If you happened to fall asleep counting mileposts on a road trip through the southern California desert, there’s a good chance you passed through Arroyo Grande and missed it completely. A postage stamp-sized rest stop of a town with a population of just a few thousand permanent residents, during the winters the population grew gray-headed as the snowbirds returned from their northern homes.
Nestled comfortably near the middle of the three-mile-long stretch of mediocre roadside amenities, Sancho’s Silver Spoon’s daylight dinners had been popular with returning locals since the seventies, back when everything was burnt orange and Formica tabletops. The decor really hadn’t changed much since it opened. It was the perfect spot for motorists headed in either direction to stop if they were afraid that nothing better would come along before the empty desert highway continued.
While the owner bragged a culinary pedigree that rivalled the starch coated chefs of any decently situated city, George had long since stopped slicing, dicing, and julienning his homestyle American fare by hand, finding it that much simpler to buy the frozen chicken fried steaks and shredded hashbrowns from distributors in Bakersfield and stack them up in the walk-in freezer. Eggs and beef arrived fresh daily, but the fresh pies served in the case were manufactured on an assembly line, flash frozen, and shipped out to thousands of locations across the country, each claiming some proprietary recipe. Sancho’s famous “ho-made” sausage gravy arrived powdered in a plastic bag and whisked up with a pot of hot water. Every cook who had ever donned an apron in that kitchen had been sworn to secrecy, and with a few chunks of real sausage quick fried and tossed in the gravy tureen, the tourists never suspected a thing.
George may have started the Silver Spoon as a passion project, but he was rarely around when someone asked to speak to the owner or manager. Every few months, George and his longtime roommate took off for a cruise, or Hawaii, or to play pai gow at the Vegas tables, just a few hours east, leaving a pair of his “aces” in his stead.
Terrence and Earl weren’t terribly fond of George’s pet names, but they endured because they didn’t have much choice. George’s nephew Earl was hired straight out of prison as a favor, nearly five years prior. He had seniority and some misplaced sense of guilt that had never really been addressed in his rehabilitation. Terrence showed up a few years later, looking to start a new life in the same old town. He had his close calls, but never a serious relapse because everyone in town was quietly expecting one, and he hated to prove them right.
The Silver Spoon had been running understaffed for months, owing to a growing national labor shortage. Even after the first pandemic ended, but before the next had yet begun, the aces found themselves trapped on a line that was consistently busy. Hitch just showed up one afternoon a week before George and his buddy Nguyen took off for a two-week cruise. He had a two-page resume and a fetish for stoneware mugs, apparently. He bragged about sautéing Michelin stars, as if being a warm body weren’t the only requirement for a dishwashing and prep position. He kept showing up, and he spoke enough Spanish to communicate with the freshly arrived Guatemalan kid who washed dishes and a didn’t much care for George’s nicknames either.
Right after the lunch rush ended, but just before the few remaining snowbirds shuffled in for daylight dinners, George’s “aces” squatted on milk crates around the corner from the entrance, passing a hand rolled joint. And, although most people might consider apple pie and baseball as great American traditions, Terrence was beginning to think it ought to be more like methamphetamines and UFO sightings. “She fucking woke me up at three in the morning just to tell me that there was some big-ass string of lights in the sky.”
"S'mores." Earl said.
"What?"
Earl took another puff off the joint "S'mores, man. Like chocolate, marshmallow and graham crackers. That shit is more American than pie."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Terrence squinted, reaching for the joint.
"Think about it. Like, other countries don't even know what the fuck a s'more is."
Terrence nodded, pretending to know what a s'more was, himself. “But three in the fucking morning—"
"You never had a s'more?" Hitch asked, scrolling through his phone.
"Like a Moon pie?" Terrence asked, grunting a small, fragrant cloud into the still desert afternoon air.
Earl shook his head. "Nah, Moon pies are some cheap mass-produced factory crap, right? Like Twinkies or shit. S'mores you gotta make around the campfire, like toast the marshmallows, put it on the Graham cracker, put the chocolate on it. Man, you ain't never had a s'more?"
Terrence shook his head. "You know I don't like camping." Camping reminded him of working wildfires while he was in prison. He didn't much like the smell of woodsmoke anymore.
