school system. Strangely, she knew little about him, an oddity in such a small town. She knew that he lived only with his mother and that the woman did secretarial work at the lumber mill. Rumors had circulated that she would often split town on the weekends and head to Idaho Falls to moonlight at various bars and strip clubs. Bridget found this horrifyingly fascinating, mainly because it was so strange and foreign to the small town. As she walked to Ralph’s end of the counter, she found herself thinking about him as horrifyingly fascinating as well. He had the vibe that Bridget so desperately wanted to adopt as her own; dark, mysterious, and moody. He wore mostly black, and his dark hair fell into his eyes. He’d managed to go through thirteen years of public education in Arco and maintain his enigmatic vibe, a feat Bridget deemed quite commendable. “What can I get you?” “Coffee,” “Creamer? Sugar?” “No,” She noticed his nails were also black. She had never seen anyone with black nails outside of the magazines she read and she wondered if he’d bought polish or utilized a permanent marker. “Here you go, holler if you you need anything else,” Holler? That sucked. “Thanks,” “Sure you don’t want anything else this morning?” She was trying to prolong the conversation. “Omelet? Cinnamon roll?” “No,” It wasn’t working. Crap. “Oh, ok then. Well, if you want anything...” she trailed off. He didn’t say anything. Still waters run deep. She poured the coffee. She brought him a steaming cup and he accepted it silently. Unsure of what she should do next, Bridget simply stood behind the counter looking on as Ralph swigged the black coffee. He hunched over the counter, hands wrapped around the mug and stared at a salt shaker. He drained the cup, removed a dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the counter. Without looking at Bridget or anyone else, he slid off the chrome stool and left the diner nearly as unnoticed as he’d come. Only Bridget watched him as he slammed the door on his ancient tan Buick and wheeled away down the main street. Wow, what a hottie. That evening, Bridget sat on the floor of her bedroom, coloring her nails black with a Sharpie. Following an internet search, she concluded that AFI and Thursday should be the basis of the soundtrack of her new life. She studied the printed off song lyrics of hardcore punk and acquainted herself with them so as to appear more well versed if she got the chance to talk to Ralph at school the following Monday. A light knock on her door prefaced her mother’s entrance. “Hey sweetie? How about turning it down a notch? Your dad’s putting the final touches on tomorrow’s sermon.” “’K, Mom.” “Dinner in about fifteen, ok?” “All right.” “Honey?” “Yeah?” “What’s with the black nails? Some new, hip fad at school?” “Yeah, pretty much.” “What... Does it mean anything?” “No, not really, or, no actually, it’s like recognizing sins. Yeah, like I’m accepting that I’ve sinned, and it’s a reminder to... not do that.” “Oh! Dad will be proud! Good for you, honey!” As her mother closed the door, Bridget suddenly became very aware that she was being quite oppressed. Not only was she oppressed and exploited at Gert’s, she was being forced to do things she didn’t feel like in her own home. And now she felt that she had to lie about what she was doing because of it. What bullshit! “Damn!” she tried, and liking the way it rolled off her tongue, she tested a round of obscenities that, up to that point, her mouth was unaccustomed to producing. She turned up the volume just a touch, and smiled at her own rebellious behavior. The next morning as her father laid down The Law to his attentive parishioners, Bridget admired the nails on her folded hands. To every point her father brought up, she silently made a contrary statement in her mind just because she found it rather freeing. Suddenly, in the middle of The Lord’s Prayer, she unbowed her head, looked around at the sheep surrounding her and thought, Oh my god! I may very well be an atheist! I wonder if Ralph is... With a collective “amen” surrounding her, Bridget smiled at her own silence. Poor, sad fools. In need of a crutch without realizing it’s the crutch that makes them lame. Throughout the week, Bridget made an effort to be in the same general vicinity of Ralph at school. This was difficult, as he was often hard to find. She wanted to be sure he saw her new style which primarily consisted of black. After four days