River Rats

“This is gonna be messy.”

Alexandra Hanson glanced up from the ketchup stain on her summer uniform and grimaced at her employer. “I’m sure I can get it out. Figures the Bertolini brat would tag me on the first day of the summer rush.”

Gustav Shempsky, a man of few words, grabbed her chin, and refocused her attention on a booth next to the rear window of the Wayward Son Diner. Alex struggled, but his extra large meat hook held her still. Gustav stood out as the only man she allowed to touch her, and only because he had changed her diapers on occasion almost thirty years earlier.

Gustav grunted, and Alex took a moment to observe the newbie customer. The fact that he needed to be seated spoke volumes. Coming into the Wayward Son and waiting to be seated was as good as tattooing “new arrival” on his head. The locals ignored the faded Please Wait to be Seated sign, as they’d done for almost half a century. In Barryville, you either knew what you were about, or you were a tourist.

A broad-brimmed hat sat on the table before him. He’d promptly removed the accessory upon entering the diner. His sun-kissed brown skin contrasted sharply with the common pasty pallor of the resident upstate New Yorker, and his warm brown eyes reminded Alex of hot chocolate on a January day. She hadn’t been able to place his accent but the melodic lilt in his voice told her English might not be his native tongue.

The natives of Barryville could have overlooked his skin color and accent. Even his ingrained manners were foreign where the denizens of the Delaware River town lived by the creed Why fuss, we’re all like family here? His uniform, though, set him apart. The sharp pleats on his National Park Service uniform elicited comment from almost every one of Alex’s customers and none of it was friendly.

“What’s he doin’ in here, Alex? Didn’t you tell him his kind ain’t welcome?” Rosie Carlyle, postmistress and chief purveyor of gossip, stage-whispered loud enough to draw bobbing heads of agreement from surrounding tables.

While Gustav had never physically removed an NPS officer from the premises, he was known for speaking out against the government-run institution. Most of the natives felt the river communities should police themselves, and if not for the influx of money Barryville and the surrounding areas received from the tourists every season, the town wouldn’t stand for their interference.

Sullivan County sat a little over a hundred miles from New York City, and location was responsible for the river community’s much-needed financial IV. Those who couldn’t afford a jaunt to Cape Cod planned weekend rafting trips to the scenic upper Delaware and brought their hard-earned money with them. The nearest city, Port Jervis, was a winding thirty-minute drive along Route 97, and jobs at the tri-state point were on a first come, first served basis.

Rosie and many of the other patrons of the dinner worked as civil servants and didn’t worry about such nonsense as tourist capital and the like. Alex and Gustav weren’t as fortunate. They made the majority of their living during the summer season, and neither was about to turn away business, especially one with potential as a regular.

“Looks like a bleedin’ singles mixer over there.” Gustav’s Polish-German accent—thinned after forty years of living in the states, came roaring back when he was upset.

Alex managed to extract her chin and shook her head. “Nah, a singles mixer would have more than one man.”

The ‘unmarried and hating life’ set of Barryville came out in full dress within ten minutes of his arrival seeking the skinny on Mr. NPS. The single men, most of whom possessed a crazed, Wild Man of Borneo scruff, glared from over the rims of their coffee cups.

“Alex, you gotta do something,” Gustav never begged, but his tone was suspiciously mixed with hope and dread. “I can’t afford to have a fight in here; I’ll be paying for the new roof all summer as is.”

“What did you have in mind Gus, a burlesque show?” Alex studied Mary Hartnet, the librarian from Eldred who’d never fit the prim and demure stereotype that most small towns demanded. Back in the mid-eighties, Mary attended college in Albany and jumped aboard the fashion band wagon, donning leg warmers and stilettos in every available shade of neon. No weapon known to man could get her off that wagon and here she was in 2009, still dressed like Paula Abdul of ’85.

Mary might be up for a bit of flash dancing, Alex thought as she watched Mary trace a hot pink nail up the NPS guy’s arm. She was wise enough not to voice her opinion. Gus and all the men took a peculiar tack on guarding the integrity of the single women, like mother hens running circles around their hatchlings. Mary might be flamboyant, but she was still one of them.

“How’s his order coming?” Alex stood on tiptoe to peer over the counter divide and check the griddle. NPS guy had ordered a Captain’s Special, two fried eggs, bacon and cheese on a hard roll. His coffee probably needed refilling, but Alex would need a weed whacker to cut a path through the forest of hormones and Elizabeth Taylor perfume.

Gustav hustled behind the counter and flipped the eggs onto a plate. “Give me five,” he muttered and Alex scurried around, refilling coffee cups. The hands on the wall clock read almost ten and, other than the scene in the corner, the load was light. Wayward Sun hopped from opening at six to about nine-thirty, but except for Sunday, they coped with a lull from late morning until early lunch.

“Gus, hurry up,” Alex hissed. The NPS guy’s smile appeared forced now. The doublemint twins, A.K.A Lara and Lola, book-ended him on either side of the booth, their bleach-blond heads newly crimped but still showing off several inches of dark roots. Mary leaned in from the booth behind and was still caressing his uniform. Anita Hargraves talked a mile a minute and the stranger’s eyes went vacant. Alex could relate; she got that same expression whenever Anita did her hair.

