RANA
MINDEN, LA
SEPTEMBER 1986
It take me a good while to get to the police station, but not because I don’t know where it is. The lights on the side on the road seem to blur and intermingle with each, trapping me into an endless sea of white and hot space.
I am soaked by the time I book it across the parking lot, my sneakers sloshing around within the giant puddles in the cracked pavement. The wind is so strong that it blows my hoodie off my shoulders, and my hair has come out of its braid and is now plastered against the side of my face. I get stares from others as I stumble down the lobby, the soles of my shoes now squeaking against the linoleum floor. The faint smell of coffee and cigarettes meet my nose.
A short woman dressed in a uniform that is too big for her is typing away at a computer; her freshly painted nails sharply contrasting with the white keyboard. She looks like she’s wearing a Halloween costume with how wrinkled the dark blue fabric is. The frames of her glasses reflect the glowing computer screen, and she barely glances up at me. Someone yells at me, but I barely hear them.
“You need to wait,” she dryly says.
I roughly slam my hands on the table. “I don’t have time to wait. The sound of the phones ringing in the background echoes in my head. This room is getting smaller by the minute. “I need to file a missing person’s report.” My teeth are chattering. “My father left for work this Thursday afternoon and has not been back since. He has health issues. Please. It’s Saturday. It’s been more than forty-eight hours—”
“I said,” the front desk officer snaps, “that you will need to wait.” She gestures to the line behind me. “Or will I need to call security?”
My throat burns. I bite down so hard that the blood from my cheek coats my tongue. As I slink away to the back of the line, cursing under my breath, I can feel some weirdo’s eyes upon me. He’s fumbling in his pocket for change for the vending machine. He’s not really tall, not really short, dressed in jeans, jacket, a dirty Laker’s T shirt, and wearing socks with flip flops on them. Despite the massive amount of hair visible on his arms and legs, his face is cleanly shaven, although there are evident scratches around his neck and lower jaw, like it was his first time. He catches me looking back and waves.
After some thirty agonizing minutes, I finally slump into one of the cold metal benches. The report is essentially useless; mainly because I did not know what kind of clothes my father was wearing when he last disappeared. I only know his age, height, weight, date of birth. I have no documents.
I’m contemplating just leaving. I can find a pay phone and tell my siblings the entire situation. We were never really close, but strength lies in numbers. Before doing so, I’d swing by the house, grab my things, and just take a few hours of sleep in my car. I’m exhausted from the drive today anyways, and I’d think better with some sleep. Then I’d check Daddy’s work site, ask his boss where he is. Start from there. Minden is a small town, and I intend to take full advantage of that factor.
Although I’m not exactly satisfied with these plans, it’s better than waiting for these people to enter some data into a computer. I finally stand up, ignoring the pain in my knees. My fingers are shaking as I zip up my damp hoodie and prepare to walk out into the cold rain. But just as I’m at the door, I see the guy again. He’s standing in the lobby, having a cigarette and eating a chocolate bar, He releases a steady stream of smoke in the air.
We both exchange glances, but I ignore him.
When I step out, it is pouring so hard that I can hardly see. I fumble with the keys once I get into my car and try to turn them in the ignition. Nothing. I try again, this time, getting out and walking around in circles. The water is beating upon my windshield, coming down in strong torrents. I climb back inside. After several attempts, I smash my fist against the dash, before resting my forehead against the steering wheel and closing my eyes. My knuckles throb. I rack my brain for the map I’ve had of this crummy place since I was a kid.
Okay.
Okay.
Think.
I really need to call Sydney and ask if he can lend me some money. I know my brother lives in Bossier City with his girlfriend—about half an hour away. And there is a shop ten miles from here. Around the corner of the sandwich place. I can walk, no, perhaps hitchhike a ride, try to see if they can offer a towing service—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It’s coming from the window on the driver’s side. My skin prickles as I raise my head. When I look to the side, I nearly scream.
The weirdo is standing only inches away from my car. His face is up against the glass. He more wet than me, but I can still see a bit of chocolate from the candy bar at the corner of his mouth. He is delicately knocking, this time a little bit more louder. Instinctively, my hand goes for the crowbar I keep beneath the passenger seat, the metal cold against my skin. As I tighten my fingers around it, he says something, although it’s muffled. His breath is fogged up against the glass.
I want to speak, but I can’t. What is the matter with me? Maybe it’s a side effect of my meds.
“Open,” he yells. His teeth are yellow and crooked. His hair is soaking wet. And his voice is strange. One that I never would expect to come from him. “Open it.”
”What?”
”Open.” He’s pointing to the hood.
