“You are outta your-ever-lovin’ mind, Bill!” Shouting, the oversized man pointed at the television screen. “There ain’t no way that the Cubs are gonna beat the Cardinals this year. It ain’t gonna happen.” He sipped his coffee while pointing to the screen. In the corner of the café was a flatscreen television tuned to the Cardinals game. The Cards were beating the Cubs in the sixth inning, scoring five runs in the last two minutes. Not that Bill cared for the game or his home team of Chicago. He simply liked to agitate Danny. He particularly enjoyed watching his face turn beet red when he was really worked up. But the waitresses in the diner weren’t so happy about that. Twice in the last two months, some dumbass worked up poor Danny, and he had a heart attack. Danny wasn’t supposed to drink coffee or eat bacon, eggs, and sausage with pancakes for breakfast. He was supposed to watch his cholesterol and his blood sugars. He was told to eat healthier foods like vegetables and whole grains. But he never listened, not even as a child. Rumor had it that he was unruly, never listened to his momma, and was almost sent to one of those boys’ homes because he was so undisciplined. From the look of things, it seemed plausible. Not that Bill really cared. You meet all kinds of drivers on the road. None of them looked the same. Most smelled like the food they ate or worse.

               “Yeah! Go, baby, go!” Danny shouted at the screen, pounding his fist on the table. “Woohoo! Home run, Billy! Yeah!” Danny’s face got redder by the minute. One of the older waitresses came over to check on Danny.

               “Hey, Danny. You doin’ okay?” She pointed at his face, saying, “You’re turning red. Probably need to cool it for a bit, okay?” She held out a compact with a mirror, showing him his reflection. “Please? I don’t want to call an ambulance for you – again.”

               “It was one time.”

               “It was twice, Daniel.”

               “I asked you not to call me that,” Danny tried to say under his breath.

               “Well, I tell you what. You calm down,” Brenda said, snapping the compact shut, “And I won’t shout your name through the diner. Deal?” Brenda held out her hand. Danny scowled for a minute and tried to look around the middle-aged woman. “Uh, no.” She pulled a remote from her apron and pointed it at the flatscreen. “I swear to God I’m turning it off if you don’t settle your happy ass down. Now. We got a deal, Danny?” He slid back into the booth as much as possible, considering he was halfway slumped over, but not before he weakly shook Brenda’s hand. “Thought so. Now then, you,” she turned around and aimed the remote at Bill. “You best stop eggin’ him on, Bill. You hear me?”

               “You got nothing to threaten me with, Brenda-Sue,” Bill laughed. “But I get ya.” He held up both hands in surrender. “I give up. I’ll quit. I promise.”

               Brenda dropped the remote into her apron and walked behind the counter, refilling Bill’s coffee cup. Bill stretched from his stool, standing up and stretching. “Danny,” Bill said, pointing at the screen, “You got a hell of a team there.” He walked over to Danny and shook his hand. “No hard feelings. We all got a rough job out there. Especially if we gotta drive through Chicago, eh?” He winked at Danny, who sneered back at him.

               “Screw you, Bill.”

               Bill blew him a kiss, walked back to the counter, and threw down two twenties. He’d been sitting there for almost two hours, so he figured he was paying rent to the diner. Bill knew his check for his food, and the never-ending coffee was way less than that, and he hoped Brenda-Sue would buy herself something nice like the Chevy Impala she’d been saving for. He’d been coming to the Oregon diner for over twelve years and knew she had been dreaming about the car for a long time. Before he slid the sunglasses up his nose, he turned around and asked, “Brenda? How long until you drive here in the Impala?”

               “Soon. I’m looking at three different ones. Oh, that Impala will be mine! Oh yes. It will.” She reached into her pocket for her smartphone and scrolled until she found what she was looking for. “This is the one.” Brenda showed him the picture of a glossy, jet-black 1967 Chevy Impala. “I think I need a little more than $200, and I’ll have it. I’m so excited.” She stared at the picture while Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more twenties and two fifties.

               “I hope you get it,” he said, pressing the bills he crumpled into her hand and shaking it. “You have a fantastic day. Brenda, I expect you to take me for a ride when I come back through.” He winked at her, and she blushed, not from embarrassment but excitement.

               “Thank you, Bill.” She pulled him close and hugged him tightly. “I will, for sure.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they didn’t stop her from grinning at Will.

               From his corner booth, Danny shouted, “Aww, come on, ref! What the hell was that call?” He threw his fork down so hard on the plate that it bounced off it, shattering it and sticking it in the drop ceiling above Brenda and Bill. “Damn it, Daniel! I warned you about that!” Brenda shouted. “And you broke a plate with that stunt? That’s it,” she scurried over to the booth and ushered him out of it, “get out. Right now.” He pointed at the screen, repeatedly mouthing the word ‘but’ soundlessly.

“You got DirectTV. Watch it in your rig. Now, get out!” Two state troopers took notice of the commotion, turning to face the action. Inside an establishment, state cops didn’t interject themselves, choosing to let the locals handle it. But this was different. And neither trooper knew Danny or his relationship with Brenda. Bill didn’t like cops much, but he liked Brenda-Sue more, so he kept close to the door, just in case he was needed. Thankfully, Danny reluctantly stood up, waddled to the counter, and paid his ticket, pouting the entire time. He liked the diner better than his rig because he could get coffee refills here. In his truck? He had to make it himself. He was efficient in that regard. But, like it or not, breaking a plate and sticking a fork in the ceiling was a step too far, even for him.

               He stuttered, “I’m sorry.” He threw in a few extra dollars for the broken plate and the fork. “I. Well. I’m. You know. I’m,” he gulped, “sorry. He took out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to Brenda. “That’s for you. I’m truly sorry.” Danny even took off his trucker’s hat to say it. Brenda pointed him to the door, glaring at him. The door’s bell chimed, and he exited, waddling back to the nearest truck, which was his. Danny wasn’t much for exercise, so he made a point of parking as close as he could to the diner.

                As soon as he was out the door, the glare on Brenda’s face was gone, and she laughed. “I didn’t think I could hold it together. That was freakin’ hilarious!” She pointed to the fork. “And he couldn’t have done that if he tried!” Brenda covered her mouth, pointing at the fork, laughing. “But breaking the plate? That tub of lard threw that fork that hard? I didn’t think he had it in him!”

               The cops stood up, coming to the register to pay for their coffees. “We weren’t sure what he would do.”

               “At least you were here, just in case.”

To be continued . . .