“She probably just saw a satellite,” Hitch shrugged without looking up.
Terrence pushed the joint towards him, coaxing him away from his screen.
Hitch glanced up, considering taking a hit. “Yeah, alright.”
“No, man, I looked outside, I saw the fucking thing.” He grunted out the last puff of smoke. “It was fucking big.”
Hitch nodded like he’d seen it himself. “Yeah, dude. That billionaire guy launched his internet network, finally. Blew his load into the cosmos. It’s like a glowing freight train when it passes over.”
Earl nodded. “Yo, hit that.”
Hitch took a few puffs, smacking his lips to savor the flavor. He smiled. “You guys smoke some good shit.” He leaned back and blew the cloud towards the deep blue sky above like an incense offering to the rain gods. “Fuck man, this shit is going to put my dick in the dirt.”
“What satellite?” Terrence asked.
Earl took the joint from the old guy before he started reminiscing about strippers or running weed years ago, or whatever.
Hitch ashed his cigarette into the coffee can, shaking his head like a disappointed dad. “Man, everybody wants to believe in aliens and shit, hoping that the greys are going to rescue us from another boring news cycle.” He took a drag, still holding his cigarette like a joint. “But, nothing ever happens, ya know?”
“We’re about to get our asses kicked, that’s what’s about to happen,” Earl scrubbed his scruffy beard, watching more cars pull into the lot.
Terrence preened the ashes on the last inch of the roach, eyeing how much was left. “Bro, you don’t believe in aliens?”
Hitch shrugged. “If aliens ever did visit, none of us are going to get shit out of it. No free renewable energy, no world peace, no fucking answers to humanities deepest questions. Real aliens show up and dollars to donuts the trigger-happy ass hats in power are going to try to shoot them down, thinking it’s Russia or China or some shit.”
“Nah,” Terrence sighed, shaking his head.
Hitch snorted. “They’re selling little baby AR-15s for kids these days, dude. Little tiny machine guns for toddlers.” He took the roach, eyeing the last few puffs. “Fucking school shootings are more American than aliens, amphetamines, and even s’mores, so what do we do? We start arming elementary kids with miniaturized military grade weapons.”
“Shut the fuck up, bro.” Terrence laughed.
“Fucking Google it, dude. They call it the JR-15”
“You’re so full of shit.”
Earl watched another car roll into the lot. “We are about to get murdered.”
Hitch puffed a couple times, inhaling deeply and pointing across the lot with the end of the roach. “Like these kids right here, dude.”
A couple of teenagers, regulars for years, walked off the sidewalk and across the lot towards the front of the Silver Spoon. The guy was lanky, in dusty blue jeans and a sweaty, grease-stained T-shirt. The girl looked a couple years younger, in high tops and cut-off shorts.
“Bacon cheddar burger and a grilled cheese, yellow cheese only.” Earl said, tossing his Newport into the can as he urged Terrence and Hitch back into the kitchen.
“What about them?” Terrence asked.
“Fuck, dude.” Hitch offered up the last puff, but they waved it off. “If those kids stay in this town for much longer, they’re doomed. Maybe they get lucky. Maybe. He knocks her up, they have a little twat dropping, and where do they end up?”
“Are they a couple?” Terrence asked Earl.
Earl shrugged. “They’re always together.”
“They end up in section eight housing right next to you two guys, trying to make it on minimum wage. Before you know it, he’s all gacked up to work two jobs, she’s right behind him because she loves him, and the next thing you know, they’re both doing time for possession, or distribution, or what the fuck ever.”
Terrence shook his head. “Bro, that’s cold blooded.”
Earl rolled his short sleeves up over his shoulders, anticipating the stack of tickets already hanging on the rail inside.
“Just playing the odds, here, Teaspoon.”
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
Hitch grinned. “I’m just saying, three out of three recovering addicts sitting here, two out of three fresh from the pen, dude. Those aren’t great odds.”
“They could get lucky.” Terrence said, gazing off across the lot as they reached the front walkway. “You never did any time, allegedly.”
“Okay? It’s like I said, sometimes being lucky can be like a superpower, ya know?”
Hitch shook his head. “My guru told me that there was no one else out there who could do what I did and get away with it.” He tossed the lit roach in his mouth and swallowed it.
