“No,” Ryan replied. “That sign’s beforetime. Tuckey went down along with everybody else after the nukecaust.”
Mildred was about to attempt an explanation, then thought better of it. At times, it was better to keep silent and let some of the less memorable customs and institutions from her past remain buried in the refuse and rubble of time.
“Tuckey’s. Sounds like stickies,” Krysty said, turning up her nose in distaste.
“Now, there’s a meal I want to eat,” Ryan said sarcastically, grinning back at her. “Give me a heaping helping of stickie meat.”
“Gross,” Mildred added.
As they approached the building proper, another sign near the thick glass-and-wood door proclaimed Visit Our Pettin Zoo. Beneath the pronouncement, in small letters, was added, Real Live Mutants!
“Wonder what’s in the zoo, Dad?” Dean asked after reading the sign aloud in a careful voice. “You think they really got muties?”
“Probably, but a mutie is nothing I’d want to pet, son, and I’d sure as hell not want to put up any jack for the experience. Best leave the poor bastards alone.”
Ryan held open the glass door into the restaurant and allowed the others to enter. When he pushed the door’s handle, a small bell tied to the wall over their heads gave a jaunty jingle to signal their arrival.
“Well, I guess it’s nice to know some things never change,” Mildred said softly, her dark eyes drinking in the room’s furnishings and decoration. Tuckey’s was almost a perfectly preserved relic from the pre-dark days of 1974.
The interior of the eatery held everyone’s eye. The dominant color was a faded reddish orange. The tables, the chairs, even the walls were covered in the vibrantly toned yet well-worn Formica. Overhead, nonworking electric lights came with plastic orange shades. The scuffed floor tiles underfoot were a mix of off-white and a light yellowish orange, arranged in a checkerboard pattern. Each of the tiles came with a small letter T embossed in gold in the center.
“This Tuckey guy must’ve loved orange,” J.B. muttered.
Ryan, once he’d had his fill of the orange, took in the rest of the dining room. One older man sat at the bar, sipping at a mug of what looked like coffee-sub. A small saucer in front of him held a few blackened pieces of bread. Across from the man in a booth sat another traveler who appeared to be in his midthirties. He was eating from a bowl with a spoon and stared back at Ryan as the one-eyed man gave him the once over.
Deciding the eatery was apparently what it appeared to be, Ryan strode across the floor to a windowless wall and chose a large round table located in a corner of the dining room. Two thick orange candles were in brown bottles at the middle of the table, serving the dual function as a centerpiece and as light to eat by. He took the seat nearest the wall and leaned back. From this vantage point, he could see anyone who came in or out of the entrance, and had a good view of the dual kitchen doors to the back.
J.B. sat on his left and Dean on his right. Krysty took the chair next to Dean. Jak, Doc and Mildred completed the circle.
Summoned by the ring of the chime over the door, a waitress came from the kitchen. Attired in a dirty uniform in two shades of orange, she looked to be in her late forties. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a severe bun and tucked under an orange paper hat. A name tag above her left breast read Hi, My Name Is Sandy. The “Sandy” had been added in black marker. She carried a well-chewed yellow number-two pencil that was almost a nub in her right hand and a small notepad in the left.
“Afternoon,” she drawled. “You folks passin’ through, are you?”
“Right about that,” Ryan said.
“I knew. I know all the locals,” the waitress noted with a nod.
“Saw your sign out on the interstate and thought we’d come in and eat before it got dark,” Krysty added.
She seemed pleased they had read the sign. “My husband and me, we painted that advertisement up all by ourselves. You made a good choice stoppin’. Nowhere else to eat for another forty miles, and not a better place until you hit the East Coast.”