Just beyond the Grand Junction city line on I-70, Pancake Palace does good business. It can’t compete with Village Inn, and price-wise, McDonald’s remains the cheapest, but it’s popular—open from seven a.m. to eight every night. The Palace has a serious blue collar local following. People wait for it to open, smoking cigarettes outside in the cold Colorado morning air, then return later for a gravy-drenched dinner.
She has been a server there for a year. Keeps quiet and does her job, but feels displaced. Customers have grown used to her now, unlike the early days. Hey, where you from? I mean, originally; This colder climate bother you? Just nod to agree; act like your English is limited. Work hard, keep your head down, and don’t make eye contact when you smile—and you’ve been instructed to. Trouble is, if you smile while looking at men directly, they take it as interest. How sad that no one smiles at them. Not their friends, their coworkers, or their wives.
Her salary pays the rent, but not enough to replace her brokedown car. She yawns her way to the bus stop in the post-dawn chill, stamping her feet, then digging hands deep into torn jacket pockets. It’s on the old highway, called the “business route,” that runs five miles east and west of town. Past construction supply lots, sheet metal warehouses, rusted pumpjacks in constant see-saw motion. Piercing the horizon, snow-capped mountains linger—even in spring.
Each day a repeat, same as the last. No promotion awaits, no doorway into a regular American life of a car, house, a backyard. Marriage not on the radar in her early twenties. She’s received proposals, but none involved matrimony. Typical for servers.
“How do you pronounce your name?” Jordan from Southwestern Energy asked.
“Lakeisha.”
“Really? Where you from?”
“I like America.” Pretend not to understand. “May I take your order?”
Eggs and bacon, stacks of pancakes, Belgian waffles, oatmeal and brown sugar, cinnamon French toast, omelets, tuna sandwich with coleslaw, ham on rye, grilled cheese and tomato soup, BLT, club sandwiches merging into biscuits and gravy, meatloaf, chicken-fried steak, burgers and fries, open face turkey, and fried chicken. Immortalized in photographs on their laminated menu.
#
Vera, self-appointed queen of the servers, calls her “Lak,” claims her name is too hard to pronounce. Somewhere in her fifties, Vera is tough and watchful. “The younger servers and line cooks are stealing my tips. Supposed to be pooled in that big juice pitcher then split up later.” She keeps an eagle eye on it, sometimes marking the level of bills and change on the clear plastic with her bright lipstick.
“I seen Jordan talking to you, Lak,” Vera says today, in the outdoor alley where they take fresh air breaks from the grill’s eternal sizzle and spatter. “He hasn’t asked me out lately.” Vera presses her index finger’s artificial nail into Lak’s breastbone. “Just take his order. Of all our regulars, Jordan makes a decent salary, could be my next husband.” She stamps out a cigarette near her foot. “My first was a machine operator…” Her voice trails off. “Lost Ted in a rotary drill accident. Life ain’t fair.” Her eyes water. “I deserve a break. Don’t get in my way.”
Lakeisha traveled up from Albuquerque with Isabella and Melodina, all having faith in divine providence. When Farmington didn’t work out, Isabella decided to try Phoenix—too hot—while Melodina set off for the East Coast. Left Lak to drive north alone on 550 then I-70 until Grand Junction was the last city left in Colorado to grab onto.
To pay her rent and save for a new car, Lak works from 8 a.m. to closing. Life away from work is fleeting. She runs at it and it runs away faster. Never enough time to do errands or buy necessities; just eat, sleep, wake up, and go back. She can’t escape Pancake Palace, not even in her dreams.
The line cook Chuy sings during breaks. “You look so pretty today,” he says in a high, reedy voice. Explained his name is pronounced “Chewy.” Lak’s only real friend at work. “Move soon, okay? Denver is better for you.” The kitchen staff offer her rides at night. She prefers the bus with no demands, even if the demand is only for conversation. Sometimes, if it’s snowing or crazy windy, she agrees.
“Since my wife died, I could use help around the home, Laquinta.” Carl, a needy regular, squeezes her hand. The contrast of his weathered rancher skin to her smooth skin is quite jarring. “You’d just cook and clean, give me hot baths and back massages. My sciatica has been acting up.”
“Thank you, no thank you.” She smiles while staring at the tabletop.
Carl’s face prunes into wrinkly lines. “No? Hell, I’d pay you more than whatever you make here.” He nods at his generosity.
