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Mot's

This is a short story that I wrote in a couple of days. It still needs some work, but I figured it was as good of an entry as anything. Enjoy!

"It isn't a good day to get lost."

He began to fight with his freewheeling side as he drove down the two-lane highway. It was clear which side would win. He'd lost most of his freewheeling side.

He was the only one on the nondescript highway for miles in either direction. The only sign of life was an advertisement for a local café, two miles ahead and another mile down an even more desolate stretch of highway.

The sign appealed to his sense of adventure. He couldn't get lost; the directions were too obvious. It also appealed to his stomach, which hadn't experienced food all night, and it was nearing dawn.

He had been running away from his life. Given a long weekend, he had packed his bags as quickly as he could and gotten out of the house before she could call. It was pretty unlikely that she would, though. Their last conversation had consisted mainly of shouting, vastly different from the young lovers' quarrels they had once had just for fun. Now they knew how to hurt each other. And it had left her crying uncontrollably, him mumbling to himself, and both bitter.

He couldn't face seeing her again, so instead he had jumped into his SUV and driven to the first stretch of interstate that was available. He had taken it south, finally taking a random exit. Armed with only a road map, he had driven anywhere, as long as it didn't point him homeward. He'd covered about five hundred miles of road thus far, and he didn't want to stop until he reached his destination, which even he didn't know yet. When I reach it, I'll know.

But food was a good enough diversion, and so he turned off onto the county road lined with pines and magnolias. The quality of the road was much worse than before, pretty typical of a county road, and so he rattled along until he reached the diner. MOT'S, it read in plain white letters painted on the middle of the three windows facing the road. OPEN 24 HOURS was written in smaller letters underneath.

He joined the lone car in the parking lot and stepped inside, a small bell sounding his arrival as he passed through the door.

"Nate? Is that you?" a female voice asked from the kitchen of the diner.

"No, I'm not him," he said. "I'm a customer."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, stepping into the dining area. She was in her mid-50's, with hair that was once brunette, about two-thirds of the way to light gray. She wore a shirt with "MOT" emblazoned upon the right-hand pocket, which bore a small order notebook. She had a tired expression, and he couldn't tell if it was the early morning or the years that caused it.

"Nate's my chef," she continued, beckoning for him to take a seat at the bar. "My name's Martha, but everyone I know calls me Mot. Have since I was a little girl."

"Why does a 24-hour place not have a chef around?" he asked, ignoring her background information for the moment.

"No one ever comes in around now."

"Then why be open 24 hours?"

"In case someone comes in. Like you." She laughed a little at this, and he guessed it wasn't the first time she'd had this exchange of conversation. "In any case, I can cook too, you know. What'll you have?"

"Just coffee to start."

"Well, I've definitely got that." She went back to the kitchen and emerged with two steaming cups. She handed him one and took a seat on the other side of the bar, sipping hers as she did. "I should have known it wasn't Nate. He doesn't ever come until at least 6:00." She looked at him. "So, what's your name?"

"Jimmy, ma'am."

"Oh, don't 'ma'am' me. I bet I'm younger than your mama." She smiled. "Just call me Mot."

"Okay…Mot." Jimmy sipped his coffee, lost in thought.

Without prodding, she continued. "So, what brings you here?"

"Just passing through."

"Makes sense," she answered. "That's what most people do. Not many ever stay around here. Not much to stay for. What do you do, Jimmy?"

He wasn't used to being chatted up by a waitress. "Why so many questions?"

"How do you get to know someone any other way?" she asked, shrugging. "That's how I got all of my friends."

Can't be too many, he thought. There's nothing around for miles. "Yes," she continued, "I've got friends from all parts. Nice gentleman named Ray from South Dakota stopped back in the other week…"

He cut her off. "South Dakota? We're in Nowhere, Alabama. What was he doing here?"

She shrugged. "Everyone's story is different. He came through for one reason. You came for another. I don't even know when they'll come, just that they do." She eyed him thoughtfully, tapping her left index finger on her lips. "I may not have a degree in psychology or anything, but I'm pretty good at reading people, and if I didn't know better I'd say that you were running from something."

He looked up from his cup of coffee at her; she took it as a sign that she was right, and continued. "Got something on your mind, son?"

He began to warm up a little; it would feel good to talk to someone else about it, after having stewed to himself for hours on end about it. "Yeah, I had the biggest fight ever with my fiancé the night before last. It wasn't over anything special, but it just got out of control. She just didn't understand what I was trying to tell her, and she got frustrated. I yelled at her and she started crying, and I just couldn't face her yesterday. So after work, I just packed my bags and got out of town."

"Fiancé? How old are you? You don't look old enough to have a fiancé."

"I'm 22."

"Well, that's your first mistake, son. No one should be thinkin' about getting married at that age. You haven't seen the world yet!"

And what would someone operating a diner in rural Alabama know about that? He voiced a more polite response. "Well, I just knew that she was the one for me."

