“I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”
“So, you do everything you want, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m me. I can.” He replied as he adjusted the weight on his feet.
The elevator stopped on the lobby floor with a subtle bounce, and Proctor took off walking fast as hell, but something hit him mid-stride and made him slow down just a bit to wait for me. When I caught up to him, he didn’t say a word. He just kept moving, slower this time, intentional because at first, he was leaving me in the dust.
Once we stepped outside, his car was already sitting at the curb, engine running and doors open. We climbed inside his car, and as soon as the doors shut, Proctor blasted his speakers playing a Bone Thugs-N-Harmony song I hadn’t heard in years. The bass rattled the doors as he pulled off, driving like he had somewhere to be, like the road owed him space.
We hadn’t even made it half a mile before he turned the music down and looked at me. His eyes had that wicked curiosity in them, the kind that made you feel like he already knew the answer.
“Why the fuck do you want that nasty-ass Joe’s Fish Shack shit?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw it on TikTok. It looked good.”
“Looks can be deceiving. I had that fish a couple of years ago. Tasted like it came straight out of the ocean and not in a good way. No seasoning, no salt, no fuckin love at all. I know a much better spot where you can get some grub from. Not as big as Joe’s, but they get busy.”
“I’m down for whatever. I just want some fish and bread. To be honest.”
“Keeps the poor man fed,” he replied, turning the music back up.
He flipped a U-turn right in the middle of the road and headed the other direction. I figured we were going wherever he thought I should eat today.
After about twenty minutes, we pulled up somewhere that barely qualified as a restaurant. It was more like a shack, if anything. The sign, hand-painted on a wide slab of wood, read "Dianne’s Southern Food." And I could smell the food instantlywhen I stepped out of the car. It was that strong ass scent that would stick to my clothes way after we left here.
As soon as we stepped out, someone on the corner called his name.
“Proctor! My boy, you free?”
A man in a white button-up that was long, wrinkled, and half-tucked yelled.
He crushed out his cigarette against the wall and pulled Proctor in for a hug that told me they were familiar with each other.
“I’m happy to see you out, man. Swear I ain’t been feeling right with you behind bars.”
“Yeah, well, just imagine how I felt. No pussy, no fried food. Shit was tragic.”
The man laughed, shaking his head.
“I hear that. Miss Diane is in there today; she is going to be happy to see you.”
“Good, we want the best in the kitchen cooking our plates. I've been bragging on this spot. She wanted Joe’s Fish Shack but I brung her here instead.”
“Aww, shit.” The man threw his hand as they made fun of my original choice.
“How are you doing, Miss Lady?” He stuck his hand out to shake mine. The man looked at me, then back at Proctor, smiling widely with that ‘I see you look’ and Proctor laughed it off.
We walked inside the restaurant, and it had that typical down-home feel, with scattered, mismatched tables and chairs of all sizes, like they’d been collected over decades. There were a few people sitting quietly, eating their food and having lowconversations, not making the place too loud but comfortable and quiet. This was the part of Vegas nobody put in commercials and was the unpolished, untouched side without the neon signs and flashy interiors.
In the corner sat a single, ancient looking slot machine, probably from the ’70s. The machine had no digital screen, no flashing lights, just metal, levers, and a worn-out ass stool in front. There was a large television in the dining area, which was the newest thing in this building. That, along with the new, updated looking menu, which both looked out of place in this setting, to be honest. Maybe they were in the middle of an upgrade.
“Proc! That’s you!”
I heard a lady screech.
“I’m so happy you are home!”
A woman walked from the back, approaching Proctor with her arms out for a hug. The lady wasn’t old, but I could see that she was older than me. I expected the cook to have those flaps on her arms like my grandma Yolanda did. My granny could cook, so I hope this young looking grandma could do the same.
