Chapter Four: Shirley

"Hello again, stranger."

Dallas looks up from his menu.

There, clear as day, in that damning waitress uniform that clings to her hips and highlights her bust, is Shirley. She's smiling at him, pen and pad in her hands, ready to write down his order.

"Hey, Shirley." Dallas responds, the tension in his brows loosening. He had a rough day at work; Jim kept annoying him about the Christmas party and a broken machine puts a dent in their production and their paychecks. Dallas is hit the hardest; his check got slashed by thirty percent and believe him he's pissed. It's not like he can complain; this is by far the only job that will take him and it's the first job he's actually liking. If it wasn't for the coworkers and the strengthening relationship with his father, he'd have walked out a long time ago.

"Will it be the usual?"

"Not today." Dallas starts. He hates being predictable. "I'll have something sweet today." He winks at her. She chuckles, obviously hearing that line way too many times.

"What will it be?"

"Hot chocolate with the marshmallows. A slice of German chocolate cake, and," he gets close to her, his lips caressing her ear, "your phone number."

That's when Shirley laughs.

She laughs so hard a few patrons turn their head to see the fuss. While she's laughing, Dallas is fuming. Is she laughing at him?

"Woo," Shirley wipes a tear from her eye, "that's the funniest thing anyone has ever said to me. You a comedian, sir?"

"No, I'm not." Dallas answers, trying to cool his burning ears and cheeks.

"I was being serious."

That's when the atmosphere got thick.

"Oh," Shirley begins. She bites her lip, looking down at her shoes while scribbling down the order.

"I'm sorry, I really thought…" Shirley averts her eyes, "The order will be here shortly." She takes his menu and scurries away.

Dallas sits at the diner, tapping his fork against the napkin he folded, unfolded, and folded again. He just wants to get his food and get the hell out of here; he's been humiliated enough. Part of it was his fault; what business he had asking for her number? It was meant as a joke, but when she laughed like that, it felt the joke was on him. One of the easiest ways to get under his skin and make his blood boil is to make a joke out of him. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. She's the only waitress who's around his age and is nice, she is easy on the eyes and not once has she…

Something shines on the ground.

He looks down and sees a shiny purple pen gleaming in the sunlight. It looks just like Shirley's. He twirls it around in his hand. In cursive inscription, the word 'Shirley' shines back at him.

It's definitely Shirley's.

Dallas clicks the pen fifteen times before his food arrives. He's waiting for the airy voice of Shirley, only to hear a deep, raspy, and gruff baritone of a burly man who's three shades darker than her, his dark gray hair standing out against his skin. He nearly slams Dallas's food on the table and walks off before Dallas could say anything. He stares at his food and frowns. Someone clearly spit in his hot chocolate, the German Chocolate cake has a few hairs on it and it smells like someone wiped their ass with it. He pushes the food away. He's officially lost his appetite.

He strolls over to the counter, fists clenching and unclenching, jaws fighting to not grind his teeth, and slams on the bell. The burly man appears, eyes hard and his lips smug.

"Can I help you, suh?"

Dallas has two options: ask about the pen, or complain about the service. He's not a Soc who whines about every little thing, but that food was very disrespectful and there was no goddamn way he's going to give a penny for that awful food. However, he wants to know about Shirley so he could give her her pen back. Weighing the options, he chooses the first.

"You know where Shirley is? She dropped her pen and I want to give it back to her."

"She ain't here. She got off work five minutes ago. You can hand me the pen and I'll give it to her when she gets back."

He hands out his large palm for the pen and Dallas clutches the pen even tighter. Who knows where his hands have been.

"I'd like to give it to her myself." Dallas replies, before turning on his heel and leaving the diner.

He sits on the bus, hands holding on to Shirley's pen. He replays today's events over and over in his head, remembering Shirley's mortified face when she learned he wasn't joking. Was he joking at all? Was he being serious or was he saying that to save face? He doesn't know anymore.

He doesn't want to end the conversations he has with her; she's really sweet and she makes his long days at work bearable with her smile and charm. He pulls out the pen, thumbing the cursive lettering of her name. The pen is a pretty one; one made for schoolgirls who want to be nurses or housewives in the hills. Is she a rich girl? Does she come from a good family? Is she trying to be a nurse? All questions spinning in his head as he studies the pen, trying to get a feel of who she is.

He leaves the bus, pen in his pocket warming his palm as he walks down the cold streets, blocks away from his home. The numerous scenarios and methods of talking to his favorite waitress stops when he notices the fluffy afro, the shapely legs, and the dark chocolate skin. She has her back facing him, hunched over and rummaging through something. Curious, Dallas gets closer.

"Where is that goddamn pen? I know I had it somewhere. There's no way I could've lost it. That was my favorite pen!"

"Ahem," Dallas coughs. The woman jumps and turns to face him.

It's definitely Shirley.

"Woah, cool. I don't want any trouble." Dallas holds his hands up. Shirley's wound body eases, eyes sizing him up.

"Were you looking for me?"

"No, I live a few blocks down from here."

"Oh," Shirley softens, "Look, I am really sorry about…"

"There's no need to apologize," Dallas digs into his pocket and retrieves her pen.

"Asking for your phone number ain't really that original."

"My pen!" Shirley gasps. She grabs it and urgently places it in her purse.

"Thank you so much! You have no idea how much that pen meant to me!"

"You're welcome, man. Just wanted to do the right thing."

Shirley smiles.

"Thank you."

"All in a day's work."

"Um…it's getting late, and I really have to get going home."

"I'll walk you there. A pretty lady like yourself got no business walking home in the dark alone. C'mon." he motions with his head for her to walk by his side. She twists her lips, unsure of what decision to make, but decides to walk with him.

The walk was off to an awkward start. Dallas didn't know what to say and Shirley keeps looking over her shoulder.

"What do you keep looking over your shoulder for?" Dallas asks.

"Nothing. It's just, I'm not supposed to be walking alone with a stranger."

"We're far from strangers. I always go to your diner and we talk almost every day."

"That's different. That is business. What we're doing right now is outside of work. I don't even know if Dallas is your real name."

"It is. I'm well known around these parts."

"Clearly not if I didn't know you. I've been living here my whole life."

"Well, I'm well known around the cops and the Greasers. They know me as Dally."

"Dally. What an…interesting name."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Look, I'm sorry for laughing at you today. I'm not used to someone like you coming on to me. I thought you were trying to pull my leg."

"Someone like me?"

"Yeah…white."

Ice fell into the pit of his stomach.

"Well, there's my house." They stop to the walkway of a modest two story home with beautiful hedges and a manicured lawn. It'd look almost perfect, if it weren't for the crude paint on the garage door that reads, "GO HOME, NIGGERS. WHITES ONLY."

Dallas balks at the sign.

"What the hell is that?"

"Welcoming gift from the neighbors." She sneers. She knocks on the door. A black man answers; it's the same man from the diner, sans the chef hat and scowl. He looks at Shirley with a grin, but when he sees Dallas, he glowers.

"Uncle Red, this is Dallas. He walked me home tonight and gave me back my pen." Shirley explains. Uncle Red grunts and chins up at Dallas.

"White boy!" he barks. Dallas stands at attention.

"Tell your kind that we enjoyed the new hate mail thrown in my back window. The death threats towards my wife, sister, and the kids were real creative. And you tell that neighbor three doors down that it's gonna take more than cheap paint on my garage door and bricks in my window for me to pack my bags and run. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get."

After Shirley is safely inside, Uncle Red spits at the ground, never avoiding eye contact, and slams his door.