"Well, I can understand that. Someone's the right one for you, you have to reach out and hold on to them. As far as I know, that's one of only three ways that a relationship can end."

"And what are the other two?"

"Either she wasn't right for you…or you weren't right for her."

This seemed a bit simplistic to him, and he decided to take the bait. "I can't see that. It doesn't have to be that way at all. Sometimes you can both see that you're not right for each other, and leave it at that."

"Maybe that's what you say. But look back at your own life. Is that the way it really is?"

This piqued his curiosity, and so he began to think about his past loves, talking to Mot about them as he drank his coffee. First there was Megan. What was that, sixth grade? But he had moved away before they could really do anything beyond silly sixth-grade stuff. She didn't really count.

Andrea. Yes, Andrea would have to be the first one. She was in ninth grade, and even though they had only gone out for a few times, he counted her as his first girlfriend. How did that one end again? Oh, yeah…she had wanted to go out with a senior. He wasn't the right one for her. But he wanted more in a love than someone who'd trade him in for someone cooler. At least, now he did. So she really wasn't the right one for him.

Then there had been Sarah. At the time, he had thought that she was perfect. He'd basically idolized her from afar, never having the courage to actually say anything to her. It didn't help that she was a grade older than him. But later in his high school career, he'd heard things about her. He didn't know if they were true or not, but if they were, he knew he didn't want that. She wasn't right for him either.

He'd gone out with Julie for about a year in his senior year, but then he'd realized he needed someone more mature than a high school sophomore. Then he'd asked a girl named Jennifer out in college, and they'd gone out for a little while, but she wasn't intellectual enough for his tastes.

He managed to go through all of his previous girlfriends in this fashion relatively easily. And every time he came to the same conclusion: she wasn't the right one for me.

Until Rebecca.

Rebecca was the first person he truly believed that he had loved. The others before were either the product of an over-imaginative high-school student or an over-stimulated college boy. She was just about everything that he believed that he wanted in someone: beautiful physically. Academically, an overachiever. A woman of the utmost in morals and taste. A good conversationalist. She had a loving heart. She had the power to take his breath and his words away every time he saw her, but made him feel like he was her best friend every time she talked to him, even the first.

When he had asked her out for the first time, she had thought about it for a little bit and then answered yes. They stayed together after that for two and a half years in college, until he graduated. Then he had asked her to marry him. She had thought about it a little bit.

And she had said no.

I wasn't the right one for her.

The words cut through him like a knife. Why? He wasn't used to the idea that someone else didn't find him up to their standards, and it bothered him greatly. He struggled to recall why, and in retrospect, he honestly couldn't come up with any rationale as to why she had broken his heart. The only thing that he could bring up from the memory was the pain and misery that he had worked long and hard to overcome. The new job helped some; long hours and some travel kept him busy, but he still had thought of her from time to time. Then he had met Lauren, his fiancé, and everything had turned out well to this point, so he thought. But it still nagged in his mind. After telling Mot about her, he had to ask. "What did I do wrong with Rebecca?" he asked Mot.

"Well," she said, "sometimes these things just happen, and there isn't a reason at all. But those times are pretty scarce, and I wouldn't bet that you're one of them. The person who can answer that question isn't me…it's her."

He reached into his pocket, and drew out his cell phone. Call her? "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Mot looked at him straight-faced. "Depends. Can you live with not knowing the answer?"

He didn't really know how to directly get in touch with her, but he knew her parents. That was enough. He dialed the phone, Mot watching with an interested look on her face.

Ted Rosenbloom, eyes blinking from being awakened, picked up the phone and answered it. "Hello?"

"Mr. Rosenbloom, this is Jimmy Kendall. I know that it's early, but I just had something on my mind."

"Jimmy? Rebecca's old boyfriend?"

"Yes. I need to speak to her, if I could. Is there any way that you could tell me how to get in touch with her? I just need to ask her a question."

Mr. Rosenbloom wasn't really in the mood to do anything but go back to sleep, but he figured that it wouldn't hurt. He had liked Jimmy. "Sure. Do you have something to write with?"

"Go ahead."

"Area code 213, 555-6622."

"Thank you, sir."

"And, Jimmy? Wait for a little while to call, okay? It's…five in the morning out there."

"I will. Goodbye." Jimmy hung up and looked at Mot. "Can't do anything for a couple of hours…I guess I'll order now."

* * *

After his meal, Jimmy looked at Mot and sighed. "How in the world am I going to ask this question?"

"Why aren't we together now? I don't know that there's a good way to ask it except just to ask it. If you're worried that you'll be hurt again, you may not want to make the call at all and just accept it."

He couldn't do that. This was something that he felt had held him back for so long unanswered. Knowing why could only help erase the pain. He took his phone off of the counter and dialed the number Mr. Rosenbloom had given him.

