Page 22 of My Unscripted Life

“Well, we’re certainly a pair of losers, aren’t we?” I say.

“Hey, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re both Hollywood heavy hitters.”

“Uh, you’re a heavy hitter. I’m just the bat girl.”

“Please, between the canvases you’ve done for the film and the stuff in this book? It’s only a matter of time before you’re a bigger deal than I am. So let me be the first to say I knew you when.” He reaches out his hand, and I shake it, though what I really want to do is hug him, because somewhere deep in my brain I feel the tiniest flicker of the old flame of confidence that used to burn bright for me.

“I think my parents have you beat on that front. Half the frames on our walls are filled with my work. They’reveryproud parents.”

Above us, the sky goes abruptly gray, the cool breeze suddenly feeling less calming and more ominous. The clouds have covered the sun so thoroughly I can hardly believe it was shining just a few minutes ago. I’m pretty sure we’re about to get some serious weather. Milo glances up, his hair blowing down into his eyes.

“I think it’s time we blow this Popsicle stand,” he says. “Let me treat the artist to a meal?”

I smile. “I know just the place. It’s not far.”

Lowell’s Roadhouse doesn’t have one of those “since 19-blahdy-blah” notations underneath the big orange block letters that are faded nearly beyond recognition, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s at least sometime in the fifties. Dad and I found it on yet another one of our epic wanderings. We’d taken a series of left turns and stumbled upon it just at the moment that we realized we were a) pretty lost, and b) pretty starving. We come back whenever Mom gets heavy into drafting mode and needs total silence in the house. They even let us bring Rubix in, which is good, because he likes to bark at squirrels, which drives Mom batty when she’s trying to work.

Milo pulls the truck to a stop next to a row of pickup trucks of various eras, some maybe even original to the restaurant (and with rust to match). I hop out, my sandals hitting the gravel with a satisfying crunch, but Milo pauses to dig a faded blue Dodgers cap out of the center console. He folds the bill in his hands, rounding it out, then pulls it low over his eyes.

“What’s with the disguise, Double-Oh-Seven?”

“Just avoiding, you know, uh,” he says, swallowing air as he fumbles for an explanation that won’t make him sound like a pompous ass.

“What, reporters? Gossip columnists? Paparazzi?” I can barely suppress a laugh imagining someone lurking behind the scraggly boxwoods planted helter-skelter in front of Lowell’s, waiting to jump out and snap a photo with a camera as large as the building and probably costing three times as much. “Don’t worry. We’re out in the county now. No one gives a damn about you. No offense.”

“None taken,” he says, but he still doesn’t remove the cap.

I lead him toward the gray metal door and heave my body against it. Inside, the light is dim and the air is smoky, despite the fact that smoking hasn’t been allowed inside Lowell’s in a decade. There are only about ten tables in the place, all of which look like they were picked up at a flea market and then thrown off the back of a truck onto a dirt road before being installed in the restaurant. The place is half empty, which is good. Even though I told Milo no one around here gives a damn about a teen megastar, you never know. But a quick scan of the patrons filling the few tables tells me I’m right. It’s a scattering of older-looking folks, dirty and tired, like they’ve been doing manual labor since sunrise. And with the number of working farms and peach orchards around here, they might have.

A waitress in jeans and a tank top, a grease-spattered white apron tied around her waist, is busy dropping beers and picking up empty bottles, while on the tiny stage a middle-aged woman in cowboy boots is doing her bestAmerican Idolon a cover of “Stand by Your Man.” The hand-lettered sign above her head advertises Budweiser and reads “Daily Open Mike, Wednesday Happy Hour.” Well, actually, it reads “Daily Open Mik, Wedsday Hap Hr,” with the permanent marker falling off the edge of the banner, but I get what they’re going for. There’s a man at an old wooden upright piano, the kind you see in elementary school music and church choir practice rooms, backing her up, and next to him is an ancient acoustic guitar on a stand. As she finishes her last chorus, the tiny crowd hoots and hollers, making themselves sound twice as large. The woman was good, but it’s clear they’re more interested in the song than the singer. It’s that kind of crowd. Something tells me they wouldn’t be down withmy usual karaoke choice of “Rapper’s Delight.”

We take a seat at a picnic table so old and battered that the wood has adopted a sort of soft, oily sheen from years of use and layers of Sharpie where patrons have left their literal mark. Milo reaches for the menus standing in the metal condiment dispenser, wedged between the ketchup and the mustard. He offers one to me, but I shake my head.

“I’m good,” I say.

“A regular,” he replies.

“Not compared to them.” I cock my head toward our fellow diners. “But enough that I know what I like here.”

“And that is?” Milo asks. “If there’s some kind of local delicacy, I definitely want in. That pimiento cheese at the Diner was amazing.”

“I doubt the word ‘delicacy’ has ever been applied to anything on that menu,” I say. I tap my finger on the cloudy plastic cover of the Lowell’s menu, which bears pictures of the various items offered from the kitchen. “But if you like Reubens, you won’t find a better one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you doubt it?”

“I just don’t tend to associate a good Reuben with Southern dining. Fried chicken? Of course. Something covered in gravy? Definitely. But isn’t a Reuben more of an East Coast thing?”

“Snob.”

“Guilty.”

“Fine, pick something else. Dad says everything is good, and he should know. He’s tried it all. But if you’re asking me, I’m saying the Reuben.”

So when the waitress arrives tableside, pulling a pen out of her ponytail, and Milo orders two Reubens, I can’t help the feeling of satisfaction I get.

A few minutes later, after the waitress drops two fizzy Cokes in sweaty plastic cups on our table, we’re watching as another singer takes the stage. This time it’s a swarthy-looking guy who, if I had to guess, drives long-haul trucks and has a dog named Jack Daniel. He nods at the piano player, who takes his leave, and straps on the acoustic, launching into a peppy version of “On the Road Again.” I find myself tapping my toes on the wood floor, silently singing along.

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