“Liver and beans today? I’ll put in your order.” She hurries off.
“No flirting with the diners.” Frank the manager observes everything from his perch at the counter by the cash register. “Keep it moving, Lakeisha.” He slaps a newspaper against her backside.
Later, when the rush dies down, Frank says, “Some customers mentioned your name. I told them you were most likely from down south of the equator.”
She points toward the back door to signal her break.
A half-hour after closing, the Palace is mopped and clean, with Frank reviewing receipts in the tiny office by their restrooms. Once outside, she rushes through the cool mountain dark toward the bus stop. A throb of lights from Grand Junction sparks a brief magnetic energy that doesn’t linger. For they don’t represent nightclubs or baseball games, nor outdoor concerts or county fairs, but car dealership lights, airport runways, and the dull parade of traffic lamps navigating the city’s business route.
There it is, idling a hundred feet ahead, gray exhaust puffing up, the engine grumbling back into activity. Lak waves her arms in the air as she runs. The bus lurches forward in a few stuttered coughs, then into solid motion. She shouts and signals but to no use. It must be Rashad, the usual night driver. Another displaced soul, he wears glasses with thick lenses. Just making eye contact with him causes dizziness and threatens a headache.
Lak’s raised hands plunge to her sides like dying birds. A weathered blue Suburban screeches over. “Missed your bus?” a thirtyish man under a baseball cap says. She recognizes him as a regular, but has never served him.
“Seen you working the Palace,” he says. “My wife Bethany and I are heading to Grand Junction. Hop in.” She hesitates, the wind buffeting her. “We’re Christians,” he adds. “I’m Jacob.”
She climbs in back of the long vehicle. Smells of beer and tobacco; modern country music plays loudly. Lak listens but doesn’t understand why having lips that taste like Sangria could be a good thing.
Bethany stares at Lak without speaking. Her features so bland and blank, like a pallid cult follower. “My child will be called Caleb,” she eventually announces.
Behind in the Suburban’s spacious rear are cardboard boxes and guns: rifles, shotguns, a pistol, and a military-style weapon.
Sensing her curiosity, Jacob cranes his head around. “I like to hunt.” He grins brown, chaw-stained teeth.
Lak wishes he’d concentrate on driving. “So many,” she says. “Is there a war in Colorado?”
He laughs. “No, but we have to be ready.”
“For what?”
“Well, nothing personal.” Jacob clears his throat. “There’s people from other countries want to sneak in, take what’s rightfully ours. If it comes down to it, I’ll defend me and mine.”
“They are coming to fight you, hurt you?” She doesn’t understand.
“Everything will be better after November, or we’ll make sure it is.” He paused. “Listen, I picked you up because that bus driver ditched you. He comes over from Saudi Armenia and steals a job from us citizens.”
“You want to be a night bus driver?”
“No.” He coughs. “But what if I needed to be someday? He’d have my job already. This stuff can’t go on. If we don’t enforce things, who will?”
Lak notices they’ve reached the outskirts of Grand Junction, a quarter-mile from her small apartment. “Please, I can get out now. Thank you.”
“Come to our church meeting,” Jacob says and Bethany—still facing her—nods. “It’s an outreach program. We’ll sponsor you.”
“No, I can’t—”
“Members get work and food. If our community trusts you, can depend on your vote in an election, then nothing bad will ever happen.”
Lak is puzzled. “What do you mean bad?”
“The Great Replacement,” Jacob says. “We need you on our side.”
“It’s not your fault,” Bethany says quietly. “The money changers are using you.”
When the Suburban halts at a stoplight, Lak twists the door handle and bolts outside.
“Wait, you owe us for the ride,” Jacob shouts. “Crazy bitch. We tried to save you.”
Lak doesn’t understand Americans who announce they’re Christians. She wants to have faith in some higher power, but privately. She rushes sideways as their car is forced onward with the stream of traffic. Two more blocks and her complex looms ahead. The neighbors often give her suspicious glances, so she climbs the stairs to her apartment in near silence.
The vigilant apartment manager soon hovers in her doorway. A tall man with terrible posture, Adam scratches at the sparse hair under his red cap and moves his mouth around as if enduring dental discomfort. “Uh, Laquila. Starting next month, your rent’s going up $200.”
“In two days?”
“I shouted it up to you three weeks ago. You might not have heard me.”
“It’s hard to afford now.” She gazes away to hide her thoughts.