In a Los Angeles apartment, Rebecca Thomason, five-month-old with a bottle in its mouth in one hand, answered with the other. "Hello?"

"Rebecca? Hi. It's Jimmy."

"Jimmy…Kendall? How are you doing!?" The tone of her voice was the same as it had always been when she started a conversation; as if she hadn't seen the other person in years. In this case, it was actually true.

"I'm doing okay. Listen, I hate to bother you or freak you out by giving you a call like this, but I had to ask you a question."

"Okay…" her voice changed to that of puzzlement, so Jimmy quickly continued. "I have to know. Why did you say no to my proposal?"

"Oh, Jimmy."

"Yeah, I'm sorry to bring it up, but I was just thinking about it, and I realized that I really didn't know why."

"Well…" even from across the country, Jimmy could tell that she was fidgeting over answering this question. It didn't help that she had a squirming child in one arm. "I just wasn't ready for marriage yet."

It was too easy a response, and he called her bluff on it. "No, really, Rebecca. I have to know. You're not going to hurt my feelings. Why?"

She paused for a couple of seconds, then sighed. "Okay, but could I put you on hold for a minute, please? I've got a baby that I need to put down." Without waiting on a response, she placed the phone down and took her child to its crib. She came back and picked up the phone again. "Okay. Jimmy?"

"I'm here."

She sighed again. "Why I said no. Well, I guess that it pretty much boils down to one thing. The night that you proposed to me, I told you that I had to go home and think about it, remember? I did, and I realized something. What I thought that I loved wasn't a person…it was a set of character traits and facts. I loved that you had dimples. I loved your voice impressions. I loved that you knew exactly what you wanted out of life. I loved that you were active in church. You were kind and generous and treated me very well, and everything. I knew that you were a great guy.

"But I thought about it, and I realized that I didn't know you, I knew of you. The first year of our relationship, we talked, but it wasn't anything groundbreaking. And after that, there wasn't any depth of conversation at all. The problem was that by then, I was just too comfortable around you to think about breaking up. I guess that's not very good of me, but I had never imagined that you'd propose, even though you were going to graduate.

"You were a great boyfriend, Jimmy. But that night, I realized that I didn't know you the way that a wife should know her husband, or love you like a wife should love her husband. It's not your fault.."

He found himself covering for her. "How could that be only your fault? It had to be my fault, too. I should have tried more to talk to you about…"

She stopped him. "No, Jimmy. If it hadn't been that, it would have been something else. We just weren't supposed to be together. If we had, we'd be together now." She changed the subject slightly. "Are you married now?"

And her question answered his, because when she said that, he started to think about Lauren. He remembered the all-night conversations that they'd had. And while he knew her face by memory, he realized that he knew her heart as well. And that was something that he had never had with Rebecca, or with anyone else.

He snapped back to the present. "Uh, no…but I have a fiancé. Her name's Lauren. We're getting married in July."

"That's great. Well, I'd love to talk more, but I hear Peter crying, so I need to go get him. It was great talking to you, Jimmy. Best of luck to you and Lauren."

"Thanks. You and Peter too." He hung up the phone and looked at Mot. "You were wrong…sometimes neither one's right for the other."

She smiled at him and said, "Maybe you're right. After all, if you had gotten married, you'd never have met your fiancé, right? And she wouldn't have met her husband either. And both of you turned out fine, didn't you?"

"Maybe…if I can get back home quickly enough." He put his phone in his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"What was the fight that you two had about again?" Mot asked him.

He pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. "It doesn't matter now. Thanks for everything."

"No problem, shug. Take care getting back to her, now."

"Thank you. I will."

"And come back to see me sometime."

"If I ever get down here again, I will." A friendly wave and the doorbell, and he was gone.

Mot took the money and went to the register to ring up the total. Coffee - fifty-nine cents. Two eggs - $1.18. One biscuit - forty-nine cents. Tax included, it came out to $2.42. She put the money in the cash register. Thirty-seven dollars and change. Not the biggest tip she'd ever received, but a pretty nice one. I think he'll be back one day…he and that fiancé of his.

As he drove northward on the two-lane highway, Jimmy felt freer than he had in a long time. If I didn't have to get home right now, it'd be a perfect day to get lost. He had his cell phone back in his hand and the number already dialed. "Lauren? It's Jimmy. Don't hang up. I'm a long way from home. I don't remember what we fought about yesterday, and to be honest with you, it doesn't really matter to me. All I know is that I love you…I really love you…and I can't wait to see you again." His SUV turned onto the interstate, towards home and his love.

comments

Brandon, I really enjoyed your short story.

Good story. Not much plot or "action," but an interesting glimpse into the characters. Here's one of life's little mysteries: If Ph.D. stands for Doctor of Philosophy, why isn't it spelled D.Ph.?

Ah, reminds me of the days when I used to be able to write things...now corporate America has sucked all of the creativity out of me. Oh well. Good story, by the way.

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