Helplessness Blues

If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
And you would wait tables and soon run the store

Chapter Three

"Come on baby girl. I know you can do it. Just gotta last for me a little bit longer."

It took three tries of the key in the ignition before the engine purred to life. Beth let out a soft sigh of satisfaction and relief. She knew little of mechanics but secretly always liked to think that her crooning did something to keep the old heap of metal running.

Her coworker Connie would sometimes watch through the windows as Beth puttered into Marietta's parking lot, shaking her head. "I'm just always waiting for the call that you're gonna be late or need a lift. But that piece of crap always seems to last just long enough to get you here. Like the damn miracle of Chanukah."

But even if she had the money for a new car, Beth knew she'd never trade it in willingly.

It had been her mama's car. The same car that would drop Beth off at school and choir class as a kid. The same car she borrowed for a date and necked in with Jimmy for the first time she was 16. The same car she was sat in when her mother noticed the love bites and lectured her to high heaven.

This heap of metal and upholstery held more of her mama in it than any tome of family photographs, than any piece of heirloom jewelry. The seats still smelled like the lavender wash her mother favored, the headrest like her meticulously applied hairspray.

The other day Beth's phone had fallen from her lap, under the seat. While rooting around for it, she found a Walgreen's receipt her mother must have dropped. Dated half a month before she had been diagnosed. It was only a little thing, proof that her mother had paid $8.00 for a new shade of lipstick and a weekly soap opera digest. But it was proof that she had been here. Proof that things had been different before. Beth folded up the little slip of paper and tucked it into her wallet. She'd been unable to part with it since.

It sometimes seemed like this car was the only place she'd really let herself experience her depth of emotion. And even then, only in bursts.

Stopped at a traffic light, sometimes her mind would wander to everything that had happened. That scent of lavender would hit her like the proverbial wall of bricks. And she'd start to feel feel her throat tighten up, her nose tingle at the familiar onslaught of tears. But then the light would turn green and she'd tuck it away again. Focus on the road and the laundry list of things she had to worry about.

She'd watch the miles climb on the odometer, traveling without ever really going anywhere. Knowing that any second, the engine could conk out again. That she'd need to call her dad, Otis or Jimmy. The car was her means of independence and freedom, but always with the reminder that she couldn't stray too far.

She knew if Maggie could hear her musings she'd say, 'Oh Bethy, it's just a car. You were always too sentimental."

Pulling into the parking lot of Mariettia's, sure enough Connie stood watching in the window. A weary smile on her face. The bell above the door chimed as she entered the restaurant, and instinctively, Beth glanced around taking a head count of customers. Her unexpected debts the morning before had forced her to take on an extra shift. She could do with a full house.

A seasoned waitress, Connie could almost read her mind. "It's been pretty steady all day, sugar. Dinner rush should be kicking off soon with a vengeance. Homecoming game tonight, don't forget."

Beth grimaced as she tied on her apron. They'd have a packed house but likely little to show for it in the end. Drunk high schoolers (and those long past their school years, yet nostalgic and inebriated) didn't always make for the best tippers. Waitressing made Beth lament her youthful ignorance in the past, all the years she thought that 10% was an appropriate amount to leave. Nowadays she rarely ate out but when she did, she was an overly generous tipper.

Sometimes when Jimmy would pick up the bill, she'd wait till his head was turned to hide a few more dollars under her empty plate. It was something he always boyishly got irritated by. One silver lining to her needing to work so much was the space it allowed her.

Jimmy confused her.

Not that he was particularly complex. Actually, the lack of complexity was probably the problem. On paper Jimmy was perfect. Kind, respectful, moderately amusing. In person he was attractive. His boyish charms were quickly melting away into the strong lines and muscle of manhood. He was comforting, constant. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it was all superficial.

Sometimes she'd sit with him and talk and it was as though she could see her own words bouncing off of his ears, never really penetrating his mind. She got the distinct sense sometimes that he loved her but didn't really know her. Or rather, he loved the idea of her. Of the sweet farmer's daughter. All gilded golden hair and soft singing. The way he boxed her in always bothered her, made her want to act out.

But there wasn't time for acting childish or petty anymore.

Jimmy was always good to her. He'd help out on the farm without being asked. Could be depended on when her car broke down, their lawn mower conked out. So what if he didn't know what her favorite book was? Or that he didn't know her favorite scent was the air before it rains. Or that he silenced her thoughts with kisses so often that she was beginning to think he didn't care what was in her head at all. So what if she felt achingly lonely even when she was in his arms.