“Not my decision,” he says. “Came down from management.”
As far as Lak knows, there’s no company. He is management.
“I will find another place.”
“Good luck with that.” Adam rubs his protruding belly. “We’re tolerant here, but most won’t even consider you.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re not a, native Coloradan.” His forehead scrunches with thought. “Maybe we can work something out. I need someone to do stuff for me.”
She doesn’t like how Adam’s eyes bulge. “I am very busy at my job. Will tell you soon.” Lak closes her door as he tries to insert himself further. “I am tired. Please, goodnight.”
#
She wakes at 6:30 for a shower, breakfast, and the variations of bus travel time to work. Just before eight at Pancake Palace, she is dressed in their server uniform and fastening her hair back.
“We’re switching sections today, Lak,” Vera says.
“Frank told you this?”
“I’ve got seniority here, so I make the call.” She frowns. “The tip jar’s been falling lower.” Vera wears a visor emblazoned with the Palace emblem; her permed hair puffed-up above it like gray-blonde cotton candy. “I’m better with the Mormons visiting from Utah. I’ll make us bigger tips and get to wait on my Jordan too.” A wide grin shows pinkish lipstick smeared onto her rabbity front teeth.
“I need a new place to live,” Lak says. “Maybe above your garage?”
“Sorry, that little apartment is saved for my aunt when she visits.” Vera sighs. “I will pray for you though.”
Lak hears people offer “thoughts and prayers,” but doesn’t understand what that means. Thinks it’s just a saying when someone doesn’t know what to say.
She waits on the booths toward the west side, where the vinyl flooring has warped. Regulars prefer this section. They can stare off to the red sandstone mesas of Colorado National Monument fifteen miles away. Some male diners light cigarettes and must be reminded by Frank to tamp them out. Still living in the past century. They order coffee, maybe a muffin, and wait—until Frank shoos them along—for a job that never materializes, a wife who left and hasn’t come back. The longer Lak works there, the more she sees the harsh topography of the high desert written across their faces.
Today, a woman slathered with makeup sits by a dour man. Strange to see someone so done-up early on a weekday. On Sundays, families dine all groomed and dressed for church. Maybe she’s in real estate. Lak can’t tell if she’s in her late forties or fifties, whether the glossy makeup makes her look older or younger. Or just weird.
Lak takes their order. When they are done eating, the woman beckons her over. “We’ve been noticing how attractive you are… Well, in general.” The grizzled man watches from under yet another red baseball cap. “I’m Wanda. We could really use you for a business opportunity.”
“Sorry,” Lak says. “I am not a house cleaning person, thank you.” Though she wonders if she should be with her looming rent situation.
Wanda gives a husky laugh, while her partner rolls his eyes. “No, no,” she whispers, glancing around. “It’s for my husband, Bob.” Wanda elbows the man. “He likes to watch.”
“Watch movies?”
More mannish laughter. “No, honey. You and me, you know. We’ll pay.”
“Love me some strange,” Bob says.
Lak reads faces and intent well. “Thank you, no. I will bring your check.” She notices the woman scowling, her husband reddening with anger. After adding up the bill at the counter, she turns to Frank. “My break is now. Would you bring this to Booth 4, please?”
Frank slaps down the sports section. “Yeah, okay. But ten minutes. No longer.”
Lak slips out into the alleyway feeling faint, gasping for air. Chuy’s happy presence makes her feel better—the harshness of the world unable to phase him. Perhaps sensing her tension, he hugs Lak. “Is okay, is okay.”
Chuy sings old Spanish songs, his voice sometimes breaking into falsetto. Frank and Vera believe he’s gay, but Lak lived in Mexico years ago where she knew similar men. Theatrical and expressive. Chuy is very protective. The best thing about working at the Palace.
“I have to make more money. My rent is going up $200.”
“Oh, no.” He strokes her hair. “Chuy would let you move in, but I share an apartment with Pedro and Rolando.” He lowers his voice so the two cooks don’t overhear. “They are disgusting. Our bathroom is unbelievable.”
“Don’t know what to do.”
“I told you before. Go to Denver.”
She nods.
“More open, for you, for me. They no judge.” Chuy takes her hands in his. “Until then, I will give you my tip share.”
She wants to cry. “No. I have to make money myself.”
For a moment, Chuy seems sad, then he begins singing again.
