From: Between Position and Sight [a work in progress]

We stopped at a cafe by the side of the road in a small town at the confluence of two minor highways. It was almost evening now, and the sun sloped down over the foothills. We climbed out of the truck. Stiff legs. Gravel scrunched and shifted under our tired feet. The three of us walked through the swinging screen door, yawning and stretching.

The day had begun to chill. When we walked into the cafe, lined faces looked up, then returned to their own tables and their own talk. The warmer air inside smelled of smoke and coffee.

We sat at a table by the window.

I looked around. The place was more utilitarian than the seasonal cafe where we had worked together all summer: a white ceramic ashtray. Faux wood veneer. Mismatched spoons and hard orange-plastic booth seats. My whole body felt tired and travel-sore, but the coffee warmed me through and woke me up.

Nick rubbed his tired eyes. We ordered breakfast, and got greasy eggs and rapidly cooling toast, sodden with cheap margarine. There were grease spots on the tabletop. I passed Nick bacon from my plate, as if with a gesture I could take him by the hand and lead him through all the things that troubled him: the nightmares and waking fears. Hot grease on my fingertips. On the table.

The restaurant was beginning to fill up.

“This must be the place to eat this side of town,” Nick said, deadpan.

We smiled wryly in return. It was barely a town. A cluster of dusty houses by the crossroads. Gas station, cafe and general store.

“Yeah. Looks like it,” Ben agreed.

We watched Nick picking at his food.

“Nothing tastes right,” he muttered.

“I remember that,” Ben said. “Ate out at restaurants a lot. Steaks and Caesar salads. Nothing else tasted good at all.” As always his soft words cascaded out, struggling to spill the ideas that came too rapidly for speech.

“For me it was fried egg sandwiches,” I said.

We knew he was eating for the idea of satisfaction, searching for comfort in food, since all the joy and colour had bleached out of everything else. We had done the same ourselves. It was a feeling I knew well.

“Bacon's always good, though. Try the bacon.”

Grease spotted dark ovals on the table.

“Thanks.”

“You better fucking enjoy it.” I said it so he would know he didn’t have to. Nick’s face showed the beginnings of laughter: the well-worn laugh lines around his mouth and the edges of his eyes creased, and I knew he understood.

The grease and the yellow of runny egg congealed on our nearly empty plates beside the crusts of cold toast. The waitress bought more coffee. Nick lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, resting it in the ceramic ashtray. Ashes crumbled grey on the smooth glaze.

As if this action had somehow exhausted him, he pressed his hands against his eyes. He rubbed them as if to erase the repetitive images, to annihilate the memories which, he said, hung over his sight like slides projected on semitransparent material.

In my experience it was like a film run and rerun on a gauze screen.

Ben reached for my hand under the table. I looked out the window and laced my fingers through his. I pretended we could get back in the car and drive forever.