She'd feel overwhelming guilt over it from time to time. It wasn't fair to either of them to continue things if she was unsatisfied. But it wasn't a cruel attempt to lead him on, it was a desperate endeavor to appease. Not only Jimmy, but her family. Hershel loved Jimmy. Her mother had loved Jimmy. Loved being safe in the knowledge that Beth had someone to look out for her. With everything that had gone wrong, she didn't want to take that comfort away from her father. Not when he'd lost so much. Consistent, dependable Beth.

As always, Maggie's voice would ring through her ears. "You always loved playing the martyr Bethy. If Daddy asked you to, you'd cut off your own hand and wear it around your neck like a badge of honor."

Before long, the dinner rush picked up and Beth found the bustle of tables routinely comforting. She did enjoy the job in a way, even if her arms and back ached from heavy trays.

She loved seeing people come together. Young couples, peeking at each other shyly over shared plates of french fries. Families with babies, strapped safely into sticky high chairs.

She was always comforted by the presence of her regulars. Good ole country people who knew her parents, knew her as a little one. They'd always insist on sitting at the counter to chat with her. Would leave behind their empty ceramic cups of coffee, and folded up newspapers with a few more dollars for her than necessary.

There was one regular she was hoping that she wouldn't see for quite some time though.

Of course she had recognized him on her porch. Their town was small, Marietta's one of the few non-chain restaurants left in the county. She wouldn't be surprised if, at one point or another, every member of the limited population had rolled through the door.

No, she recognized him. It had made the whole embarrassing ordeal almost more infuriating. Sure, she was a professional server. But coffee is sacred. You should never wrong the person who serves you your coffee.

And she had lost count of how many times she had served his. Always during her graveyard shifts.

Beth usually didn't mind working the overnight. She'd wrap up the dinner rush and settle in for the late night stragglers. Men stumbling out of the bar following last call, hoping to get a bite to eat and some black coffee. Sober up a bit before heading home to their justifiably annoyed wives. Sometimes her father would be with them, another reason she liked the overnight. If not, she could always perk an ear, get the scoop about anything eventful at the bar. A few patrons were always kind enough to reassure her that they'd seen him safely off home.

In any case, working sure beat sitting home awake. Waiting and worrying.

The only other customers were usually the unlucky men and women (people like herself) who found themselves working the late shift. There was almost a sense of intimacy about it. A haze of mutual fatigue would seem to settle over the place. The atmosphere would relax and a sense of camaraderie between her and her customers would develop easily. A shared impression of 'the moon is high in the sky and we're all here together as the world sleeps Isn't life odd?' Her customers were often fewer and far between but the tips were generally much better.

Not to mention the fact that her hourly wage was time and a half between the hours 11pm and 5am and she'd usually spend the downtime propped up on the counter eating all of the french toast she wanted, watching old game shows on the diner's beat up television.

But the prospect of tonight's shift was making knots of her intestines.

Beth had never been a confrontational person by nature. Truth be told, she had never had many reasons to confront someone. And now that she did: her father's issues, her feelings for Jimmy, the possibility of having to serve her extorter coffee – she wasn't sure how she would measure up. Or if she'd just keep on being consistent, dependable Beth. Keep on letting everything roll off of her like it didn't matter either way.

The hustle of a busy rush made the night go quickly. Before long the families and dinner crowd had cleared out, leaving Beth to do her sidework. Rolling silverware into paper napkins, refilling ketchup bottles, wiping down the inside of the coffee pot. Around 11pm an exhausted Connie, unlit cigarette already dangling between her lips, said her goodbyes.

After a few hours of little business, Beth took the opportunity of solitude to head back into the kitchen and put in a personal request for food. The small kitchen staff adored her. Grizzly old men who had seen too much during wartimes. Who thought the simple chaos of a good ole American fry line and a sweet blonde waitress asking for sandwiches on rye was heaven on Earth. They always offered to warm up the maple syrup for her when she'd order French toast.

She was just settling in for her latenight sugar rush when the old familiar bell above the entrance chimed. Beth looked up from her plate to see the man she had unaffectionately started mentally referring to as 'Extortioner #2' standing in the doorway. Looking clear at her.

Her face flushed with the fear of confrontation mixed with the desire to have one. Extortioner #2 looked away, frozen in place. His expression unreadable aside from the obvious discomfort.