I don’t know why, but I do. I am reluctant to get out of the car; but given that we are a few feet away from the police station, and that I have my crowbar, I decide to take the chance. He raises and props it up with the rod, peering into the entanglement of wires, bolts, and screws. For a moment, it seems like he has completely forgotten that I am there. The man finally slams the lid and turns to me. Beads of water are dripping down the ends of his hair. He nods at me, as if I agreed with him about something. I remain standing.
”Go,” guy says.
When I climb back into my car, my hands are so cold that they can hardly grasp the keys. As the familiar hum of the engine meets my ears, I blink a couple of times, startled. The man folds his arms, staring right at me.
Before I can say anything, he’s already turned away and began to head back inside. I finally spring to my feet and take a couple steps forward. Why did he do this for me?
”Hold on,” I say, tugging at my sleeves.
The guy pauses. He glances to the side. I can’t help but look at his feet. Doesn’t wet socks bother him? It would drive me insane.
“I…I don’t have any cash on me, but there must be some way I can pay you back.” I hug myself tighter, trying to ignore the voice in my head. It’s these meds; I swear, that are making me loose common sense. My doctor had just raised the dose. What are you doing? You can’t plant an idea into a weirdo’s head about favors. Get your behind back in the car and start driving. We have a long—
He points to his stomach. “You take.” It’s then that I notice he has a strong Italian accent. The dude doesn’t look older than thirty.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
”Take you?” I frown. “Take you where? Home?” I take a step forward. “Do you need a ride?” Hopefully he won’t find the crowbar. Or maybe we both are on drugs in some way. Maybe he took the bus to get down here.
The weirdo smiles. “Tito’s.”
* * * * * * * *
It’s almost one in the morning, my father is missing, and I’m driving to a burger joint with a stranger.
He’s mostly quiet, with the exception of him coughing a couple of times. There is a metal band around his ring finger, including a watch. He keeps smoking cigarette after cigarette until my car is enveloped in smoke. I can’t blame the guy. It’s a small price to pay for him saving me a fortune—for the time being. And it’s not that far from the police station. We both silently sit, with the radio going on in the background. I parallel park by the sidewalk and unlock the doors.
”Alright,” I murmured. “Here we are.”
The weirdo shifts in his seat. “You hungry?”
I sigh. “I’m fine.” I just need to get out of here. Again, why is he helping me? He obviously wants something that I’m not going to give to him. I was stupid to offer him a favor, anyway. Oddly enough, he can sense my discomfort, because he opens the door, letting the rain come through. It doesn’t matter, since I’m soaked to the bone anyway.
”I catch charge,” the weirdo says. “My wife cheats. I beat her man. Never marry. Era un perdente. I have court date.”
“When?” I ask.
”Next week.” He scratches his head. “Come eat.” He pats his pockets. “I pay you for ride.”
I stare in disbelief. The little bit of mac and cheese that I’ve choked down only hours before is not holding up. I’ve lost nearly forty pounds at the hospital, but I’m surprised that my appetite is coming back. The weirdo is still waiting for me. It is raining. I park my car, deciding for a moment. I need as much fuel as I can for the road when I begin to look for Daddy. Maybe I can even bring extra.
“Alright,” I mumble. “But only for a little while.”
“Very short,” the weirdo agrees. He raises a bushy eyebrow. “Little.”
I didn’t expect the restaurant to be falling apart so bad when we both stepped in. The musty smell alone made my eyes water. Tito’s Diner has been around forever. It’s so old that it’s visible in my grandmother’s album photos. And I’ve come here plenty as a kid here, especially during the summer. But the once brightly colored seats and shiny jukebox are now embedded in a sea of cobwebs, dust, and dead flies. I finally choose a seat in the middle of the restaurant, and the weirdo sits in front of me. He heavily coughs again, before spitting into a crumpled napkin.
To my surprise, there is slow, but melodic music playing in the background. And there are about twelve customers, some in the booths. I shiver, before wiping my nose. My mind is racing. I’m already out on the road, thinking of all the following places Daddy could be. If not at the shipyard, maybe at the hardware store? He’d always go there for supplies. If he did leave town, perhaps the—
“How ya’ll doin’ tonight?”
We both look up. There’s a tall, slim woman that has approached our table. Her hair is blonde and straight, not in a net, tumbling down her shoulders like a waterfall. The snug white apron hugs her curves like a mini skirt, and I’m astonished to see that she’s in heels.
The weirdo grins, stirring his straw in his water glass. Ice floats to the surface.
I blink.
“My name’s Amy.” The woman sets down two large menus and removes a small notepad from her large bust. “Mighty nasty weather we got goin’ on, don’t we? But don’t worry. There ain’t nothin’ that a good meal can’t fix.” She bites on the edge of her pen. “Now what can I get y’all?”
