Olivia, the previous year – day one, late afternoon
The sun has set, and Olivia watches the receding taillights of the black and white police cruiser, as it disappears in the distance, and then she turns and looks over at the diner. The lights emanating from its interior beckon her, and she heads toward the entrance. It’s been a long day, and she is exhausted. With all the planning she has done, Olivia never considered that she might not make it into the city in one day. Now, here it is, past dark, and she’s only in Roscoe. If she could just find someplace to spend the night, she wouldn’t have to hitchhike in the darkness. But, right now, she’s hungry, so she opts to satisfy the one need that she can.
She scans the interior of the diner, decides against a booth, and sits down on one of several empty stools lining the long counter that spans the entire far wall. The waitress motions that she’ll be right back with a menu. In a minute or two, she returns with a glass of ice water and the bill of fare, which she places on the counter. “Take your time, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll be back in a ‘sec.’”
“Mind if I sit here?” says a man’s voice. Olivia spins around on her stool to see a somewhat unkempt looking man in his mid forties, wearing a red and black, checked Woolrich jacket, jeans, and work boots. He kind of reminds her of her late father.
“No,” says Olivia. “I mean, sure; I don’t mind.”
“Thanks,” says the man. Then, he sticks out his hand, saying, “I’m Warren.”
Olivia hesitates, and then shakes his hand. “I’m Olivia. Pleased to meet you.”
“Same here.”
Just then, the waitress returns, and seeing the man, says, “Are you two together?”
The man looks at Olivia, and Olivia looks at him. “Oh, what the heck,” he says. “Sure. Put her stuff on my check.” Then, turning toward Olivia, he says, “I mean, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she says. “And, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Hey,” he says. “Why don’t we get a booth? I mean, it’s a lot more comfortable, don’t ya think?”
Olivia shifts uneasily on her stool.
“Oh, I get it,” says Warren, with a smile. “No problem. We can just stay right here. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
Olivia immediately feels guilty. “No, no,” she says. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely!”
“Okay,” he says. “You go pick one out; I’ll stay here until the waitress comes back, so she’ll know what’s happening.”
Olivia selects a booth all the way in the back, by a window. In a minute, she is joined by the man, who has brought her water. He sits across from her, which makes Olivia a lot more comfortable.
After ordering their meals, the two spend the next fifteen minutes exchanging “stories,” before their food arrives. Olivia tells him of her plans to model and about the arrangements she’s made to stay at the Y. He tells her his name is Warren Joseph, but his friends just call him “Wa.” She learns that he’s forty-six, and a veteran of Operation Desert Storm.
“Hey, that’s cool. My father was in the Middle East, too.” The thought of her father brings a tear to her eye, which she wipes away with a napkin.
“What’s wrong?”
“He was killed there…in Iraq. He should’ve never been there in the first place.”
“Why was he there?” asks Warren. “Heck, he must have been about my age.”
“He was in the National Guard,” says Olivia. “You know, to earn extra money—”
“And they called him up, right?”
“Uh huh,” whispers Olivia.
“That sucks,” says Warren.
“I know,” she replies. “I really miss him.” She doesn’t tell Warren how much he reminds her of her father. But, looking across at him makes her feel kind of safe; just like when her dad was alive.
Warren tells Olivia about the most recent “developments” in his miserable life. Three weeks ago, he says, he lost his job at the meat packing plant in Oneonta, and ten days later, his wife of twenty-three years announced that she was splitting. “I’m sick of living with a loser,” she had said. “Those were her exact words,” says Warren, shaking his head.
What Warren doesn’t tell Olivia is that one of the reasons he has not fared well is his propensity to drink—and to gamble. Back in Kuwait, in 1991, “Wa” had a reputation for betting on anything that moved. In fact, one buddy had joked that, “’Wa’ would put money on a scorpion fight, if he could find one.”
When the meal is finished, Warren lays a generous tip on the table; he can scarcely afford it, but figures it will look good to the girl. “So,” he says, “what now?”
Olivia stands up, and puts on her jacket, not quite sure how to answer.
“I meant, are you going to start hitchhiking right away,” asks Warren. “Or are you going to spend the night?”
“Well,” replies Olivia. “I don’t really have any money to waste on a room. I was kinda hoping I’d get to the city by tonight.”
Warren stands up, and stretches his arms in the air. Taking a deep breath, he says, “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t mind the company of an old man, what say I just drive you straight on into the city? We could be there in…oh, hell…two, maybe three hours. It won’t even be that late. We’ll find that YMCA, and get you all set up. Heck, maybe I can get a room there, too.”
“You mean it?”
“I told you, I’m not working, and I don’t really have any plans. So, why not? Besides, maybe I might just look around the city for some work, myself. I know there’s a big meat packing section in Manhattan. I think it’s somewhere on the Eastside.”
“We-l-l-l-l,” says Olivia. “If you really want to.”
“Oh, I do,” says Warren. “I’ll go pay the check. Why don’t you meet me outside?”
“Okay, but I have to use the ladies room, first.”
“Perfect,” says Warren.
Just perfect.