He chanced a glance at her and she took a large bite of her French toast. She hoped the action conveyed, 'I'm so unintimidated by you that I refuse to let you ruin my snack,' but the near imperceptible way that his mouth quirked at the sight lead her to think it didn't have the desired effect.

So instead, she fixed him with the same cold glare she had in her kitchen. And it seemed to disarm him. For a moment, she thought he was going to leave, something she would have considered a strange sort of victory. But then he moved, sat himself down in one of the far booths. And for some reason, that insignificant little action was the straw that broke Beth's back.

She did her best to compose herself, despite her mounting temper. Walked slowly but purposefully over to his table, didn't even bother to bring a menu. As she approached the booth, she could see he had a book out on the table. A beat up, dog-earred paperback. The cover was folded around so that she couldn't see what he was reading. And despite her anger, a part of her was still curious what a man like Extortioner #2 could possibly be interested in.

"You know, there's a sign by the door that says 'Please wait to be seated." Her tone was clipped and prim. Congenial service coated over a layer of ice.

His lips quirked again at the shadow of a smirk and Beth could feel her neck growing hot. The man scoffed lightly, nodded towards the empty diner. "Why? 'Cause you guys are so busy?"

Fury flared in her chest. Before she knew what was happening, it was all spilling out. "People like you, you're always thinking you're entitled to whatever you want. You can just come in here and take a table. You can just go into stranger's houses and take what's theirs..."

Something like guilt flashed across his face, quickly changing into a defensive aggression as he interrupted her. "People like me? You know shit about people like me, girl. You-"

Beth was quick to cut him off. "I know that you know there was nothing I could do about my daddy's...troubles. Nothing I could do about two thugs coming into my house demanding money, besides pay up... I don't need or want to know anything else about you." Beth's voice was hoarse, her pitch strained from adrenaline. She couldn't remember a time she had ever spoken to someone like this. She clenched her hands into fists at her side to keep them from shaking.

His face quickly turned into a dark scowl and he rose from the upholstered bench, reaching into his jacket pocket. For a moment, Beth was sure he was pulling out a knife or a gun and her mind raced to what was nearest that she she could use to protect herself. Salt and pepper in his eyes? Bash him over the head with a napkin dispenser? But her worries were made obsolete when he roughly threw a brown envelope onto the table.

He stood as though he had designs on leaving, but Beth blocked the narrow entrance to the booth – staring at the envelope on the table with a furrowed brow. She knew what it had to be, but a part of her brain seemed hesitant to accept the fact. That she had maybe been wrong about Extortioner #2. She turned from the envelope to look at him. Just like in her kitchen, he was facing her without actually looking at her. Even for someone as emotionally perceptive as she was, his expression was difficult to decipher. Contrite, unsettled, maybe even a bit offended.

"Why?" was all she could muster up, almost suspiciously.

He shrugged at the question, mumbling under his breath. "This is the only place where the coffee doesn't suck." Trying to write the gesture off as a joke.

This time it was Beth's turn for the smallest hint of a smile to ghost over her face. Her thoughts from before drifting through her sleep-deprived mind. You should never wrong the person who serves you your coffee.

"Okay. Just black, right?"

He seemed caught off guard by how casually she worded the question. As though nothing negative had ever transpired between the two of them. He nodded, taking a seat on the bench almost cautiously. Briskly she returned with a steaming cup.

"I'll leave you a menu just in case. My food is getting cold so... just holler if you need anything." She gave him a single nod, as familiar as it was awkward. He regarded her curiously as she made her way back to the counter.

Took a sip of his coffee and turned back to his paperback, the brown envelope of cash still on the table.

Author's Note: I have to be honest and say that I'm actually quite pleased and excited about this story so far. I sat down today and planned out the first 20 or so chapters and it's really nice having a handle on where the characters are going/their internal motivations. I really hope it's something that has shown through and that Beth and Daryl are our Beth and Daryl – flaws and all. I've done my best to set the story up so that their struggles and fears will kind of mirror each others chapter to chapter. Because like in the show, I really think they're kindred spirits. Next chapter will be Daryl's POV and likely start off right where this one ended, so count on some heightened interaction right away (Beth still needs to learn his name for crying out loud. I DID SAY 'slow burn'). It's something the story is just starting to get to. Once again, thank you all so much for the wonderful support. Your reviews have really been great inspiration to update quickly. Hope you all have a great weekend and I'll try and have Chapter 5 up as soon as possible! xox