As I sit here in front of this laptop computer preparing to draft the story that had unfolded around me over the last week, I have a tough time knowing where to start. I never wanted to draft a novel, or anything for that matter. I was a reluctant high school graduate, and I was not exactly encouraged along to finish either. My English skills are not great, and I learned more about the English language over that same week than I had all the years before them. No, I had no initiative aside from taking care of my son, in this little rat-hole of a town about twenty minutes outside of Wichita, and not even placed prominently on any map. Many would say when you find Wichita you are lost, but Atkins Green, named after a yet another field of nothing out here in the Midwest means you are even more lost than Wichita.
This is why I never really cared much about my place in the world. I worked, I took care of my son, I got by, and as I start this tale at the beginning of my ordeal, I should say I was one of the few employed people in the town. Many would say that that was going to be a short-lived state of my being since the town itself has a negative survivability rating. Even as I am typing this out, I cannot believe how much more complicated my vocabulary is than it used to be but that is part of the jading process I underwent. It was a miracle that I had anything to do with the world, but little do any of you know that I had a big part to play in history. Most of you will not believe it, but I am happy to explain it to you all the same, just so that I can put it all into perspective and go on with my own life.
To be fair I should let you know who I am. My birth name is Anastasia Jones. Everyone calls me Stacy because only my father called me Anna. That was a short-lived usage of my name since my father had died when I was young. My name was given to me by my father because he thought it would have so many nicknames that I would never get bored with it. I did get bored with it around a year or so after my father died and my mother spent more time brooding over it, and the homemaker life that she had hoped to maintain until she got rid of the sacrifice, she made for it. That would be me, and because of what a rotten Christian she was, I was merely taken care of for the sake of keeping up appearances. My father originally wanted to name me Samantha after his favorite witch on ABC TV, but my already bitter about something or other, mother put a stop to that. In the end he sold her on Anastasia because at the very least it was the name of a Tsar’s daughter. I still think the fact that she was murdered by the Bolsheviks had more to do with why she accepted it. I will not lie to you, but I hate that woman.
It was a simple life really, my son and I were not really going much of anyplace, but we got by, as I had said before. My work at the diner was not exactly fulfilling but it was mine, and it paid the bills that my loser of an ex-husband never did. I was young and stupid when he left us, so even though he lived on the other side of this town, I have never been able to get him to pay child support on time or even in fair amounts. The only times he ever saw his son was when he had some new romantic interest that wanted children and then he could parade Jake around as the son he loves and would not want to force to compete with some “other” child. I see all men through the eyes of the one that I so foolishly gave my heart to back when I was 15 years old, but most reactions are quite rudimentary in nature. It was going on at least 2 years since he had even been near Jake when the explosion happened removing that burden from his little 14-year-old life, and I would be a liar if I did not say that I saw both sides of the issue with fascination. I have been a devout “man hater” for all the last 14 years, and I never thought I would see any differently, so taking joy in watching my ex-husband's death was not exactly a stretch.
The only thing that gets to me in this town is that I personally have never had any privacy. My ex-husband runs around doing whatever he wants, and the second I get seen with a man, or the rumors spread about some sort of impropriety, and it is front page news around here. Other than that prick, who knocked me up at the ripe old age of 15, I would still be a virgin. I have gotten the drift from all my friends that have also been bedded by him, that I might have been better off remaining a virgin and pretending that sex was disgusting, just like he made me feel when we were together. Sorry about that, I tend to go off on my rants now and again, but this is the first time I have ever sat down and written something important. I am sure you all are just having a good laugh over it, but I need to get the background out there.
I can only imagine as this long tale of a very short amount of time, by your or anyone else’s standards, can only get better written or more descriptive as it goes on, but it is all so vividly burned in my mind that I get a little confused even as I try to put it all in order of when it all happened. This makes no sense to any of you I am sure and for my own part I hope that I can make it all sensible or more legible as I go. If not for you than for me as I had said before. The beginning is hard, but it is only because there were so many beginnings along the way. The one that I am fairly sure was the first beginning is still my favorite, but that was not because it was so beautiful or anything, it was purely because it was less confusing, and more explainable in the fact that it had no real explanation. As the beginnings started rolling in, they had far too many explanations and got worse on me with each telling.
I guess I should start there as I still remember seeing the explosion off on the horizon that wiped out the Skillings Factory that was all the employment in this pathetic town. Now you know exactly why I said I was one of the lucky few that had a job. It could have been much worse, when you consider that the 43 people that died, including that scumbag of a father, would have easily been 500 had it been a few hours later when the day crew started their shift. Where I had just been opening the diner, it was in preparation for all of the day crew that were going to be getting fed before work, so we are still talking a good two hours yet before that parking lot would be full. I do not even know why I had turned around at that moment to see the gigantic mushroom a mile away, but I had, and here we are the next day, and they still do not know what caused it. The fact that I do, is why I am sitting here putting my already poor typing skills to the task, because I have not even had the courage to explain how I was left holding the bag in the end. Yes, I have been left holding the bag a lot in my life, but this one is special in the sense that you really could not even rationally prove it if you had seen it like I had.