Gustav slid a plate in her direction, his eyes pleading with her to do something before the frenetic energy in the room took a hold on everyone’s sense.

“Crap,” Alex whispered as the NPS guy tried to make his way from the booth and was sandwiched closer to the plate-glass window by Lara and held in place by Mary’s hot pink talons. He shot a glance to the ceiling, maybe praying for divine intervention.

Alex slid his sandwich into a Styrofoam container and poured a to-go coffee, then took a deep breath and mustered her strength. The Lord worked in mysterious ways.

“Here you are, honey-lamb,” Alex used her best bimbette voice and smiled for all she was worth as she held the brown bag aloft like a blue ribbon. “I knew you needed to go, so I asked Gus to put a special rush on your order. Wouldn’t want you to be late on your first day, now would we? How ‘bout I walk you to your truck and take my five right now?” She batted her eyelashes for an extra touch of dim.

Confusion radiated off of every native in the small diner and she could almost hear their collective thoughts. Alex and the NPS guy?

His panic-stricken gaze focused on her, and Alex saw the moment the word go registered in his mind. He grinned at her and managed to hip-bump Lara into a standing position, reaching out to steady the chubby bottle-blonde. He was nicer than Alex would have been in his shoes. A real gentleman in this rough-neck town.

He wouldn’t last a week.

* * * *

Sam smiled at his savior again. The dark-haired waitress had delivered him from that gaggle of women who’d descended on him like hawks on fresh carrion. He’d placed a proprietary hand on the small of her back as he led her from the rustic eatery and every eye in the place remained fixed on the two of them. Sam turned to face her as she stopped off to the side of his vehicle, well out of view of the diner’s window.

“Thank you for your help, Miss…?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Just Alex. You start calling me ‘Miss,’ and people won’t think we’re seeing each other. If you wanna eat here again, you should keep the pretense going.”

“Won’t that cause a problem with your boyfriend?” She didn’t look old enough to be married and he didn’t spy a ring, but that didn’t mean much with the Sex and the City generation.

She studied him from narrowed eyes. “Don’t got one, don’t want one. How about you make sure to bring in a few of your NPS buddies for coffee and pie after local hour, I’ll play the pretend relationship game as long as you want.”

Would he ever get use to these forward women? True, this one didn’t seem to want to grope him like the ones in the diner, but where he came from, women were coy and mysterious creatures who kept men guessing. These women operated more off of shock value than anything else.

“Mercenary little thing, aren’t you?” His tone came across as more condescending then he’d intended and she bristled like a cat in a downpour.

“I’m a shrewd businesswoman offering a mutually beneficial trade. Lots of folks around here don’t like the Park Service messing with this town, but I don’t get caught up in politics. If it’s good for the diner, it’s good for me.”

The sun broke from the puffy while clouds and highlighted glints of red in her mahogany hair. She was attractive in an earth-mother kind of way, and he wondered why he felt a twinge of disappointment in hearing that she didn’t want a boyfriend. Was she a lesbian?

“I’m not gay, but I’ve plenty of friends who are, so you best keep any derogatory remarks to yourself.”

“Are you a mind reader?” Sam teased, knowing full well that she wasn’t.

“I make a living by serving hungry people. If that doesn’t qualify me for a PhD in human behavior, I don’t know what would.”

Sam nodded at her sage observation. She certainly knew when he was in distress. “I see your point. You know, it’s funny. Usually I’m the one being asked if I’m gay.”

Alex took a step back and seemed to study him. Other than the whooshing of cars along Route 97, there was no noise. Sam fought the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. This must be what a prize bull went through.

“It’s the uniform.” Alex stated with a decisive nod. “Makes you look like a tryout for the Village People.”

Sam threw his head back and laughed. “I wish that were the case, but it’s only my first day in uniform and the questions have chased me for years.”

“First days are a bitch, eh?” Alex checked her watch and smiled up at him. It was almost a natural smile, except it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve gotta get back. Sally called in sick, and the lunch rush will start in about half an hour.”

“Can I ask you something?” Sam placed a hand on her arm and pretended not to notice when she abruptly withdrew.

“Make it quick.” She’d wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold on this sunny, seventy-five degree morning.

He’d been ready to ask something personal, but her stance indicated she’d be more likely to brush him off. “Why do the locals hate us? The National Park Service, I mean? We’re here to keep people safe and protect the natural beauty of the area. Why is that a crime here?”

Alex gnawed on her lower lip as if contemplating how best to reply. “I can’t speak for everyone. I don’t have a problem with you guys, but I’m in the minority. I think it’s more about the big government you represent. And the stranger factor. ’Round here we got natives, like me, who were born and will probably die here, transplants like the guys who own the River Market, and tourists who we all put up with. The NPS doesn’t fit in with any of those and yet you’re here to tell us all what to do.”

“I’m not—”