“Did you just eat that thing!?” Earl grimaced.
“He fucking does that every time.” Terrence shook his head.
“Allegedly.” Hitch nodded, smiling.
“Well fuck,” Terrence stood and stretched out.
Earl pulled his apron off the hook inside the back door. “Come on, pops. I’ll teach you how to make a grilled cheese.”
Hitch grumbled. “Go fuck yerself, Earl. I sautéed Michelin stars.”
“Allegedly!” Terrence called again as the Aces strolled in the back door.
* * *
The Silver Spoon still had a phone booth in the back corner of the dining area. Although the payphone had been removed years earlier, in its place someone had cobbled together a variety of chargers for customers passing through, in need of a quick jolt. The regulars used it as a quiet spot to make phone calls because it blocked out the cacophony of forks and knives on plates, the constant golden oldies station playing, and the clamor of cooks and waitresses calling for an order coming or going from the window.
Austin leaned back in the phone booth like a pale phantom tethered to the wall, waiting for his phone to restart. He patted the highway dust off the thighs of his jeans and kept his eye on Jynx. Dusty from the long walk back into town, she sat in their usual booth, waiting for the waitress while Austin charged both of their phones. By the time his phone started up, Jynx sat swirling her straw around in her lemonade, counting up to five practiced swizzles. Austin scrolled to Ashley’s number and reluctantly hit the call button; because she was old-fashioned, she said, and she didn’t like people begging for rides by text. She answered on the third ring.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Little Miss Ashley’s self-help service line, how can I help you help yourself?”
He already regretted calling. “Hey, Ash. Truck’s dead.”
“Where are you?”
“The Spoon.”
“They got pie today?”
“Uh…” Austin leaned out of the phone booth to get a better look at the counter. “Yeah, they have pie.”
“That chocolate one with the whip cream?”
“Probably.”
“Say yes, Austin, your ride depends on it.”
He leaned out again to get a better look. “Yes.”
“Order me a slice. I’ll be there in a minute.” She hung up.
Jynx preferred her grilled cheese sandwiches with yellow cheese only. She started them from the bottom corner, working her way along the edges, eating the crust first. She took tiny methodical bites throughout the entire process, and as dainty as it seemed, she would not speak through the first half. Meanwhile, Austin completely disassembled his bacon cheeseburger, slathered the naked patty in every available condiment, and rebuilt it. Jynx started on the top half of her sandwich following the same procedure as the bottom, but she reserved the split in the bread until she had consumed the rest of the crust. She would only start to converse after the complete removal of the crusts. “So, what do you think it is?” she asked.
Austin chomped through a few fries, dipped in a swirled puddle of A-1, Tabasco, and mayonnaise. “Probably the alternator.” He shrugged and continued to flip through the dog-eared manual.
Jynx stopped chewing and stared at him until he looked up.
“What?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “What do you think that thing in the wash is?”
Austin grumbled and bent down over the manual. “I don’t know, maybe a wreck.” The scrap metal might be worth a few bucks, but more often than not, it was just garbage, and not really worth the effort it took to trek up into the hills.
She shook her head. “It was too shiny.”
A glass pack muffler sputtered from the parking lot announcing Ashley’s arrival. They watched her lowered black Mustang rolling slow as she stalked the perfect empty spot in a nearly empty lot.
“Fine. Maybe a mirror. Maybe there’s some busted-up furniture out there.”
“I want to go see what it is.”
Austin nodded, not really paying attention. He just wanted his truck back. To get it started, he was going to need the battery jump box from the shop, and he was fairly certain that Jeremiah was going to be a jerk about it.
The bell rang above the front door and Ashley came into the Silver Spoon with her usual flare, waving as if she had just reclaimed her Miss Arroyo Grande title. Despite the fact that the Silver Spoon had a no pet policy, Sir Pugsley pranced along ahead of her, entirely unconcerned. She had waved off the complaints so many times that nobody bothered anymore, and it was generally accepted that Ashley would be accompanied by Sir Pugsley regardless. Sir Pugsley hopped up and took his usual seat beside Jynx as Ashley slid in beside Austin. Jynx dipped a French fry in ketchup and fed it to Sir Pugsley, who snorted his approval. The two of them had been raised together, and there was a distinct possibility that Sir Pugsley regarded Jynx as a sister.