The theories on how this explosion happened ranged from gas leaks to electrical malfunctions, but of course it all comes down to the fertilizer that they were making in there. We all know how that explodes when the flame touches it, but in this case, there is still no proof of the flame that had touched it. Do not think that they did not have every security measure in place to keep flame from the product, if only to protect the product. Even out here in Kansas those EPA folks, have their methods of watching everything that goes on, in a dangerous industry, so again where the fire came from is a very fascinating thing for those that investigate explosions. Myself on the other hand happen to look at things like this as being that which just happens, so I was not particularly curious really when the people started prophesying rumors. The buzz for the next day just around my diner was mind numbing but again, small towns make gossip the official sport, and this diner is after all the bar to which they all spend time together and discuss things. I had other things to pay attention to. That happened into my diner the very next day, and those that know me will tell you it was very foreign territory for me. It was after all the last thing I ever would have focused my attention on, but then again it was the only thing that any women in direct sight of him could focus their attention on. The feeling of being “normal” for a change had escaped me at the time, and now that we are past all of that, nothing feels normal about it at all.
People had all piled into the diner the next day to “discuss” the happenings from the day prior and try to make some sort of sense out of what had happened. Nothing like a bunch of high school dropouts trying to discuss science and place it all into perspective, to start your morning off right. I looked over the counter to Burton, the resident town “do nothing” who simply sits in here and stares at me all day, like I would assume a starving dog stares at meat and realized that even a huge explosion does not change everything. I try not to refill his coffee too often because of my hopes that he will get up and leave sooner that often goes unfulfilled, but a girl must dream, doesn't she? Of course, he is not the only one that does it around here, but you would assume that most men would simply stop looking at the woman that has not been on a date in 10 years despite her ability to be “hot” as her son pointed out after a PTA meeting. It was his way of explaining why his teacher could not stop hitting on me so bad that it made him uncomfortable. I have not been back to PTA since then, but I do have to go to work, so I do not appreciate this at all most of the time. I can shoot men down, because I hate them and that works out well for me, but I really hate the ones that think that they complete me, or that I would be lucky to have them. Those men I shoot down with a certain level of verve, because I happen to also be a lot more clever than most of the men I meet, which also comes in handy.
This does not jive well with the whole fact that I do not know how to type. I was above average in the typing classes at school but fifteen years of not doing it, will of course rust anyone’s skills. The fact that every single one of the men I have met aren’t half as smart as I am also doesn’t jive very well considering that aside from the town drunks, the town losers, or should I say the REAL drunks and losers because I paint most of them here with that brush, I am the poorest of them all. Of course, “poor” by Midwestern, out in the middle of nowhere standards is different than “poor” in the city or whatnot. I could get “services” if I wanted to, but that is beneath me, and if that makes you wonder than I worry about you. I figure I am allowed to hate men and be judgmental if I can prove that I do not need any of them or can elevate myself enough to judge fairly. Otherwise, I am just white trash and then all I am doing is being petty and jealous. I envy nobody, because I can and have done it, and now I have done so much more it is hard not to have a slight ego about it. Then again, it is harder to have a heaven may care attitude too.
I was in the middle of refilling the coffees of a few of the now unemployed guys who were sitting in the corner talking about where they were going to move, because that was ALL the jobs in this area, that had gone up in that amazing fireball the day before this moment. They were a few of the realistic ones because without the Skillings Plant there are no jobs here, and it did not take a rocket scientist to realize that all that insurance money they were going to receive, was going to build two new factories in some underdeveloped nations. I can appreciate people that do not take time to mourn, and strike the hot iron because time is not your friend right now. I have not even bothered to talk about the death of Jake's father with him, and I am fairly sure that he knows and does not want to talk about a man that he has not seen in two years. Dead or alive he was not anyone of any importance to him anyway. He does not have to be forced to mourn the death of a man, who was not in his life like most people would expect their children to, and that is the way I am going to leave it. These guys feel the same way about a job that is not going to mourn the loss of their jobs, and that is why they have hope. The rest of the place was filled with those that are crying in their coffee over losing that place. That was when the door opened, and a rush of warmer than usual April air came flowing in, making everyone turn to look except the busy waitress of course.
