Lemonade

It was that old Catch-22. He knew it was unwise to leave the Interstate on a blistering 110 degree day like this especially with the cord showing on the back tire of the smoke-trailing motorcycle. On the other hand, he was feeling the first effects of heat stroke; the shortness of breath, the light headedness and a racing heartbeat.

The water bottle that he kept wedged between the windscreen and the speedometer had long been empty from dousing himself for a few seconds of relief before the blistering desert wind dried him again. He knew if he didn't get out of the sun and find some cold liquid soon, he'd be buzzard bait.

When the little Diner came into view among the desert boulders, he’d been near panic. Feeling shaky, he stepped through the door and square into the air-conditioner blast. In a minute he was stretched out in the booth and wiping the sweaty grime from his forehead with his bandana.

A pleasant young waitress appeared and he ordered lemonade. Food was out of the question in this heat. It was fluid and air conditioning he needed and, in a primal way, nothing else mattered just now.

His pregnant 18 year old girlfriend didn’t matter, having no job and little money didn’t matter nor did his waiting cousin or the bald tire on his motorcycle. Extreme conditions have a way of putting things into perspective, he thought.

The cold liquid slid down his throat in a cool trail to his belly. His internal temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees when the lemonade hit bottom. After downing it all in one motion he asked the waitress if refills were free.

“Of course” she said, picking up his glass, “always.”

They both knew better but she had read his desperation, though she couldn’t have known just how much this simple act of kindness meant to him right now. She returned with a glass dripping icy sweat and set it on the table. When it was gone a few seconds later she appeared with another.

They were alone in the joint which wasn’t surprising considering how the little oasis was hidden from the highway. His first impression was that it was a typical greasy spoon but now as he surveyed his surroundings the cool brick and terra cotta interior felt more like a sidewalk café.
He closed his eyes and imagined that they were in Paris. Not that he’d ever been there but he’d seen this place on a watercolor postcard.

The waitress sat down at his booth and asked how he’d wound up here, in the middle of the Arizona desert, in the middle of an August heat wave on a ratty old, oil-burning motorcycle. He told her about the pregnant girlfriend and the cousin in Phoenix who was going to get him on at the potash plant. He talked until he’d told his whole life story which, at the tender age of 19, didn’t amount to much.

It wasn’t like him to talk so much but she was a good listener with a kindly manner and the air conditioner felt so very nice. In fact, he was actually feeling a little chilly. Still, he was in no hurry to leave this place nor to face the heat outside.

The bell above the door jingled as a highway patrolman entered and she got up to take his order. She moved with uncommon grace and he found himself immensely attracted to her and immensely pleased when she returned with another frosty lemonade and sat with him again.

Her dark brown hair was parted in the middle, as was fashionable then, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose punctuated her honeyed complexion. Was it the kindness in her azure eyes that made her seem like an angel to him or was it was the awareness that she and this oasis had probably saved his young life?

The patrolman waved her over and while she was gone he passed the time in dreamy speculation. She probably grew up nearby and lived vicariously through her customers, he mused, waiting for a handsome stranger to walk through the door and whisk her away to a life of romance and adventure.

When she returned, he asked her if she ever thought about leaving everything behind and jumping on a motorcycle with a handsome stranger. He’d never been anyone’s handsome stranger but right now, he desperately wanted to be hers.

“Of course” she said, “always.”

That seemed like a peculiar answer but it seemed perfectly appropriate in the vague surrealness of this place. He felt like they were all inside that watercolor postcard.

The highway patrolman surveyed the scene, casting a long shadow on the dark-haired girl cradling the young biker’s face in her hands. She looked up at the patrolman with tears in her eyes.

“I saw that motorcycle with the flat tire a couple of miles back but there was no one around. I drove on and came upon him lying here in the sand. He’s been mumbling about lemonade and postcards.”

"Poor bastard," the patrolman said, “The heat must’a got him.”

“Am I your Handsome Stranger?” the young biker asked weakly.

“Of course,” the girl replied, looking kindly down at him, “always.”

His weather-cracked lips parted into a tiny smile as he drew his last breath.