“Are you guys usually open this late?” I ask, glancing around the room. “I haven’t been here in ages, anyway.”
Amy chuckled. “We just started our happy hour special. For the night owls. It’s been keepin’ us afloat.” She placed a hand on her chest. “We hope to add new things to the menu soon. And our staff is bigger than ever.” She grinned. “We just had four new hires!”
My passenger squints at the menu. “Burger.”
”What kind, love?”
”Cheeseburger. Bacon. With fries.” He nods and closes the menu with a loud thud. “No pickles. No. I say no to them.”
I rest my elbows on the table. “I’ll get the same.”
”Good choice. Two cheeseburgers with fries, hold the pickles. Coming right up.” She gracefully walks away, amongst all of the strewn paper, plastic straws, and other crap that littered the floor. At the register, there is an another woman shouting orders at those in the kitchen. Three more servers are bustling around the room, holding large trays of steaming food. A guy is restocking the ice box. At the corner is a young man sweeping the floor, his hands guiding the broom handle.
“Jeff,” the woman at the window hollers. “I need four burgers with extra cheese and tomatoes. And onion rings.”
”Got it!”
“You pain,” the weirdo says.
I abruptly glance up. I wasn’t paying attention. “Huh?”
”I say you pain,” he repeats. “I see it.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s nothing.”
”Nothing? How?”
”Look,” I snap. “I really appreciate all you have done for me. Especially for helping me with the car. But I’d rather not have you—”
”The police no help,” the weirdo interrupts. He makes a noise with his throat. “I know pain—” he taps on his chest, then points at me. “—pain no go. It stays.” A stern look appears on his face. “You say pain. I help.”
I frown. “What do you want?”
”I do not want.”
I scoff. “Come on. Everyone wants something in return. That includes you. What is it? We’re this late into the game, so you might as well tell me.”
The weirdo sighs. “I have children. Girl and boy. Twins. They are…” He paused. “My wife, she take. I cannot see.” He drums his fingers against the surface of the table. “I need work.”
“You’re asking me to help you find a job?” I rub my forehead. “I don’t think I’m the best person for that. I’ve just lost mine last month. You’re better off with someone else.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, speaking slowly. “I ask you teach me English. They like English. They give job. If you teach, I help. Now, you tell me pain.”
I pause. The past couple of hours have been a dream. The words slide out more quickly than I can hold them back. “My father went missing two days ago. I need to find him.”
He nods and sticks out a calloused hand. “You teach. I look. We make deal?”
How was he going to pull this off? I take a deep breath. I didn’t believe this guy for a moment. Mostly, he was trying to get a quick buck off me. But I would need to play by my own rules as well. Just like he was.
“We only meet in public places,” I calmly say. “Never in private. Ever. And I get to decide how many days a week for each lesson.”
”Do not worry. Connect,” he says. “Shake.”
I reluctantly accept his hand and wipe my palm against my jeans as a server comes by with our food. She gives us a smile and placed both plastic trays on the table. The checkered paper is covered in grease, but the aroma is so pleasant that my stomach growls. My host gestures at me as he begins to dig in. I slowly pick up the cheeseburger. It’s huge—just enough for me to save on the road.
”Eat,” the weirdo orders.
Just as I take a bite, there’s a crashing sound across the room. The floor is covered in French fries and onion rings. Two male servers glare at the guy with the broom, who is calmly staring at the mess. His face is slightly red. I can’t help but kinda feel sorry for him. He doesn’t look older than twenty. It’s kind of hard to see the three of them since they’re standing in a dimly lit part of the dining room.
”What the hell, Kris?”
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” the guy says. He fumbles with the broom in his hands. “It was an accident, I swear. Let…let me help you.”
Ethan scoffs. “You can kick rocks. That took me fifteen minutes alone.” He glances at the other server, who was snickering. “C’mon.” He tosses the rag on a nearby table and storms back into the kitchen. Kris stands at the door, dejected for a moment. He then bends down and begins to pick up the cold fries, one by one.
I finish my burger, enjoying the saltiness of the bacon. As I lick my fingers, the weirdo pats my arm, stands up, and leaves a twenty dollar bill on the table. He says, “I tip here. You teach. You come.” He gestures all around him. “Here. Here. I see you soon.”
“I didn’t get your name,” I say. This night has indeed been the strangest ones I’ve ever had.
“Eh?”
”Your name.”
The weirdo grins. “Alessio.”
”Rana.”
“You come. Teach. I help.” Those are all the words he says, before disappearing into the now dry morning air. I study the table for a moment, before finally rising to my feet to head back to my car. I have a plan in action.
It has stopped raining outside.