“Where’s my pie?” Ashley scowled.
Austin didn’t turn his head from the dog-eared manual. “I didn’t want the whip cream to melt. They’ll bring it out soon.”
As if by her own magic she had made it appear, Lisa bustled by with Ashley’s pie, a couple of napkins, and a fork.
“How delightful,” Ashley said, withdrawing the napkin and setting it gingerly in her lap.
Nobody bothered to ask how, but Miss Ashley made her money. She claimed that she was “just blessed.” Whatever she did, she had a variety of clients in a variety of cities, and she was regularly obliged to travel. As such, Sir Pugsley spent a lot of his time with Austin and Jynx. Ashley regularly announced a new business opportunity and by default, Austin and Jynx were inevitably employed. It was worth a few bucks at least, and it was generally entertaining.
Austin flipped to a wiring schematic in the back of his bible. “So, what’s up with the self-help hotline? What happened to the detective agency?”
“We didn’t solve a single case.”
Jynx paused, ketchup glistening French fry poised a few inches from Sir Pugsley’s waiting maw. “What about Mrs. Stanley?”
“Everyone knew that Mr. Stanley was cheating on her, and I couldn’t take her money to pass along gossip. That’s how I got the idea to start a self-help call center. While I was telling Mrs. Stanley that her husband was a cheating bastard, I realized that I should just give advice. She was my first client.”
“But the triple-A detective agency was such a cool name,” Jynx said, dipping another fry in ketchup for Sir Pugsley.
Ash shrugged. “It’s still listed in the phonebook.”
“Nobody uses the phone book anymore,” Austin muttered.
Ashley cut another forkful of pie and held it poised before her mouth. “I happen to think that it’s classy.” She forked the pie into her mouth, chewed it twice, and held her tongue out at Jynx, molten pre-chewed chocolate cream pie dripping from her tongue.
Jynx flashed her own tongue and a half-chewed French fry with ketchup.
Austin shook his head. “Can we just get out of here?”
Ashley addressed the dog as she cut another piece from her pie. “Sir Pugsley, would you please hold all my calls until I have finished my pie? Thank you.”
Upon hearing his name, Sir Pugsley regarded Ashley with an inquisitive look, snorted a reply, and glanced towards Jynx, awaiting his next French fry.
Mr. Ouija was a late model satin black Ford Mustang dropped within six inches of the concrete with mag wheels and expensive racing tires that were quickly going bald. Every logo had been removed except for a single silver cross placed on the fender beside the driver’s side door. Ashley claimed that it was a gift and drove it in such a way that she was constantly squealing around sudden turns. The fenders bore a few scrapes and scars that were never satisfactorily explained, and she didn’t like people asking about them. She claimed that it was from drift racing, and she had to practice if she ever wanted to go pro. To anyone else in the car, driving with her was a white-knuckled series of near misses and near-death experiences. She had at the very least, given up texting while screeching through the streets. Her visor held a selection of gadgets, radar detectors, navigation screens, and her phone plugged into the speakers, blasting Narco Corridos for no apparent reason. Ashley said it suited the car.
Early in the summer, the Highway Patrol was out in full force, awaiting tourists flying too fast through what they felt might be a forgotten desert town. As such, Ashley drove like she’d memorized the DMV instruction manual. Windows down and music up a little too loud for conversation, she maintained the perfect speed limit down the highway from the Silver Spoon, even giving a chipper smile and wave to the state trooper tucked in behind the willow tree where the speed limit dropped to 35 mph. Pulling into the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive front lot, she downshifted to let the glass packs growl out as she pulled up to the pumps. A forlorn bell chimed from somewhere inside the repair bays.
