6:45 PM.
They said they’d be here at 6:30. Here I am, sitting, wallowing in my own stubbornness.
The walls of The Red Dog Cafe were yellowing, and the corners of the wallpaper were folding inwards as if trying to escape the paper’s moldy underside. The weary ceiling lights were flickering due to the spinning fan directly underneath.
1 row of tables – an alley – 2 rows of tables- an alley – 1 final row of tables set against the wall adjacent to the front door is where I reside. I can feel my feet stick to the unwashed floor.
6:46. A couple leaves after barely touching their burgers. I caught a glimpse of the innards of one burger, and it resembled vomit more than an edible meal worth $10.
In their text, they mentioned how they wanted the Ultimate Red Dog Steakburger, and if they were late, I would order it for them, also saying how they pay for whatever I got and to not order shy. They have immense wealth after all, a trashy burger is nothing but taking a cup of water from the ocean to them.
The one and only waitress that was working this evening came up to my table. She couldn’t have been older than 16 – potentially the business owner’s daughter. Her unkempt appearance matched the ambiance of this backwards Cafe.
2 greasy hands holding a glass of water each placed one in front of me, and the other across from me.
“What would you like to order?” an uninterested voice snarled while her hands were readying a small notepad and a slender black pen.
“I guess… we’ll both do The Ultimate Red Dog Steakburger.” I say.
$25 each.
‘A mouthwatering combination of our finest cut of steak, bacon seasoned to perfection, scrambled eggs, tomato, american cheese, and some of our exclusive Red Dog Sauce that will leave you satisfied,’ read the menu. If that is $25, it must be the best burger in the world – the general aesthetic of this restaurant is worrying me. It’s not my money so it doesn’t really matter.
The young waitress walked away as I checked my silver watch. 6:48. Maybe they got lost on their way – this Cafe is in the middle of nowhere after all.
She lives inside Chicago so why are we meeting at a random Cafe 2 hours out in the middle of Brown County, Illinois? The Red Dog Cafe is in the center of Versaille, a town in western Illinois with only a couple thousand people. Why anybody would want to meet here is beyond me. I had a hell of a time trying to get here. My GPS kept making me take wrong turns so I would’ve been late if I didn’t leave an hour earlier than I really needed to.
I left Iowa City at noon sharp and have been driving almost 4 hours to get here. I drove through Versaille a bit to familiarize myself with it, and parked at the Cafe at 5:30 when it was clear there was nothing to see or do. I didn’t want to seem obsessive with how early I showed up so I waited in my car until 6:25 before I finally entered the building.
And here we are now. I haven’t been on a date since sophomore year of high school, where I entered my one and only relationship. I’m 24 now, ready to get back into the dating sphere – and I’m not just stepping back in – I’m leaping headfirst into it. This isn’t going to be a date with just anybody – I’m seeing a model/actress named Megan Morales. I met her on the internet and we really hit it off, we have a lot in common. We like the same movies, the same foods, we both grew up in the midwest – in short, we’re a destined match. I’ve spent so much time talking to her over the last few months, so it’s surprising that she isn’t coming to this dinner with haste.
6:50.
The Cafe is getting emptier by the minute. An elderly woman had just left through the front door, leaving just a young couple, a middle aged farmer type man, and then me in the Cafe.
The young couple seem to be having a playful conversation. ‘That’ll be us when she gets here,’ I think to myself, making an active effort not to glance at the couple, though I’m managing a few peaks every now and then.
The middle aged farmer neither seems sorrowful or boisterous – he’s just there, in the background, eating a mediocre looking plate of chicken tenders. I’m sure he has plenty of wisdom to share, I think he seems to have completely resigned himself to an average life. I get this impression by the very fact he chose to eat at the Red Dog Cafe of all places (not that this town has many options).
I’m thinking about nonsense as if to distract myself from the elephant in the room. Not to compare Ms. Morales to an elephant – no no no… She looks like a toothpick. She starves herself to keep up with steep beauty expectations, but I like to think she does it for me.
I bet she dresses and talks that way for me – she knows what I like. Well, I’ve shared a lot about myself – I’m an open book. I told her a ton of personal stories – and I’ve told a bunch of stories to someone I thought was her but who was really an impersonator, but that whole debacle has been sorted out. What kind of monster would assume the identity of someone else to learn another person’s deepest, darkest secrets? People refer to this imposter as ‘Faux Megan’. They got tons of private information out of me and shared it all across the web in a petty attempt to ruin my life. Of course the real Megan came forward and made some of these monsters stop – and here we are now.
