I’m just a country girl, from a small town, I ain’t so special
The cafe just sprang up at you. There she was, a greasy spoon, spiffed up for the Sunday crowd, church goers. Or once a week they called themselves that. And well, I’m all for the church. For the end, they will bail you out and take you in when no one else will, at least that’s my take on the church.
The locals, they are planted, glued to cups of steaming coffee, tall sweaty glasses of OJ, platters of home fries, with onions, (of course) and crisp as one could wish for. This is farm country, roughnecks, hay balers, wranglers of every size and shape, the real America. The waitress, handling a dozen tables all on her own. Manning the ship, a cacophonous stream of orders. Eggs up, eggs down, flipped, sunny side, birds eye, and permutations of all the above. Throw in an ostrich egg, sure would not phase the kitchen a bit. Not a seconds thought. And our waitress, let me talk about her. Skin that flecked gold. Her skin was perfect. Blessed be those genetics. An upstate beauty, squirreled away in this roadside cafe. I sweet talked her. Her skin, it was just breath taking, translucent, Egyptian 100 generations back. Had to be.
“Why I’m just a country girl, from a small town, I ain’t so special.”
“Well damn, you are special. They don’t even have word for someone like you.”
“Oh, I ain’t special, not special at all.”
I leaned back, tossed that syrup, like amber from a sun tossed field of freshly tapped Adirondack trees. It was that euphoric, erotic the meal had become, it just happened. And she was special. She really was.
“You have to come to New York City, you could model, make a mint, just take that chance.”
“I could never do that. I’m just a small town girl. And it’s all I’ll ever be. My husband would never let me go, and I have a son now, he’s a full-time job, and he’s only 2.”
“You know, you look like Kate Moss, you really do. Really. Even prettier.”
“I’m just a small town girl.”
As she took away the plates, chipped china curled in her arms like a pair of twins, she looked over her shoulder, and gave me that tinniest of winks and the cutest of smiles; she grabbed a steaming plate of pancakes, and drifted to the couple in the back. They had been waiting eons for those ‘cakes.
I left a five spot. And grabbed the last drop of that pitch black brew, my third refill. And left Kate Moss behind. I’m sure she’ll get discovered someday by a wandering Vogue photographer, an editor at Bazaar, or maybe even a French magazine from Canada, lost in a border town, with the lights of Montreal glowing a million miles away.
As they rocket down on that strip of highway, Route 11 I think it is, that sign will catch their eyes “Cafe, Best Breakfast in Town”, they’ll find her. It has to happen. Just has too. And someday soon, maybe not so far away as timelines go, she’ll be on a Times Square billboard, 60 feet high, hidden in a shower of neon blues, reds and glittering shades of gold. And I can look up and smile, small town girl, you done fine for yourself. You really have.