Late in the afternoon, the Desert Sands lived up to its name. For lack of a decent paint job in decades, the sunbaked and sandblasted sign, fuel bays, and the garage itself was a gypsum dust white, decaying back to the color of the salt flats which stretched out beyond the chain link fenced backlot. Aside from the collection of recently towed wrecks and finished repairs waiting for pick up, the parking lot was empty of customers. The front room was empty, not that there was a full-time clerk to man the cashier’s counter; on the weekends, that might have been Austin. When Ashley cut the engine, the faint sound of Mexican music continued from somewhere inside the repair bays, but calling out to the empty lot, low and mournful. A figure emerged from the shadows in the bay, crouching beneath the undercarriage of a burgundy Plymouth Cruiser with Arizona plates. Manny stepped from the shade of the garage out into the late afternoon, squinting up at the sun where it sizzled right over the top of the western hills, baking the scraggly pines. “¡Oye!” Manny called, ignoring Austin, “¿Como estas, flaca?”
Ashley giggled girlishly and wiggled her fingers at him from the driver’s seat. “Hey there, Manny!”
“¿Cuándo quieres tu vestido de sed?”
“How you flirt, Manny.” Ashley giggled again. “You kiss Pilar with that mouth?”
Manny waved her away and chuckled softly. Austin flashed a handful of bills at Manny and hooked a thumb towards the register. Manny nodded and waved him off as well.
“Jeremiah back there?” Austin called.
“Si, güey.” Manny turned towards the open bay, ducking under the back bumper of the Cruiser and vanishing back into the cool shadows of the garage. The bell above the door rang as Austin stepped into the front room. He casually slid in behind the sales counter, dropped his twelve dollars in the register, and punched the few keys to start the pump. Jynx pulled the pump handle and started to gas it up. He glanced around the shelves of parts, most of them fairly generic. Wiper blades, batteries, a selection of oil and antifreeze, and a bin full of various radiator hoses for the most common fixes. On the bottom shelf behind the counter, he rifled through the will-call parts, digging for the terminals and cables he’d ordered a week ago. They still hadn’t arrived. He pushed out past the counter and made his way to the back.
Jeremiah lived in an oxidized thirty-foot Airstream trailer behind the Desert Sands towing and automotive company. Set on concrete blocks in the back corner of the lot, the trailer was abandoned by someone who didn’t have the money to pay the towing fees. The trailer might have rusted back to a pile of oxidized tin if String Bean hadn’t finally gotten released from the clink.
He worked the counter most days, and when they were busy, he worked in one of the bays with the Aguilar brothers, Manuel and César. The brothers had been working for the shop for over twenty years. They did a fair amount of business with travelers who broke down on the highway, but most of the customers were locals in for routine maintenance. Oil changes, tire rotations, an occasional windshield ding, and a rush of desperate customers who showed up for new windshield wipers at the start of the first winter rains.
Most afternoons, when the sun got to baking the whole town, Manny and César would abandon the repair projects and retreat into a case of beer in the shadiest corner of the mechanic’s bays. Jeremiah tinkered at something until it got to be too uncomfortable to be under the hood of a car. By late afternoon he was generally reclined under the trailer awning, dozing in a dusty, old, cracked leather lazy boy, watching a beat-up flat screen at the corner of his porch. He had a beer going warm in his hand, and with his sunglasses on, it was difficult to tell if he was sleeping until he guessed at a game show trivia question. Austin kicked some gravel as he crossed the lot. Jeremiah raised his beer in salutation.
Austin strolled up under the awning and squatted on a milk crate just at the edge of the shade. “Whatcha watching?”
Jeremiah shrugged, slid his sunglasses down his nose an inch and inspected the discolored screen. “Fuck if I know. Wheel of Fortune?” a cheery commercial played out a familiar ad for an antidepressant, mumbling quickly through potential side effects.
Jeremiah reached for his pack of Camel Wides, tapping one from the pack. He placed the filter to his lips and reached for the lighter. “What’s on your mind, friend?”
Austin kicked at the gravel and sand at his feet, smoothing it over the pitted asphalt. “I need the jump box.”
Pat Sajak welcomed everyone back and reintroduced his contestants and scores before he moved on to the next category.
Ashley honked the horn out front, but Jeremiah said nothing. Austin cleared his throat.
Jeremiah’s head lolled over to stare at Austin from behind mirrored aviators. “Well, I’m not gonna go get it for you.” He turned back to the screen as Sajak continued: “Our next category is vacation destinations…” Jeremy swirled the last few gulps of beer around the bottom of the bottle. “And grab me a six pack on your way back.”
