I mean, there were.
They were alive and everything. They were just lazy and burned their unearned paychecks on women, gambling, alcohol, and pyramid schemes. Exactly in that order.
I knew, because they were supposed to work shifts here, and yet, most of the time, it was just me.
“Gotta problem, Turner?” Jerry chewed on tobacco. The leaves gave his teeth a strange hue of urine-yellow. He eyed me meaningfully from across the counter.
Dang it.
I needed to bite the bullet and just do it.
But I hated horny teenagers who only came in to check what was under my dress.
Jerry’s waitresses （or: me. I was the only waitress here） wore pretty skimpy dresses because he said it got them （again: me） better tips. It did not. Needless to say, wearing the uniform was a must. White and pink striped, and shorter than a bull’s fuse.
Since I was pretty tall for a woman, half my butt was on full display whenever I bent down in this outfit. I could always squat, but then I ran the risk of showing something even more demure than my tuchus.
“Well?” Yellow-hoodied boy slammed his fist against the table, making utensils clatter and plates full of hot, fluffy waffles fly an inch in the air. “Am I going to have to repeat myself? We all know why you’re wearing that dress, and it ain’t because you like the breeze.”
Jerry & Sons was the kind of small-town diner you saw in the movies and thought to yourself, there’s no way a crap-hole like this truly exists.
Checkered black-and-white linoleum flooring that had seen better days—probably in the eighteenth century. Tattered red vinyl booths. A jukebox that randomly coughed up “All Summer Long” by Kid Rock entirely unprovoked.
And Jerry’s claim to fame—a wall laden with pictures of him hugging celebrities who’d made a pit stop in our town （namely, two professional baseball players who got lost driving into Winston-Salem and a backup dancer for Madonna who did come here intentionally, but only to say goodbye to her dying grandmother, and looked every inch of a woman who had just said goodbye to a loved one）。
The food was questionable at best and dangerous at worst, depending on whether our cook, Coulter, was in the mood to wash the veggies and poultry （together） before preparing them. He was truly a great guy, but I’d rather eat crushed glass than anything his hands touched.
Still, the place was full to the brim with teens sucking on milkshakes, ladies enjoying their refreshments after a shopping spree on Main Street, and families grabbing an early dinner.
What Jerry & Sons lacked in style and taste, it made up for by simply existing: it was one of the very few eateries around.
Fairhope was a town so small you could only find it with a microscope, a map, and a lot of effort. Your-worst-ex’s-dick small. And a real time capsule, too.
It had one K-8 school, one supermarket, one gas station, and one church. Everyone knew everyone. No secret was safe from the gossip gang of elderly women who played bridge every day, led by Mrs. Underwood.
And everybody knew I was the screw-up.
The town’s black sheep.
The harlot, the reckless woman, the jezebel.
That was the main irony about Fairhope, I supposed—it was not fair and offered no hope.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Cruz Costello occupying a booth with his girlfriend of the month, Gabriella Holland. Gabby （she hated when people called her that, which was why I did it sometimes, although only in my head） had approximately six miles of legs, each the width of a toothpick, the complexion of a newborn baby, and arguably the same intellectual abilities.
Her waist-length, shiny black hair made her look like a long-lost Kardashian （Kabriella, anyone?）， and she was equally high maintenance, making outrageous changes to the dishes she ordered.
For instance, the triple-sized, Elvis-style beef burger with extra cheese fries became a free-range, reduced-fat organic veggie burger, no bun, no fries, with extra arugula leaves and no dressing.
If you ask me, no thigh gap in the world was worth eating like a hamster. But Coulter still went along with all of her demands, because she always whined if her plate had a smear of oil by the time she was done with her food.
“Just give it up, Messy Nessy. Pick up my fork and we can all move on,” the teenager hissed in the background, snapping me out of my reverie.
Heat flamed my cheeks.
While Cruz had his back to me, Gabriella was watching me intently like the rest of the diner, waiting to see how this situation was going to play out. I shot another peek at Jerry before sighing, deciding it was not worth getting fired over, and crouching down to pick up the fork from the floor.