I hear some banging going on outside. It sounds like metal hitting metal. It overlapped the sounds of young male voices, jeering loudly about something. Sounds too unprofessional to be construction. I try to stop worrying about it as I have bigger problems.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A few more loud noises pop up here and there. It sounds like they’re coming from the parking lot, but it’s impossible to tell from where I am as there’s no way to even see the lot from my seat.
As time passes, the bangs and the voices subside, leaving a deafening silence interrupted by the joyous young couple.
7:00.
The waitress brings out two giant burgers laid out on a tray. She places a burger in front of me, and one in front of the empty seat adjacent to me. She takes a quick glance at the empty seat, and then back at me.
“Do you need anything else?” She asks with a hint of concern in her voice.
“I’m – I’m alright.” I remark, trying my best not to sound defeated.
She leaves, glancing back at the empty seat one last time, then she quickly glances at the front door, where no one was either entering or exiting.
I don’t touch my food, as that would be rude. I’ll wait for her like a gentleman. Though I am starving. I take one fry, and eat it. It was soggy and absolutely caked in salt.
I hope that Megan’s parents haven’t got in the way of her coming. Who would give her an hour-long car ride from her house to here? She doesn’t have a car, and I doubt any of her friends have a license.
Her parents don’t like me. They’re aware of my existence and reject the very prospect of me being with their daughter. I think it is oppression at its finest, Megan has the right to go out with anyone that she wants to. She is very intelligent after all.
The middle aged farmer gets up to leave. I get the sudden urge to give up and go home. But what if she actually does show up, and then I’m not there? I immediately decided that it is better to continue waiting.
The only ones remaining at The Red Dog Cafe are the young couple and me. I keep glancing over at them – at what they have – they really don’t know how lucky they are. The odds of meeting another person that likes you – that wants to be with you until you die. Fortunately, I’ve been that lucky – at least I think so.
I think so.
The couple get up to leave. Walking out that door, they leave me alone in the Cafe. It’s awfully quiet here without their constant snickering. The waitress looks over at my table and sees that I haven’t touched my food.
“Would you like a box sir?” She asks.
“I’m okay, thank you,” I reply meekishly, even though I’ll probably need 2 boxes.
I give in and take a bite out of my burger. It was lukewarm and the steak tasted funny. At least the bacon was surprisingly decent.
I’m starving so I finished the burger quickly. I know for a fact it won’t sit well in my stomach. But hey – I may not have to pay for it – for them.
My phone buzzed. It was her, I’m just certain – I don’t get that many buzzes – most of them come from her. I don’t grab my phone. I don’t know if I’ll like what she has to say.
So I put off looking for as long as I can. It feels like an hour has passed. The 2 people working in the Cafe have cleaned up all of the tables – except mine of course. During this time, I started eating Megan’s sandwich as it gave me something to do. It was even more mediocre now that it was cold. I had no way of telling the time. This must be getting really awkward for the workers as they can probably stitch together what’s happening – or they may have come to their own conclusions that label me as undesirable – or dangerous – or weird.
Of course they don’t know how smart she is for her age, no one believes me when I say that. This has been going on for far too long. I check my phone.
7:22.
1 Photo from Megan.
I hesitate before opening it.
I opened it. A photo of a small, grey, Chevrolet Malibu is on my phone. The car is dented all over with spray paint on every part of the vehicle. The paint spells dirty words and phallic symbols dotted all over the car.
This was my car.
I rush out of the restaurant, ignoring my unpaid bill. My waitress calls out for me to stop, but that request falls on deaf ears. I shove open the front door, and dart around the flat, square building to the parking lot.
In the center of the parking lot is my car. All of the windows are broken, dents all over, and the word ‘PEDO’ is spray painted onto the front hood. In fact, the word ‘PEDO’ was littered all over the car. On the driver side door is a giant swastika. Whoever did this is clearly out to paint me, and what I do as villainous.
I clumsily grabbed my phone out of my pocket, and facetimed Megan. I’ve never called her before, as she is always busy. In fact, she’s never sent me any kind of voice message either, now that I think about it.
She answered the call. Instead of a young girl, I was greeted with a group of young men, none of the older than 20. They jeered at me and made fun of my adoration for Megan, my unpopular politics, and my overall appearance, with how I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth for weeks. I only respond to the latter as it is something I’m trying to get better at.
It doesn’t matter what I said. I saw the clip of our facetime all over my feed the next day, and Megan’s parents have filed a restraining order against me.
But I’m still here. Nothing’s really changed has it?
The City High Review 