restaurant makeover TV shows my mom used to watch. The air is so heavy with the smell of greasy food that I feel like I’ve gained five pounds just by smelling it. This isn’t the kind of food I’m used to eating – in this life or the past – but the smell makes my stomach rumble and reminds me I haven’t eaten in several days.
Most of the customers clearly aren’t locals. There are too many people dressed in fancy suits, others wearing clothes adorned with logos from different TV stations; press credentials are worn by all. A lone waitress looks frazzled as she runs around like crazy, trying to deliver food and drinks to people sitting in every booth or on every stool at the counter. I doubt this place has ever done so much business and by the look of the waitress, it doesn’t look like she wants it. Still, none of the customers look too concerned with the slow service. The crowd is loud and raucous, everyone calling out to everyone else; this is what I imagine a hectic newsroom to resemble.
A large group is huddled in the corner, where an old TV is blaring. John, Amelia and I make our way through the crowd, where we hear snippets of conversation.
“They’re running the same story over and over,” one of the reporters claims. “There hasn’t been anything new for hours. Sure it’s maybe the craziest story I’ve ever covered but it needs a new angle.”
“Who could’ve pulled off something like this?” another asks. “A rogue group of military special ops?”
“All the way in South Bumble Swamp? What’s the point of doing it here of all places?”
I want to know what they’re talking about so I step forward to ask for specifics. But John senses what I’m about to do and grabs my arm to stop me, shaking his head. I raise a questioning eyebrow and when he doesn’t respond, I pull my arm from his grasp, fully intending to ignore his unspoken warning.
“You saw the footage of them,” someone else calls out from across the way. “Do they look like any special ops unit you’ve ever seen or heard of?”
“If so, I want to join that unit!” another man says, causing a few chuckles.
“They look more like a bunch of hot young models,” another adds. “They’re probably the wet dream of every teenage boy in the country right now.”
An older reporter stands up, about the same age as my father. I expect this man to chastise the others for their vulgarity but a big smile crosses his lips.
“Trust me, they’re the wet dream for some older men, too,” the skeevy old man says, causing the tiny diner to erupt in laughter. The waitress drops a plate during the ruckus and everyone laughs even harder.
At least almost everyone. One of the few women reporters stands up and glares at the rest of the men. I’m surprised that I recognize her; I don’t recall her name but I’m sure I’ve seen her on TV before. She appears distinguished and strong, unlike the rest of the men in here. I can tell right away that she’s a woman of principle, even before she addresses the diner of men without fear.
“How can any of you speak about these women as sex symbols?” she says, her voice full of disgust. “They’re murderers and thieves and nobody should find them – or what they do – to be attractive. I’m worried this story will set a bad example for all the girls watching out there.”
Though a few lighter chuckles follow her diatribe, most of the men quiet down as the woman shakes her head. I happen to make unintentional eye contact with the skeevy old reporter who winks at me. He grosses me out but then makes me nervous when he glances at the TV – which shows a grainy still photo of Cassie and the queens taken from security footage – and then turns back to me.
“Friends of yours, sweetheart?” he asks.
I’m sure he means it as a joke but he has no idea how close he is to the truth, not that any of those women are my friends. A few other reporters turn to look at us so Amelia leads us
Most of the customers clearly aren’t locals. There are too many people dressed in fancy suits, others wearing clothes adorned with logos from different TV stations; press credentials are worn by all. A lone waitress looks frazzled as she runs around like crazy, trying to deliver food and drinks to people sitting in every booth or on every stool at the counter. I doubt this place has ever done so much business and by the look of the waitress, it doesn’t look like she wants it. Still, none of the customers look too concerned with the slow service. The crowd is loud and raucous, everyone calling out to everyone else; this is what I imagine a hectic newsroom to resemble.
A large group is huddled in the corner, where an old TV is blaring. John, Amelia and I make our way through the crowd, where we hear snippets of conversation.
“They’re running the same story over and over,” one of the reporters claims. “There hasn’t been anything new for hours. Sure it’s maybe the craziest story I’ve ever covered but it needs a new angle.”
“Who could’ve pulled off something like this?” another asks. “A rogue group of military special ops?”
“All the way in South Bumble Swamp? What’s the point of doing it here of all places?”
I want to know what they’re talking about so I step forward to ask for specifics. But John senses what I’m about to do and grabs my arm to stop me, shaking his head. I raise a questioning eyebrow and when he doesn’t respond, I pull my arm from his grasp, fully intending to ignore his unspoken warning.
“You saw the footage of them,” someone else calls out from across the way. “Do they look like any special ops unit you’ve ever seen or heard of?”
“If so, I want to join that unit!” another man says, causing a few chuckles.
“They look more like a bunch of hot young models,” another adds. “They’re probably the wet dream of every teenage boy in the country right now.”
An older reporter stands up, about the same age as my father. I expect this man to chastise the others for their vulgarity but a big smile crosses his lips.
“Trust me, they’re the wet dream for some older men, too,” the skeevy old man says, causing the tiny diner to erupt in laughter. The waitress drops a plate during the ruckus and everyone laughs even harder.
At least almost everyone. One of the few women reporters stands up and glares at the rest of the men. I’m surprised that I recognize her; I don’t recall her name but I’m sure I’ve seen her on TV before. She appears distinguished and strong, unlike the rest of the men in here. I can tell right away that she’s a woman of principle, even before she addresses the diner of men without fear.
“How can any of you speak about these women as sex symbols?” she says, her voice full of disgust. “They’re murderers and thieves and nobody should find them – or what they do – to be attractive. I’m worried this story will set a bad example for all the girls watching out there.”
Though a few lighter chuckles follow her diatribe, most of the men quiet down as the woman shakes her head. I happen to make unintentional eye contact with the skeevy old reporter who winks at me. He grosses me out but then makes me nervous when he glances at the TV – which shows a grainy still photo of Cassie and the queens taken from security footage – and then turns back to me.
“Friends of yours, sweetheart?” he asks.
I’m sure he means it as a joke but he has no idea how close he is to the truth, not that any of those women are my friends. A few other reporters turn to look at us so Amelia leads us
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