Authors: Alle Wells
Veering off at the exit, I said, “We need gas.”
Eddie snickered
.
“Well, you better get it now. This here’s the last station.”
I grabbed my bag and walked toward the open door that led to the outside bathroom. The bathroom light didn’t work. A sliver of light streamed in through the eaves. The room felt like a damp cave. I locked the door and cried.
The
crying left me feeling numb inside. I felt a strange detachment from the world when I
walked into the store. Jack and Eddie had loaded the counter with two cases of beer, a couple of cartons of cigarettes, and an assortment of canned goods. Eddie looked at me. “We better stock up now. It’s a long haul back
here
from home.”
I looked at Jack, stunned. “Home?”
Jack shuffled his feet and smiled. “Yeah, Babe! I told you that we’re going to be staying with Eddie for a while.”
I crossed my arms and stood up to him. “Jack, you didn’t tell me that. You said that we had a place to stay.”
He let out a fake and exaggerated laugh. He looked at the old woman behind the counter and said, “Sorry, Ma’am. Don’t mind my wife here—she’s been hittin’ the old hash bowl a little bit too hard lately. ”
Eddie snickered and continued shopping. Jack put his hands on his hips in a slumped, but defiant posture. His voice sounded condescending and mocking. “I told you that we’re going to be staying with Eddie for a while, comprende?”
The woman looked amused as she turned her head from Jack to me. Jack stood less than a foot from me, but his face drifted far away into the distance. Eddie put two cartons of milk and a box of Cocoa Puffs on the counter and went back down the aisle for more.
I looked at the floor and said softly, “Sure, Jack. I’ll go clean out the car and get some gas.”
Jack’s eyes, his face, and everything I’d ever seen in him, continued to drift far away. He patted me on the head. “That’s my lady.”
My feet kept a steady, determined pace as I quickly walked to the car. I threw the trash and the drugs in a garbage can next to the car. I didn’t look back as I sped away from the gas pumps. My heart beat wildly against my chest
, knowing that I was leaving
behind another piece of Serenity.
I remember more about the day I left Jack than the two years that I was married to him.
Dri
v
ing
away that day, I imagined the looks on Jack and Eddie’s faces as they thumbed a ride in the ninety degree weather. I didn’t feel bad about leaving Jack. I figured that he and Eddie would find someone else to support them. Now I was free to become the person I wanted to be. Jack wasn’t lying when he said that the world was my oyster. It was, just not with him.
No More Hippie Girl
I had planned to buy gas at the next exit on the Interstate. But my plan fell through when I saw the gas station billboards covered in black sheathing because of the gas shortage. Ten miles later, Goldie’s gas needle told me that it was now or never. I drove into Murfreesboro, took a place in the gas line that extended into the street, and waited my turn. By noon, my brain was fried. I paid for one night at a Travel Lodge motel on I-24 outside greater Nashville. I grabbed a handful of Nashville brochures from the lobby. The car was locked. The room door was double-latched. I felt safer than I had in a long time before I passed
out.
Nine hours later, I parked the car underneath the street light hanging over the motel dumpster. I sorted through the suitcase and trash bags in the trunk. Everything that belonged to Jack, or reminded me of him, went into the dumpster. I threw away the bellbottomed jeans and tee-shirts. I was left with
t
w
o
pantsuits,
a sun
dress, and
a pair of wedge-heeled sandals
that I had bought on shopping trips with Wednesday. Pleased with my new wardrobe, I thought,
No more hippie-girl!
That night, I listed three goals on the motel stationery: (1) Get a job; (2) Find a place to live; (3) Have Goldie serviced. Wednesday visualized mansions, faraway places, and exotic jewelry. My visualizations would be more immediate and realistic. I never threw away one scrap of paper that held my goals, and my dreams never let me down.
I looked through the brochures advertising tourist attractions in the Music City. Looking through the real estate guide, I decided that South Nashville looked like the place to be.
The next morning, I chose a one-piece yellow
and white
polyester pantsuit. Thanks to Clairol, my hair color looked good as I pulled it back with a leather clip. I slipped on my wedge-heeled sandals and added a pair
of
thin, gold hoop earrings. A feeling that I couldn’t describe that day ran through my veins. Over the years, I’ve come to know that feeling well. It’s called adrenalin.
***
I walked into the café next to the motel and realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since the doughnut at the Tennessee border. I picked up a newspaper, ordered pancakes and coffee. The place reminded me of the Waffle Stop, and I had no interest in working there. I flipped
The
Tennessean
to the want ads and found two ads that fit my needs.
Waitress wanted for morning
shift. Primmosa (615)865-7773. Carriage House apartment for rent. Female only. $75 mo. Includes utilities. (615)865-3777.
Thinking that all those sevens had to mean good luck, I rushed back
to the motel to make the calls.
My day didn’t pan out exactly like I had planned. My appointment with Mrs. Wilkerson was scheduled for noon, and my job interview wasn’t until two o’clock. I left Goldie at the Lion station for an oil change, tune-up, and wash. Then I walked up the street and opened an account at the First Tennessee Bank. I traced a line on the map from the gas station to the apartment in Forest Hills, and then back to Primmosa n
ext to the Holiday Inn on I-65.