#
At closing, Franks summons Lak into the cramped office. “I’ve gotten complaints about you flirting with customers.” He stares at his desk. “I ignored them. Some of my regulars are cranks. But today, a couple told me you asked them for money for services…”
“No, no. They wanted to pay me to go with them to their house.”
“What? They plan to invest in my restaurant and are selling bibles, so why would they lie? Anyway, the customer is always right.” Frank counts out five hundred dollars, slides it over, then looks up. “I’ve got to let you go—tonight.”
She exits the diner stunned. Overwhelming darkness ahead, the gaudy neon piping of the Palace glowing behind, of her past. Seeing the Not in Service sign at the local bus stop, she wanders homeward, numb to the chill, cocooned in her own thoughts. Family had warned her life in America would be difficult, but it had to be better than poverty-encrusted islands, than working in Mexico. Jets blink by overhead as she trudges along, feet weary after tramping over three miles. Ignores cars and drivers’ cat calls to her.
“New rent is due tomorrow,” Adam says as she climbs the groaning staircase.
Nothing of value in her studio. The bed, tables, and desk part of the furnished apartment. Lak packs a bag that she can strap over her shoulder, and departs at 10:30 for the Greyhound stop. Time to leave Grand Junction forever. Without the energy to walk an additional two miles, she tries to hitchhike. Lak waves away an older bald man with beady eyes, then gets into a van where two young couples greet her happily. Beards, long hair, old clothing, maybe living in the van. Modern hippies are different.
“So, can you throw in some gas money for the ride?” The driver asks after a minute, his eyes red and twitchy.
“Is $5 okay?”
“Sorry. Everything you got.” He laughs long and ugly. “Alethea, search her stuff.”
Lak can’t escape; they’re driving too fast. Another man slashes open her carry bag with an Army knife. Alethea smells of body odor and clove cigarettes while she rifles through her things. She finally digs out the five hundred. Her private glance shows sorrow and guilt. Before the men notice, she shoves a hundred back into Lak’s bag, then holds the wadded bills up high. The others cheer and whoop.
The driver swerves across to the shoulder. “Get out. And don’t hitchhike. It’s dangerous.”
Lak gives the roadway wide berth, moving slowly. Finally, she rests on a low wall encircling an Enterprise car lot. Catching the bus impossible now. A high lamppost blinks on and off, casting splashes of unwanted fluorescence upon her.
When a big jeep pulls over nearby, Lak fears it’s the police. A lone man in a tan suit emerges. He is perhaps South American or Mexican, handsome and clearly prosperous. “You work at Pancake Palace, right? What are you doing here?”
“I was robbed. Can’t walk any farther to the Greyhound stop. Please don’t have me arrested.”
He sniffs. “No, I’ll give you a ride.” He glances at his wristwatch. “We need to hustle for you to catch the 11:30 bus.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry. Sit in my back seat. I’ll be your chauffeur.” He strolls toward the vehicle.
Lak follows but hesitates on the door handle. “I-I…”
“You have to trust someone, sometime.” He folds into the driver’s seat.
She tucks into the back, pulling the sliced carry bag that leaks socks and underwear along.
They travel in silence with radio music playing until reaching the stop. The bus gasps smoke in the cold night air. Passengers climb aboard. “Where you from?”
“My parents are from Haiti. I remember Cuba, Bogota. Traveling always.” Lak’s mouth is dry. “I only have enough for a ticket or a place to sleep tonight.”
He hands her a fifty-dollar-bill. “You heading for Denver? It’s about $45 one-way. Stay at the YWCA until you get settled.”
She is suspicious. “But I can’t do anything for you.”
“I did you a favor. That’s all.” He shakes his head. “The money’s a loan.”
She lingers just outside the jeep. “How will I pay you back?”
“In America, you’ll always meet someone worse off than you, on the worst day of their life.” He pauses. “Give the money to them, okay?” He stares into space. “When I first came to California, I lived in the culverts, cement waterways outside Los Angeles. Now go get on your bus.” He shifts gears then motors off.
The bus driver makes a sour face at her distressed luggage, but takes the $50 and nods. Lak collapses across the back seats feeling warm, feeling safe. Doesn’t know what lies ahead except that the worst is behind her. She sleeps through the six-hour-journey, oblivious to passengers jostling by for the restroom. The soft glow of dawn lighting the massive Rocky Mountains wakes her into a world of beauty and possibility. She doesn’t trust it yet; squeezes her eyes closed again.