of little success in contact with him, four tardies due to her casual loitering by his locker, and one disastrous run-in with a freshman carrying a large load of books; Friday showed a desperate version of Bridget. As the final bell rang, she managed to catch up with him as he headed out to the Buick. “Hey, Ralph,” Oh god, I said it. “Hey,” “What’s up?” Good job, very cool. “Not much,” He was at the door of his vehicle, and Bridget sensed the pressure of panic rising in her chest. Oh god, anything, anything to avoid awkwardness... “Do you need a ride or something?” Thank god. Wait, I’m an atheist... shut up and say something, you idiot. “Yeah, whatever, I mean, if you don’t care, I have to go to Gert’s” My dad is going to kill me. She got in the passenger side, buckled her seat belt and tried to calm her nerves. Ralph clicked on the radio, it playing a song she didn’t know, but it certainly didn’t sound like AFI or Thursday. In fact, it sounded rather twangy, and Bridget tended to avoid music with twang. However, she was certain that this was probably still very cool music because Ralph listened to it. To avoid appearing inept, she decided not to ask about it. There was no conversation, so the radio was a welcome friend to Bridget. Every so often, she stole a sidelong glance at the Adonis, admiring the way the sun set off his moody features and glinted off his chipped nail polish as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Thanks for the ride,” You should ask me out, look at my nails. “Yeah. See you later,” What’s that supposed to mean? Is that good? Is it bad? “Yeah, bye.” Damn it. After a weekend of intense analysis of every word Ralph had ever uttered in her direction and struggling through her oppressive lifestyle at Gert’s, home, and church, Bridget concluded that drastic measures must be taken. Her entire schedule re-routed in order to achieve maximum exposure to Ralph, often to the expense of her formerly tartdy-free record. Lunch was sacrificed to perusing volumes of the encyclopedia and peering through the bookshelves at Ralph who sat, unaware of her presence, reading Rolling Stone. After he left, she would flip through the magazine in hopes of brushing up on the article which he had been reading. She figured that music would be an excellent conversation starter, but could never figure out if he'd been reading up on new releases from My Chemical Romance or Kenny Chesney. The following Friday, after a week of major effort in creating plausible conversation staters to establish communication with Ralph, Bridget caught him at the door to to parking lot. “Hey, Ralph?” “Yeah?" “Could I ask you for a favor?” “Um, yeah?,” “I really have to get out of this town.” Oh my god, what am I doing? What happened to talking about My Chemical Romance and Warped Tour?!? “What?” “I’m going to California, and I need to get to Idaho Falls to the Greyhound station.” California? I’m going to Cali? Apparently I am now. Damn this word vomit! “You want a ride to Idaho Falls?” Not really. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ll pay gas, I know it’s seventy miles,” Seventy miles from home. Yeah, but seventy miles from all this oppression and suppression... “Idaho Falls? There are other Greyhound stations that are closer,”. “Listen, you don’t have to take me to Idaho Falls if you don’t want to, I can get another ride.” Please say you don’t want to. “I guess I’ll take you, if that’s what you want.” Because you want to spend time with me? Oh my god, he wants to spend time with me! “Really? You rock. Can you pick me up at my corner at like 5:00 tomorrow morning or something?” So maybe this isn’t going to be so bad. “Yeah, you’re sure you want to do this?” With you? Yeah, yes I am. You and me in a car for an hour... best hour of my life. “Absolutely.” Once at home, Bridget quietly packed some clothes (all black) in her backpack. She hunted down all the money she’d hidden in various places around her room. It totaled $137. 