The Carriage House
Mrs. Wilkerson lived in a beautiful old neighborhood, shaded by towering poplar trees and fat elms. I counted twenty windows across the front of the white two-story Colonial-style house. A figurine of a little black boy, wearing a red jacket and holding a lantern, met me at the front walk. My finger shook as I reached for the doorbell. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the woman answered the door. The tight silver curls framing her plump her face, the violet paisley dress, and ruby brooch resting on her ample bosom
reminded me of Grandma Carrie.
I smiled and nodded. My southern manners had taught me to wait for the older person to speak first. Mrs. Wilkerson quickly picked up on my etiquette and opened the door wider.
“You must be Nikky. Come in.”
As I stepped across the threshold, Mrs. Wilkerson peeked outside. “Is that your car?”
I used my quiet, lady-like voice. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Wilkerson closed the door. “Well, it’s a very nice car. I don’t like old cars sitting around.”
I responded with a slight nod of the head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The room décor was masculine. Paintings of spotted dogs and people in hunting attire sitting on horses hung on dark paneled walls. Mrs. Wilkerson settled down in a blue upholstered chair adorned with flying ducks. She pointed to a crimson Queen Anne sofa.
“Please, have a seat. Nikky, where are you from?”
“I’m from North Carolina.”
She folded her hands across her lap. “What brings you to our area?”
The personal questions caught me off-guard. I hesitated. “I plan to settle here. I like the area.”
“Do you have family here?”
“No, ma’am. I’m alone.”
She looked me over and cleared her throat. “Well, you certainly have an adventurous spirit. I admire that. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a waitress.”
She brushed her hand over her skirt while she sized me up. “I guess there’s no harm in an honest day’s work.”
She paused, and then looked back at me. “Well, Nikky, I have an efficiency apartment above the garage. My late husband called it the carriage house. It has one bedroom, a small living room, kitchenette, and bath. It’s furnished, has central heat, and a window air conditioner. The rent is seventy-five dollars, due on the first day of the month, with no grace period. Utilities are included. I let everyone know my expectations from the beginning. No pets. No smoking. No drinking. No men. No loud music. No oil leaks in the driveway. This is a nice, quiet neighborhood, and I must keep up appearances. I’ll show it to you
if you think you can pay the rent and live by my rules.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That sounds fine to me.”
Mrs. Wilkerson led me through her kitchen and out the back door. The driveway curved behind the house. The carriage house sat directly behind the house. I followed her up the stairs attached to the side of the garage.
“The last girl fancied herself an interior decorator. I hope you like what she did to the place.”
My heart flip-flopped when the bright colors jumped at me. The upper walls were painted orange above white wainscoting. A black synthetic leather sofa and matching recliner sat on a rug with a southwestern pattern. A big square coffee table with a glass top sat in front of the sofa. White curtains with big orange circles covered the double window overlooking the driveway. The tiny kitchen was windowless and painted avocado green. A stool sat in front of an eat-in bar and overlooked the living room. The powder blue bedroom was furnished with a twin bed and matching dresser. The bathroom had plenty of room as long as you walk
ed straight in and backed out.
Mrs. Wilkerson pushed back the curtains in the living room. “The furniture belonged to my son when he was in college. You’ll be safe here. No one will even know that you’re back here. It’s a quiet life, if that’s what you’re looking for. The stove is gas, so is the heat. The refrigerator is old, but it works fine. What do you think?”
I pulled out my wallet and grinn
ed from ear to ear. “I love it!
Mrs. Wilkerson smiled, too.
“Then it’s yours, dear.”
"How much do I owe you?”
“A hundred, fifty for the first and last months’ rent.”
I gave her the money, and she gave me the key. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”
As she turned to go, Mrs. Wilkerson asked, “Nikky, are you a Christian person?”
I gave her my sweetest smile. “Oh, yes ma’am! My grandfather is a minister.”
Mrs. Wilkerson seemed satisfied with that answer
.
A
fter that, we got along just fine.
Strolling back toward the Bluebird Café, I thought about my first job in Nashville where I learned to listen.
Primmosa
The excitement of the day sent a current of positive energy flowing through me as I
walked through the doors of
Primmosa. Muzak played softly in the background of the elegant restaurant, accented with large potted plants and fresh flowers. A short, stout man with a bald noggin and tufts of curly hair growing around his ears met me at the front register. His
dark,
round eyes sparkled
,
and seemed to dance when he talked. He skirted around the counter to meet me.
“Hello there
.
A
re you Nikky?”
I felt my face beam as bright as my yellow pantsuit. “Yes, I’m Nikky.”
“I’m Larry. Come on back. It’s nice to s
ee a smiling face around here.”
My knees felt weak as I followed Larry to a secluded table
.
My heart beat faster as I walked through the
luxurious
dining room
.
I thought
,
T
his is a far cry from the Waffle Stop or the Bluebird.
Larry opened
a
notebook
in front of him
. “How old are you, Nikky?”
“Nineteen.”
Larry shook his head. “Uh, I doubt that you have enough experience for this job. You see, our customers are businessmen. They can be very demanding and difficult to handle. Two girls walked out on me this week. I need someone with thick skin who can hold
he
r own around aggressive people and still keep them happy. What kind of work have you done?”
“I worked the midnight shift at a truck stop on I-95 for two years.”
Larry leaned back in the seat and looked me over. “Geez! You’re kidding!”
I laughed
to
myself, thinking about how bizarre the last two years had been. “Nope.”
“In that case, you should be able to handle anything!”