Ashley popped the trunk as Austin crossed the lot with the jump box. He set it gingerly in the trunk, careful not to bump the carpeted box that held the obnoxiously large subwoofers. When Ashley started Mr. Ouija and revved the engine, Manny and César waved from the mechanic’s bay, raising their beers. She giggled girlishly and twiddled her fingers at them.
Ashley exited the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of her fiberglass ground effects kit. She tapped her fingernails against the leather cover on the steering wheel keeping time to a song that she didn’t really understand. As they neared the cul-de-sac that they all grew up on, she side-eyed the house where she was raised, a little one-story Spanish-style stucco ranch house that her uncle had owned. Despite a new paint job, she still shuddered as she passed it and continued down the street to the very end, swinging around to the curb in front of Austin’s house. She hit the mute button and waited as Austin attempted to thank her for the ride.
“I appreciate it,” he mumbled.
“Austin, sweetie, you really need to fix that piece of shit.”
He nodded, sliding out of the front seat, and popping the handle to let Jynx out. “I’m waiting on parts,” he said.
Jynx passed Sir Pugsley forward between the seats and Ashley took him into her lap, thrusting out her chin to receive the slobbery licking. “Yeah, well, maybe you should stick around town until you can do that. I’m not your personal Uber.”
Austin nodded, slightly embarrassed. Ashley popped the trunk for him so that he could grab the jump box.
Jynx pushed past the seat, yanking her backpack behind her. “Thanks, Ash.”
“Jynx, honey, it is always a pleasure. We do not spend enough time together.”
Jynx nodded, bashfully.
“We should have a little play date sometime, you and me. You need to get away from all these greasy little boys you insist on hanging around with.”
Jynx rolled her eyes but nodded.
“Good, settled.” Ashley transferred Sir Pugsley over to the passenger seat and checked her reflection in the vanity mirror, puckering her lips slightly and brushing a few locks of blonde hair back from her forehead. “I’ll come and get you this weekend. Maybe we can find something healthy for lunch and scrape off the stink of motor oil for an afternoon.”
Jynx shut the passenger door, and as Ashley revved the engine to let the glass pack unwind, Jynx waggled her fingers, mimicking Ashley’s flirtatious wave goodbye. Mr. Ouija revved again, Ashley hit the gas, and careening a little too fast down the street, she breezed straight past her uncle’s house and skidded around the corner on the way out of the neighborhood.
Jynx followed Austin as he lugged the jump box towards the side door into the garage. He pulled the little chord to unlock the gate and edged in sideways, past the tattered blue tarp that hid his dirt bike. “Your mom working tonight, too?” Jynx asked. Austin nodded. He hefted the jump box up onto the workbench in the garage and pulled the dirt bike manual from a shelf above.
“You are not going to start on that now,” she said. It was more of a command than a question. If she left him alone for long, there was a good chance that he’d be squatting next to a pile of wrenches in less than an hour, poking at the little two-stroke engine again. Slow, steady, and predictable; that’s what she liked about him.
Austin glanced out the window above the workbench, the sun hung just above the hills that loomed over the neighborhood. He shrugged. “I guess not.”
Jynx pulled his repair manual from her backpack and tossed it on the workbench. “Mom’s got a double tonight,” she said. “Probably won’t be back until five or six in the morning.”
“I’ll text my mom,” he said. He pulled the trickle charger out from under the workbench and plugged it in, unwinding the other cable carefully to keep the battery clamps from clacking together and popping a few random sparks. He carried the little charger out to the length of the power cord, just up to the garage side door. Jynx pulled back the tarp and lifted the seat. Austin clamped the red and black clips onto the battery terminals to at least get it charging.
“Want to see if there are any good movies?” she asked.
Austin took an old rag from off the tank and started wiping away a little of the alkaline dust, thinking through the few menial steps he’d have to take to get the bike road ready again. He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.” He squeezed the tires to check for air pressure.
Jynx flipped off the overhead garage light and started out the gate towards her house. “I think we got some nacho fixings,” she said.
Austin trailed behind her, wiping his hands on his jeans. Twenty minutes later he was reclined on the couch with the dirt bike repair manual in his lap, as Jynx pulled tortilla chips from the cupboard and a brick of cheese from the fridge.