Honey, she says. You waiting for someone?

She wears a polyester shirt that bags over her stomach before tucking into her jeans, and a flower pattern is sewn in above her chest pocket.

No, I say.

She regards me curiously.

Well what you waitin’ for?

I shrug. A seat.

Well, hon, the booths are all taken. You better find yourself a place at the counter.

Okay.

I sit down and turn my coffee cup right side up and bury my head in the plastic menu, listening to the murmur around me and trying to take everything in without looking up.

I smell warm coffee and look up and the waitress with long brunette hair is filling my cup. She goes off before I can order, carelessly splashing liquid that runs caramel-colored down the white porcelain and puddles on the countertop.

I feel the woman with the flower pattern looking at me and she calls out from her table.

Honey, she says. Where you coming from?

Los Angeles.

Is that so?

I nod.

You visiting relatives here?

No.

So you got yourself a motel, honey, I hope. We got the car races up in Oregon tomorrow and all the motels are full.

That’s okay.

So you got a place to stay?

I shrug.

She looks at me and her eyes widen and she makes a frown and taps out her cigarette. Oh, honey. I hope you aren’t planning on driving on tonight. It’s a long way to Medford. Over a hundred miles.

No I’m not, I lie.

So you got yourself a hotel. Good. Your parents know you’re up here? They give you money to pay for it?

Sure.

And you found yourself a hotel.

It’s up the road.

All right then.

The waitress comes and I order some eggs and pancakes and she brings them and they steam in my face and I can taste the cheese in the eggs and put Tabasco sauce on my plate and dip them in and I even lick the grease clean off my fork. Then I drink some water and tip ice onto my tongue to wash out the good greasy taste and wait for my bill. The woman who talked to me earlier is trying to call to me again. It is no use ignoring her.

So where you driving to, honey?

Up north, I say.

This woman makes it sound like we are close to Oregon, which is about two or three hundred miles north of where I intended to drive, so it is probably better not to tell her that I am trying to get to San Francisco.

You going to Medford, honey? she says.

No.

Yeah, I didn’t think a young guy like you would want anything to do with Medford. It’s all old Californians up there. Retired.

To this I nod as if I knew where the place was.