As I look back writing this it was a strange transformation in me as I had gone from worrying about everyone else, because it is human nature, to obsession with the days that came after this moment to take the time to mourn my own security. That factory does not exist, this town does not exist, this diner does not exist, and everything I have known for thirty years ceases to exist. I should have spent a little more time feeling sorry for myself while I had the opportunity. I was going to desperately need the practice, but during all that self-righteous, scratching to survive, and putting the feelings, security, and development of the only male I do not hate above my own have not trained me for self-pity. That had a lot to do with the situation I was about to find myself in, and now that I am writing this it is funny in its own right.
I was preoccupied now with getting orders in and starting new coffee pots when I heard gasps coming from the ladies behind me. It was a very strange sound because there are not any “girlie girls” around here, and that was a “girlie girl” series of gasps followed by giggling, and I swear that one of the gasps was from Mary, the “God Woman” as people call her behind her back. I should have never turned around to see the stranger as he was sidling himself up to the last seat on the counter. His hair was long and wavy, eyes deep opal blue, shoulders broad, chin strong, and I was unable to take my eyes away from him whatsoever. I was completely locked into his stare as he was looking down the counter strait at me, and the coffee pot slipped from my hands and went crashing to the floor, but I still could not take my eyes away from his stare until he looked away. Completely startled by the removal of his eyes I looked down immediately to see the mess I had made at my own feet, to which I dropped to my knees to start cleaning up. A great deal of my quickness to get down behind the counter was from a terrified feeling of looking at that beautiful man again, since I did not like the feeling I had in my stomach after seeing him. It was a feeling that could be described as guilt, mixed with lust, and then the foreboding. I could still hear giggling and other noises that women make when they swoon, and I could feel an emotion that I had never felt before, even when my own husband was sleeping with every woman in the neighborhood, and that was jealousy.
I cannot even begin to stress to any of you, the feelings that were running through every vein and capillary in my body. That man at the end of the counter was irrationally beautiful, and by irrationally I meant not only was there no explanation for it, but he made me and every other woman in the place completely irrational. I was trembling because part of me knew that I would do something foolish again the second he held my gaze. The fear was as I said before irrational, and so was the desperate need to stand up and stare at him again. The jealousy that one of these other women would get his attention was scary too. Well to be fair I should say that it is only scary now as I look back at it. At the time it was all perfectly rational, but for the love of all that is good I could not have told you why at the time. That beautiful man awaited me, and I could not put it off forever, even if all he awaited was a waitress in a diner. It could have made me cry if I had dwelt on it, he was that amazing to look at.
I slowly stood up brushing the long blond hair that I was too lazy to get cut for about a decade from my face, and every move I am making at this point is thought out and calculated, as I am so afraid of what is to come of anything at this point, but I still had to do my job. I even made note to myself that I was disappointed that I had never had my hair taken care of before now. In a movie star sort of way I could pretend that my hair was “movie star tussled” but my mind could only tell me that I needed to get more beautiful quickly or I could die from the loss of my opportunity. This job of mine also includes waiting on this man who is in total control of my emotions at the end of the counter, and it was sucking the life out of me. I was indeed able to look down the counter to see him sitting there with his face pointing down into a large and old looking book and staying disenfranchised from everyone around him now. The women all staring at him and obviously swooning still was making me seethe and I was growing so amazingly uncomfortable at my own emotions, as I walk towards the end of the counter to simply try to talk to this man who I had never seen before today but feel like I had envisioned my whole life. I was within three feet of him at this point and he looked up to stare right into my eyes again, as my entire body was paralyzed by him, and I could not move my lips, which was a good thing because I would not have been coherent, I am sure. His lips did move as he uttered the words “black coffee please,” and went straight back to his book.
Once released from his spell I looked down for a moment to at least try to figure out what he was reading and realistically, that was no help whatsoever as the text in the book was not even recognizable to me, like a strange form of Eastern language like Russian only stranger than that. I had seen Russian before and this was not it, but it was closer to that as my mind looked at it, then English. My mind was more focused on getting a cup of scalding black coffee in front of this man without causing injuries. I think it might have been a hopeless cause at that point, but I had to all the same. The methodology of how I was going to do it was another story, but I chose the “carrying of the cup” method as I would at least spill a lot less coffee, that dropping a whole pot again. I focused on the cup and made damn sure that I did not look up to see that face again, as I did manage to get the cup in front of him before he spoke, “it's Aramaic, which happens to be a dead semitic language, so many people think that Jesus spoke Hebrew, but did not, even though Aramaic is similar to Hebrew,” he pause to drain about a quarter of the cup, and continued while I stared, “it really is a must learn language if you want to really study the bible,” and then he grabbed the coffee cup scalding hot as it was, and took down another quarter of the cup ... to be continued.
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