The Steak House
(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)
The steakhouse outside Shelby, Wyoming has no name. Just a sign that stands in the fading light that casts a thin shadow across the highway. No neon. No lights. Just “Steak House.”
The carpets are red. Wallpaper peels in the tops and corners of the interior. A thin veneer of dust coats the booths, the top of the window jambs, the emerald green bankers lamp on the hostess stand.
The door swings open. A bell chimes. Two men walk in.
They don’t wear hats. They don’t have boots. They’re not from here. The waitress comes from the kitchen. Older, tired. Dyed orange hair with gray roots. A slight limp. A warm smile with lipstick on her teeth. She stares at the older of the two men. His beard reaches to his potbelly.
“Just two tonight?”
“Just us,” the old man says.
They’re seated at a booth near a window. She places the menus on the glass-top table and walks away.
“Can we get two beers,” he asks.
“Coors okay?”
“They cold?”
“Of course.”
“Well, sometimes they’re not.”
“We got them cold.”
“Do you have cold glasses?”
“Frosted?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I’d have to check.”
“It’s alright.”
She walks back into the kitchen. The double swing-door flaps in the still air. Music begins playing over a speaker — slide guitar and static. The younger man looks at the older man. Hard, squinting.
“Why’d you do that?” he says.
“Do what?”
“You always do that.”
The old man smiles. The waitress comes back with the beers. Coors Lite. Cans. Cold. Condensation dripping down the aluminum.
“You don’t have bottles?” the older man asks.
“I could check for you.”
“Any regular Coors?”
“Oh.”
“That’s alright,” the younger man says. “This is perfect.”
“Well, I guess what he says goes now,” the other man says. A car drives by. He smiles at the waitress. He’s missing his right canine tooth.
“I’ll leave you folks to it and check on ya in a few.”
The menu was like any menu from a steak house on the high plains. Steak, meatloaf, bison, burgers, potatoes, corn, an iceberg salad. Shrimp: Mkt Price. Assuredly frozen.
The two men stare at the menus, folding and unfolding to read each side. The silver metal corners tap the table. The sweat off the beer pooling on the table. The younger man sighs.
“How much longer ‘til the border?”
“You wanna stop the night?”
“No. Not here.”
The two look around. The stuffed moose on the back wall stare back at them.
A bell chimes. Four men walk in. They wear Stetsons. Steeltoe Redwings on two of them. Western, 1½-inch heel, square-toe leather boots for the other two. Jeans. Brown or Black oiled tin-cloth jackets. Dip in the lip.
They sit at a circular booth under the moose. They are silent for the most part. One of them clasps his hands together and places them on the table. The waitress comes through the kitchen swing-doors with four bottles of Coors. She places them on the table.
“Good to see you, Jean,” one of the men says.
“You too, Dan.”
“How’s Bill?”
“Bill’s good, but his brother Steve got the flu.”
“He holding up?”
“Yeah, just tired and achy all the time. I run down to Jackson to get meds for him since Huberts up the road doesn’t carry flu stuff.”
“They don't?”
“Not that I saw.”
“What good’s the pharmacy without medicine?”
“You’re telling me.” Dan leans closer to the waitress.
“Who are those folks?” he asks.
“Dunno. Prolly from Colorado.”
“They give you a hard time?”
The waitress smiles.
“I’ll get your boys’s steaks going.” She walks back to the kitchen.
The older man at the window-side booth watches her go.
“What are we? Chopped liver?”
“Yeah, kinda,” the younger man says.
“Hey, do you think those men who walked in could settle our debate?”
“Dad, don’t do this.”
“Come on. We’ll just go over there and ask.”
The older man slides out of the booth. He stands. Smiles at his son and walks across the dining room. Past the photographs of cattle, of ranchers, of a town that was built on death and functions because of death and is drenched in death but that is nothing new. Only the young man, watching his dad walk away, can smell it.
“Gentlemen. How are you tonight?”
Dan stands and holds out his hand.
“Dan.”
“Hi, Dan.”
They shake hands.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I have a qu—”
“It’s impolite to not give us your name.”
“Oh. It’s Mike.”
“Go on.”
“What about them?” The older man points at the men sitting down.
“They’re alright,” Dan said. “They don’t need to give you their names. It’s just us that’s talking.”
“But what if the question I ask pertains to them?”
“It won't.” The seated men watch with indifference, spitting tobacco juice into water cups.
“Alright.” The older man looks down. He puts his veiny hands together, fingers spread and just the tips touching.
“Go on. I’d like to drink my beer while it’s cold.”
“Did you serve?”
“I did.”
“What branch?”
“Army. 4th Infantry. 3rd Armored.”
“See combat?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of Bucha?”
“Staged.”
“Thank you!” He laughs. “Have a nice dinner.”
Dan, Lance Corporal, 4th Infantry, 3rd Armored, had seen a man vaporized by a premature detonation of an IED. He has seen death.
The old man walks back to his son. He smiles. Sits in the booth.
“Yeah, no surprise there,” the younger man says. “The locals in Shelby believe it was staged.”
“He’s a veteran.”
“Is the waitress coming back?” They both look at the kitchen swing-doors.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“We gotta pay for the beers, though.”
“Fuck it.”
They stand up. Walk to the door. Exit. Get in the car. Drive on. Back on the road. Sailing in silence.
