"CLARA!" came a husky voice from behind her.
"YES MIKEEYYY?" Clara picked up three plates, balancing them on her tray and dancing around the corner of the bar. She could hear her boss in the kitchen behind her, banging pots and pans over the sound of blaring football games and laughing couples. Mikey, the boss/fry cook, was a close personal friend. He was tall, with dark brown curls cut short and large blue eyes that peered out from beneath thick brows, but his largely angelic appearance was shattered by his own grim, coarse attitudes and expressions. A scar criss-crossed the bridge of his nose, and his 6'6" frame was heavily muscled. He spoke mostly in grunts, growls, scowls, and occasionally yells- but Clara loved her boss dearly. Ever since she saw him run from the alley where they kept the trash back into the kitchen only to return seconds later to surreptitiously feed a large can of tinned salmon to an alley cat with what bordered on childish enthusiasm, she couldn't help but admire him. Mikey just didn't know how to people, but it never bothered her.
"DID YOU GET THE ONION RINGS?"
"YES MIKEY, I GOT THE ONION RINGS." From what she knew, Mikey had been a big football star before he joined up with the army and shipped out to Iraq- but he just hadn't come back the same, people said. "Such a shame". She always heard those words whispered at his back, or when he left a room- and it made her want to start swinging her frying pan. It was the people that said these things that made Mikey more gruff and coarse than ever. She had the sneaking suspicion that they frightened him, if that was the correct word for it. He had come back broken, and he was no longer the shining golden boy who could meet their expectations. She rounded the outside corner of the bar and stepped up to her busiest table.
This being a small town, everyone knew everyone. Clara was not quite native herself, having been born and raised in far more rural country to the north by a few hours, but she had lived here long enough to have familiarized herself with the local populace. At her current table were the town Good Ole' Boys. Every rural town has them. "Hello boys." The words came out with a small sigh. When she first entered the section the wall of testosterone had almost felt like a physical force. She felt as if she were preparing herself for battle. The problem with good ole' boys is that once their football days are over, they get bored. Seeing as they never applied themselves to anything else they can only really get the crappy menial labor jobs that nobody else wants. So they work and they drink and they fish- they never became much good at anything else. Just football, laziness, and getting into trouble. "Yello Clara." The one on the far right, Chester, flicked up the edge of his hat at her with a yellow-toothed grin.
"Onion rings, right?" Clara asked, passing them across the table to him.
"Yessum, thank'ye." Chester accepted them graciously, pulling them across the table to rest between his elbows.
"Clara, when you gon' come have a drink with me?" Mac, unmarried father of two, partially balding beneath his Bass Pro cap, draped an arm loosely around her hips. Clara leaned into his shoulder, letting her full weight rest on him. Mac was a serial flirt-but otherwise harmless. The two of them had established a sort of playful banter-he flirted mercilessly, she flirted a little back, he asked for a drink, she would evade and the cycle would continue. All in good fun.
"When you gonna let me babysit your kids?" she asked, topping off his sweet tea as she absently patted his head.
"Woah now, moving too fast sweet-pea. I ask for a drink and you already want to meet my kids?" He was laughing and she nudged him roughly with her hip, grinning back.
"I suppose I'll have to send the dress back. More lemon?"
"Yes, please."
"Right. Here's your loaded potato.. Trent, didn't you order the country fried steak?"
"Yessum." It was Trent that bothered her, really. Chester was a mean drunk, but he wasn't willfully malicious. Mac was just along for the ride. He got into small trouble, but never anything serious. Trent though-he always made Clara nervous. The kind of nervous that makes you clench your keys between your knuckles and cross to the other side of the parking lot. DUI's, Domestic Violence calls, rumors of a meth ring. Oh, Chester and Mac would be so much better off if Trent would just stay in jail for once. Tonight he was quiet, but that wasn't exactly a comfort-he was always quiet right before he got violent.
"Something bugging you tonight Trent?" Clara asked the question in a carefully neutral tone. Trent picked up the Budweiser she had delivered, nursing it in both hands and mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "Stupid nosy bitches."
"Awh Trent, don't be like that. Miss Clara just worrying about ya, that's all," Chester said.
Trent snorted and took a drink. Mac began tucking into his potato with studied intensity, doing his best not to look at Clara. "Don't mind him Clara, he don't mean nuthin' by it. He's just upset cause-"
"Cause Miss Penny done left him again and took the kids," Chester cut in. Clara didn't believe that for a second. Last time Miss Penny took the kids Trent had been in here laughing and drinking, telling everyone who would listen that she would be back in no time at all. And he was right, no matter how many times he hit Miss Penny and she left him, Miss Penny came back. Maybe in a day, maybe in a week-but she always came back. The longest she had ever managed to stay away was a month. Rumor was it was because he had hit the littlest one, Tater. Tater was a pretty little thing with rosy cheeks and a gap-toothed smile whose real name was Emma, sweet-natured and shy. Now generally speaking Clara did not put much stock in gossip. Most of it was mean-spirited and obviously said with agenda-but she did keep an ear out for the true stuff. You could always tell when it was true too, because nobody was happy to tell. Or at least, they pretended to be horribly unhappy about it. "Oh. Hope your evening improves. Enjoy your food, ya'll." She gave Mac one last friendly pat-he had gone up in her good graces just then, he had been about to tell her the truth-and left the table to go back to the bar.
"Mikey!" Clara called through the food window, putting her elbows up on the counter and peering through.
