There was a cigarette machine in the corner, over by the unused jukebox. I eyed it and daydreamed.
###
My grandfather jerked his head toward me and I flinched. A man had jumped into my peripheral vision, but my grandfather noticed first. Now I felt old, older than him. Still, I knew how young I was among these hardened leather farmers and haggard smoke-stained truckers and this old, old man across from me. I felt shame at my age, of being so young and acting so aged. I waited, hoping to come across as adult, disinterested, in control. I came across as a teenager, rude, instead. Finally, I looked.
The man, an older man probably in his late twenties, bent over the table so his Army jacket brushed my empty white plate. His face smelled of humility; his stubble wept from his cheeks. His eyes were dull, the color of the diner's empty coffee pots at the end of the day. Tired and burnt and unclean. He glanced once at my grandfather, then turned instinctively to me.
"Would you buy a CB for five dollars?"
"What?" I said, confused. I sounded young, but here with my grandfather staring black as his coffee, the man felt young, too. The frantic wrinkles in his forehead told me this, and he didn't notice my voice waver. But my grandfather heard. "Say that again?" I said to sound older.
"I ran out of gas a ways back, my wife and my kid and me, and we need some gas money. I just need five bucks, we're not far now. I'll give you an old CB I've got for five bucks." I felt much older now; this guy pleaded.
"Does it work?" I smiled inside, knowing how shrewd and adult I sounded, how cynical and skeptical. My grandfather must hear this, I thought.
"Yeah, it works. I just don't use it because it doesn't have a mic," the young man said. "My wife and kid are outside now. You can come outside and see the CB if you want."
I looked at the seat. My grandfather looked into his coffee. I wondered what he saw in there, what futures he knew. I saw only the vinyl seat of the booth. I felt naive and unsure, but I looked as wise as my grandfather.
"I know how this sounds," the young guy said, "but I'm on the level. Come see, my wife and kid are out in the car."
I looked at my grandfather, who looked at me. He shook his head slightly, gave me a warning stare. But I did not want his advice. I knew things his coffee cup didn't.
"Let's go," I said.
###
Outside, the air was brisk and swirling, dark but pure, not at all like the coffee. This black hinted blue like the sliver of triangle in the depths of a Magic 8 Ball.
He led me to a hatchback Datsun, beaten and without color in the dark parking lot. The rear sunk low, and I could see plastic bags and clothes on hangers and a pillow pressed flat against the glass of the hatch. When he opened the driver's side door, the rear glowed. A woman stood up from the passenger side; she held a girl about two. I smiled. I had known this was true. I hoped my grandfather watched from his booth inside.
The guy dug around the floor in front, shuffling aside chips bags and paper cups and cigarette butts. If he offers me a smoke, I thought, I'll take it. There was a clattering and a small pop of a cord pulled free. I waited.
He backed out of the car, holding up to me a black metal box. The CB was old, the sharp edges and blocky silver knobs reminding me of my parents' eight-track stereo at home, the one that no longer worked. The channel dial was round, with the numbers printed directly on the wheel--no digital display. Not a CB, but history, nostalgia, something to make me look sophisticated. I took it in my hands, hefted it knowingly, examined it for my grandfather to see. Its black was matte, not oily at all. This CB knew things.
The guy popped his knuckles and dug at his fingernails and kept glancing at his wife. Inside the car, I could see the empty mounting bracket, under the dial radio, where the CB must have been. I tucked the CB under my arm, pinching myself with the weight of the thing. I reached in my wallet and handed him a five.
"Thanks, man," he said. This was not a flippant thanks. His voice rang with what I could not see in his dull eyes, shrouded by the dark. "Really, thanks." The woman smiled and squatted toward the front seat. I realized there was no child's seat, that the back was loaded too full. The guy lowered himself behind the wheel, smiled back at me again. I was glad when he shut his door, his arm hanging out the open window. I did not want to look into the car anymore. I took the CB from under my arm and looked at it. Sorrowful, this matte black. The CB knew too much.
"Thanks a lot."
They left.
###
Inside, my grandfather stood at the cashier's counter, waiting for a waitress to ring up our bill.
"You shouldn't just give money to people, you know. That guy could have been a junkie or a killer or something."
"He had a wife and kid, Grandpa. He just wanted some gas money."
"So buy him the gas, for Christ sake. Go to the station with him and fill up his tank. You going to give charity, make it good Christian charity, boy, don't be half-assed about it. You don't know what he really wanted the money for--you don't know what he needed."
A waitress came, smelling of cigarettes. She was old, and I ignored her. My grandfather paid the bill.
"Yeah, I do know," I said. "He wanted five bucks and a little dignity. He didn't want me hanging over his shoulder."
"Dignity? He wanted dignity, he could have gotten the money himself. He could have earned it somehow. He shouldn't just expect handouts."
We were outside now.
"He did earn it," I said. "He sold me a CB."
We reached my grandfather's silver Town Car, its back seat plush-upholstered and empty. "It was only five bucks, after all."
"Only five bucks. For that?" My grandfather shook his head, and I looked down at the black CB with no connections. "You got had, boy. You should have just given him the money, after all."
I stopped as I opened my door, looked over at the empty spot in the lot where the Datsun once was. And, suddenly, I did not want the CB.
