Supper at Vick’s by Shaquanna Johnson They drove from various points of origin — across majestic mauve mountains, through billowy amber fields of grain, past soaring skyscrapers of cities — and like ships called home to shore by the beautiful lighthouse of Cape Hatteras, they too were beckoned by the towering neon sign as it bathed the surrounding foliage in an eerie red glow that seemed surreal amongst the shoddy exterior of Vick’s Fine Fried Food. Most of them were truckers — old men that preferred the solitary lifestyle of the open road, middle-aged women who relished the power of manning an 18-wheeled rig across the country, a few older couples that enjoyed the intimacy of sharing the highway now that their children were gone from home, a few guys with families just trying to get by and make ends meet — but the two young girls in booth 12 stood out from the usual patrons. Connie noticed the girls as soon as they walked in with their designer boots, form-fitting jeans, and leather jackets. In fact, most of the diner’s customers noticed the girls as the chatter that filled the place dropped to a mere whisper and the low hum of the jukebox was finally heard. Connie was taking Jake’s usual order, three buttermilk flapjacks with a side of dirty browns and a bottomless cup of coffee, when the cowbell above the front door chimed and the girls crept into the back corner of her section. She turned, stuck a chewed up number-two pencil into her dyed-and-fried blonde ponytail, and walked toward the back booth. She could feel Jake’s eyes savoring her plump backside and tried to slow her pace a little — she could kill Vick for insisting on these little blue one-piece dresses for their uniforms. The girls in booth 12 have taken off their jackets — revealing thin-cropped sweaters that stop just at their midriff that suggest that they are unprepared for the chilly North Carolina weather — and are studying the menu/placemat. Connie strolls past table 7 — pausing to refill Jaime’s water and making a mental note to bring Chuck the Tabasco sauce on her way back — and overhears the Mexican-looking girl asking the Black girl about the menu. “You ladies ready to order,” Connie asks. Her voice sounds thick and raspy, due mostly to the changing temperature and a bout with her seasonal allergies. Her Eastern North Carolina twang is heavy and pronounced and sounds cheap against the fluid curl of the Mexican’s New England-Spanish accent. “Yes, ma’am, we would like two orders of the Texas-style omelettes and two French-Vanilla cappuccinos.” Connie looks at the Black girl, noticing her smooth skin and the bright whites of her eyes. There is a slight worry line in her forehead, but she seems otherwise unaffected by life’s hardships. Connie walks behind the counter, passes Vick the order slip and rings up a trucker at the register. She is accustomed to everything about the place — the mold, cracks, and agedness of the building have become her companions. She could do her job blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back and never miss an order. So, she was spellbound by the unusual. She wondered about the two girls that were in a heated discussion. Why did the black girl seem so worried and why was did the Mexican girl do all the talking? She thought about what sort of lives these two girls must have and she wished that she could be that young again, without a care in the world, pouring over books and fashion magazines, talking about the latest trends, and who’s doing who on the soaps and . . . Ding! “Orders Up!” Shaquanna Johnson is a creative writing student from Fayetteville, NC. About “Supper at Vick’s,” she says, “The form was heavily inspired by Stanley Elkin’s opening lines of The Franchiser and William Faulkner. Before Luke’s class, I’d never given much thought to fancy style. It has been a challenge and a great source of enjoyment.” Copyright © 2005 by Shaquanna Johnson. Photo by Leanne E. Smith.