79. She hoped that it would tide her over until another form of employment surfaced in California. What if he comes with me? “Bridget! Come and eat!” “Ok!” Last time I have to say grace when I don’t believe it. Bridget found that entertaining the thought of living in California with Ralph felt very idyllic and, upon evaluation, quite plausible. In fact, it was not at all difficult to imagine the situation through which they would end up going together. He would insist that a seventeen year old girl would not be safe on a Greyhound, much less alone in California. She would remain resolute in her decision to leave and move onto bigger and better things, he would inform her she was not going alone, and then, of course, he would demand to go with her. Bridget set her alarm for 4:30 and fell asleep to the workings of her own imagination. At a quarter to 5:00, Bridget wrote a simple note to her family that she hoped would curb any parental worrying. It read, “I’ll call you when I get to California. Love, Bridget. P.S. I’m an atheist.” She set it under her pillow where it would not be immediately found (a clever ruse to further agitate her mother) and quietly left her house for the last time. “Hey, thanks for doing this, again.” “Yeah. You don’t have any more stuff?” “Yeah., I travel light.” “Oh, well then I guess we’re heading out,” he yawned. We. We’re heading out. The radio was playing, and Bridget didn’t know any of the songs, but she was quite satisfied to listen to her mind. It would just be easier to refer to you as my boyfriend, mainly to avoid confusion. It’s so much more efficient to call someone your boyfriend than it is to refer to him as the guy you’re kind of hanging out with and maybe kind of seeing, dating if you will. Then when we meet people in California introductions will be much less awkward. It’s so lucky that I think ahead like this... Wow, he’s such a hottie... I’m such a lucky girl. Oh, he’s yawning, poor boy must be sleepy. We’ll take a nap on the bus. Neither Ralph or Bridget said anything over the entire seventy mile trip. Bridget hardly noticed the silence as her thoughts unfolded and became more and more complex. You’ll start a hardcore band when we get there, you’ll be the bassist. We’ll both be well known on the underground rock scene. You’ll start making money at your gigs and we’ll be able to afford good stuff. But before that we’ll live in a seedy apartment with a neighbor who has fourteen cats in a neighborhood that is full of strange people. But we won’t worry about that, because we’ll be together, and hey, as cliché as it may sound, that’s all we’ll need. “Here it is,” Ralph’s voice snapped Bridget out of her daydream. Ahead, the blue and white sign with the lean and aerodynamic dog loomed. Ralph pulled up in front of the station. The passenger door’s hinges squeaked loudly as Bridget swung it open. She alighted on the cracked sidewalk and stretched. She turned and smiled, awaiting Ralph’s protest to her independent travels. “Well, good luck,” What? “I hope you have fun in California.” “You?” Me? Singular? “Uhh, yeah.” “See you later.” Later? Meaning never? Don’t you know it’s not safe for a seventeen year old girl to travel to California by herself on a Greyhound? Ralph shifted the Buick into drive, and, without looking at Bridget, steered in the direction from which they’d just come. Bridget stood on the curb, staring after him, with “goodbye” stuck on her lips. She stared until the Buick disappeared onto the distance, over the onramp to the road back home. “Shit.” That was not supposed to happen, you moron. You stupid, stupid girl. You’re screwed. Bridget fished in her bag and found her cell phone. It felt heavy in her hand as she started to dial the seven digit apron string of a lifeline home. However, when she reached the fourth digit, she stopped and stared out to the street in front of her. “I got myself into this mess, and I sure as hell can get myself out.” She turned and walked into the station. The grimy phone booth shone to Bridget like a lighthouse. She grabbed the phone book and flipped through the yellow pages. $137. 79 ought to cover a ride to Arco, even if I have to bribe someone into the trip it’ll be worth it. And if I do it fast, I can be home by 8:00 and pass off my absence as a morning walk. It’ll be ok... Oh god! The note! No, wait... I rock. It’s under my pillow... and with any luck nobody’s going to find it. Yes, it will be a-ok. Now who should I call? Taxi? FedEx? Trucking service? Somebody's got to be delivering those to-go boxes to Gert's this morning... now what was their name? Oh yeah.... I remember it now. Bridget noticed the music piped into the station. This time, she knew the song, and it wasn’t by AFI and it wasn’t by Thursday and it wasn't a new release from My Chemical Romance. It was the Rolling Stones, and they were telling her, “You can't always get what you want She smiled. Yes, indeed. |