His face peered back at her from the angle he was standing at the stove but leaning off to the side to see the window. "Yeah?"
"I'm coming back! I need to talk." Clara bounced around to the door and swung it open with her elbow. "It's about Trent."
"Oh hell!" Mikey's face reappeared, along with the rest of him. He was wiping his hands on a rag, his sweaty face set in grim, expectant lines. "What's going on with Trent now?"
Clara shook her head, the door swinging closed as she stepped in to lean against a counter top, crossing her arms over her chest. She shook her head. "Nothing, yet. He's quiet though, and when I asked what was wrong Chester lied to me. Told me Miss Penny left him again."
"Well that's a lie."
"Yeah, yeah I know." There was a pause. "He called me a nosy bitch when I asked. Beyond just being a regular bastard. Even if Miss Penny did leave him, he wouldn't be upset because he knows she'll come back." She uncrossed her arms, planting them back against the counter top and tapping her fingers.
Out of her peripheral vision she could see Mikey's frown deepening. "I'll make him leave."
"I'm not saying do that. If you do, you'll be the one that he throws a punch at." Which was the last thing Clara wanted. Mikey snorted through his nose, and Clara laughed involuntarily. "You're right, you'd like to see him try." Smiling, she reached out and gave him a gentle pat on the arm. "I'm just saying to keep an eye on him. That way you can stop it before it starts."
"Right." Mikey grunted out the word, tucking the rag he had been toying with into his belt. She took it from his waist wordlessly, fidgeting.
"Hey." She lifted her head to look at him, blinking, and he lightly chucked her under the chin. "Don't worry. I've got it covered."
Clara smiled back at him. "Alright, big guy, alright."
Pushing herself away from the counter, Clara reached out and lightly dropped the rag back into his hands, giving him one last pat on the shoulder before she left the kitchen. Nobody else seemed to see it except Clara, but she knew deep down Mikey was one of the most loving people she had met. People were too caught up in being disappointed, or intimidated, or sorry for him-they failed to see the man that he was. Fiercely loyal, sweet-natured, kind and generous-with a thin veneer of gruff irritability. Clara supposed they were both much the same. Nobody else would think so, to see them together-she was cheery and sociable, where Mikey was grim and taciturn. They both wanted what was best for the people around them, though the only difference being that Mikey had been continuously rejected and disappointed by the people he tried to help, while Clara had not. He was jaded, and isolated, and it hurt her to see him so. So Clara loved him as best she could while he held himself away from everyone, and he continued protecting himself the only way he knew how.
Clara gathered up several drinks as she considered all this, dispensing them amongst the tables and booths in her section. She counted her tips absently, wiped down the tables, and took food orders. The entire time, she thought of herself and how she fit into this place. The one big similarity between them was that, in the end, Clara and Mikey were both solitary. While Clara could flutter from table to table dispensing conversation and smiles, she never actually went out herself. At the end of the day she always went back to her own little house on the outskirts of the town. She never dated, and while she could be friendly with everyone, she had no close friends. It had never bothered her before, but she considered it now. She knew that it bothered other people. It particularly bothered the older women she was acquainted with. They supposed there must be something wrong with her, for her to be so sweet and pretty and still alone. The truth of it was that she had never felt lonely before, she had always managed to be happy with and by herself.
By this time Clara had circled back around to the good ole' boys table. Mac greeted her with what appeared to be an apologetic, embarrassed smile. At first she couldn't understand it, until she drew closer and saw Chester and Trent. Chester had his arm looped around Trent's shoulders, and he had his body twisted to face the other man, his head leaned in close. His expression was intent, anxious as he whispered. Trent's face was not visible, turned away from her, but the set of his shoulders was tense. Clara could see his fists balled up on the table, and his head shook from side to side stiffly.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked delicately.
Mac stood up, moving as if to come around to her and pull her away from the table. "No, no everything's alrig-"
"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" came Trent's harsh voice.
"Excuse me?"
"All these nosy bitches in this fucking town. I'm so fucking sick of these nosy goddamn bitches." Trent was drunk. He stood up a little unsteadily, turning to face her. Chester tried to pull him back down into his seat, saying "No man, ain't no reason for this-" but Trent shoved him away. Clara's own shoulders stiffened, and in the back of her mind she considered just how angry he was, how much damage he could do. She was tiny as was, and he was towering over her, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Can't have nothing in this town without some nosy bitch coming along and getting in your shit. Why don't you mind your own fucking business, hey?" He reached out and pushed her, and she staggered back a step. "I told you to fuck off earlier!"
Ignoring the fact that he had not, in fact, told her to fuck off earlier, Clara mustered all of her 5'4' self and straightened her back. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Fuck that, I ain't leavin'. You can ask all you want." He was starting to talk through clenched teeth, looking as if they would shatter under all the pressure.
"Trent let's just go-" Chester tried, fearing where this was going.
"NO. I done said I AIN'T GOIN'."
"Leave, now, or I'll get the owner to make you leave." Clara's voice was a bit shaky, but not enough to tell how scared she was getting. She was starting to regret not letting Mikey throw Trent out.
"The hell you will!" the man wailed, lunging forward.
"NO, Trent-!" Clara saw Mac move to grab him, but his fist was already slamming into the side of her head. Her vision flashed black and red and white, and pain seared through her skull. She didn't feel herself fall.
Thank you for reading! Reviews are much appreciated!