Stardust
by John Melendez
The punch, when it connected with Gary’s face, was not intended for him but was instead a stray blow from a Friday night parking lot brawl at an overbright diner off of I-41, between a La Quinta Inn and the UFO-shaped Sombrero Taqueria, under the cool gaze of a retro road sign, all blue zigging lines, red letters and a single yellow waffle turning on a slow swivel. It knocked his lights out, but in the tiny seconds before his head hit the cracked black pavement, all he could remember was the concerned look on the waitress’ face, a college freshman home for the summer with a front tooth gap and wavy sand-colored hair wearing her honeybee yellow uniform, and the accusing skepticism of an aged regular in a Carhartt jacket and flannel, both expressions, strangely, seeming to ask him “are you going to do something?” as two able-bodied young men brimming with unfocused rage and what smelled like a combo of watery domestic beer and malt liquor, crashed across tables and chairs, spilling greasy eggs, syruped pancakes and burnt bacon onto the carpet and crushing them into a sludge. The remark which launched them into frenzy was never properly identified but may have had, allegedly, something to do with regional winter sports. Sudden violence to which he responded by steeling his resolve, removing his green general manager apron, and intervening, pushing through a crowd of half-shocked, half-grossly curious onlookers, for just a minute of responsibility.
When he awoke, head bleeding, police officers were lazily taking statements while Willie Nelson leaked out of the tinny outdoor speakers, the scene’s electricity entirely dissipated. He sat up and the officers turned to him for a moment.
Did I get ‘em?
John Melendez is a writer living in Brooklyn. He is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Columbia University. His work has appeared in Bluegrass Unlimited and Foreign Policy in Focus.