Usually, I’m a lone wolf who needs her focus to compose, but with him I don’t feel like I need to put on a performance. In between, I ask Rust’s opinion and he loosens up more with every question. He’s a brilliant songwriter, even if he doesn’t believe it himself. I’m honored to write this album with him, but I also know it helps him to find his confidence as a musician again.
Soon, I don’t have to ask anymore. He offers suggestions by himself, drumming a matching beat on the steering wheel.
I see how his eyes light up when we work on music. That joy is contagious. He brings a different point of view to the table and every melody is like discovering a new world together.
And so we drive and write and compose. I cross out and rephrase, scribble notes and pluck the strings until my fingers hurt. When the truck finally slows, I drop from my creative high back into reality.
My heart turns leaden as I check the maps app on my phone. We’re already in New Mexico. From here, it’s only another fourteen hours until LA.
Then our deal is done.
I’ll go back to the big stage, back to suffocating beneath the pressure of who I’m supposed to be.
He’ll go back to his small-town life and buried dreams.
Rust pulls into the parking lot of the only building for miles. It shines like a chrome beacon in the beating sun. Against the parched backdrop of desert plains, mountains, and the occasional spot of dull green, the flashing neon sign ‘Peggy’s Diner - Open 24/7’looks like a heat mirage.
‘Peggy’s Motel’—a plain block of concrete with sun-bleached doors and boarded windows—must’ve closed down a long while ago. I can’t imagine many people wanting to stay out here longer than they have to.
Rust parks around the back of the motel, far from the diner. He’s probably worried one of the other few customers might slam a door into his truck’s pristine paint job.
“I need a cup of coffee and somethin’ sweet,” he says.
“Sure, I could go for a snack,” I respond.
While Rust rounds the truck and opens my door, I put my guitar on the seat and grab my bag. We’re two steps away from the car when he pats his pockets hectically.
“Shit, where’s my wallet?” He gives himself another pat-down.
“Did you forget it in the bar last night?”
“Naw, I had it when we left earlier. Tell you what, you go on ahead. Order a cup of coffee and a sweet treat for me while I search the truck. It’s gotta be in there somewhere.”
“Okay. You want a window booth?”
“Pick whatever you like, Trouble. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He puts a kiss on my cheek and sprints back to the truck, climbinginto the cab.
To the sound of Rust’s muted swearing, I make my way to the diner and walk inside.
The smell of old bacon grease and stale coffee greets me and the checkered floors scream 50s vibes. Fittingly, Elvis croons from a radio on the counter. A handwritten chalk sign by the register announces apple pie as today’s special.
A few single men dejectedly stab forks at their plates and a young couple talks excitedly over a map spread out on the table between them.
I hear giggling from the kitchen before a young waitress with a neon pink lipstick smile carries out a stack of pancakes drenched in syrup. She puts the plate down in front of the couple. “Pancakes to share. Enjoy!”
The waitress chatters as she guides me to a corner booth, recommending the burgers. Cheerfully, she takes my order for two black coffees and two slices of apple pie. While she heads into the kitchen, I idly twist a bottle of ketchup on the table.
Diners like this have become a dying breed. Despite the cracks in the pleather seat and the scuffed tables, I can see its charm. It’s quaint, like a break from modern life and the constant overstimulation from electronics and news feeds full of doom.
It’s almost peaceful. Like a bubble of calm in?—
The door flies open. A man wearing a balaclava steps inside, a cocked shotgun in his gloved hands. “This is a goddamn robbery!” he shouts with a thick, gravelly drawl.
The woman of the couple squeals and my heart jumps into my throat.
This ain’t happening, right?
Fuck, this might be the stupidest thief ever. How much can there be to rob in this place? It looks like they canbarely keep the lights on. Or he’s real clever, because there’s no CCTV here. Maybe he doesn’t care about making less money if it also means less risk of getting caught.
