So there I was again at the same pub the next night, but not ordering that wretched ale. Though the barkeep kept giving me a smirk the whole time, looking like she was wanting to ask me if I'd like another.

I had come in for a bite to eat. I really wouldn't have if I had been able to find somewhere else. It was early evening and I really couldn't find anything else that was open. I didn't want to scour the streets, but I also didn't think I would have to. Normally, a trip up the main drag should be enough to figure out more than one place to eat. However, the cafe at the other end of main street was closed by 4 PM, and the bakery, which served sandwiches and coffee, closed even earlier.

It was likely there was some other place to eat in town, but I just hadn't found it. And there did not really seem to be a point to searching endlessly. Most likely I could go back into this place and get some bar food and then go on with my business. Last night's events were probably not that memorable for anyone but me. Just another Friday night in Lucky Springs.

The menu seemed to consist primarily of foods with no expiry date. Potatoes and dough, mainly.

The pub was not a very big place. There were exactly seven tables for two - the size where you could fit two chairs and two drinks and two smartphones. Nothing else. There were five booths surrounding the back wall and far wall. No-one seemed to go to them except if they had some serious looking conversation to have. Serious like two women sitting down to explain to each other what their husbands had done wrong this week. Or serious like negotiating the sale price of a frame for a 1968 Mustang.

There was a jukebox near the door. When you walked in, you would look right at it and have to consciously turn away or walk right up to it. From time to time someone would walk up to it and ring in a few more songs. I was tempted, if only to prevent the possibility of any more sounds that I couldn't stand.

I ordered chicken. It came in a wicker basket that should not have been kept so long. Everything in the basket had been deep fried, with the possible exception of the waxed paper under the food. I thought about whether to turn up my nose at this offering, or if it was better to eat what was in front of me since nothing else was guaranteed. I settled on a compromise. I would make sure not to eat anything that had been even close to contacting the basket. Or that server's thumb. Eat from the middle. But, eat because who knows what will happen tomorrow.

I paid cash when I ordered the food. I sat down and looked at my beer and the handful of change I had left.

I was drinking beer from a bottle. No glass. "I'm not that fancy," I said to her. But of course, it was the opposite of that. I was too particular to drink out a glass in that place now that I had really had a look around. Bottled beer seemed like a good choice.

I was struggling to eat my meal without listening to the sounds around me. I did not know what this music was, but I knew that the jukebox was punishing me at the behest of its marguerita-fueled operator.

The marguerita turned when a woman walked into the bar and they immediately started telling each other stories. I stood up and took the last of my money over to buy some sonic reprieve.

I was standing over the juke box, flipping through the selections. Nothing really stuck out. These were not truly my people, and this was not my playlist. As I stared, the song changed more than once.

When a new song started, the name popped up on the display. "Johnny Cash / One Piece at a Time / Best of Johnny Cash" The story is only a piece of a puzzle.

Well, I left Kentucky back in forty nine
An' went to Detroit workin' on a 'sembly line
The first year they had me puttin' wheels on Cadillacs

Every day I'd watch them beauties roll by
And sometimes I'd hang my head and cry
'Cause I always wanted me one that was long and black.

One day I devised myself a plan
That should be the envy of most any man
I'd sneak it out of there in a lunchbox in my hand
Now gettin' caught meant gettin' fired
But I figured I'd have it all by the time I retired
I'd have me a car worth at least a hundred grand.

...

Well, It's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56
'57, '58' 59' automobile
It's a '60, '61, '62, '63, '64, '65, '66, '67
'68, '69, '70 automobile.

...

"What year is it?" played in my head. It wouldn't stop. Outside the diner where I tried to bluff my way by the motorcycle guys. "Like Johnny Cash" he had said. Now the reference made sense. Not much else did about where I was, but that did. And I had no idea why it should make any sense.

"Are you playin' somethin'?"

Startled, I looked over. "Uh, not sure yet. You can go ahead." A man was standing there with a few coins in his hand. He knew how to work this machine, and had enough intent that it seemed like I should get out of the way. It's not like I was trying to play any song in particular anyway.

I watched him flip straight to the Rolling Stones and pick four songs without hesitation.

"You knew what you're looking for."

"Ha. Yeah I'm predictable. Just got off work and here I am. Still on call, but not much happens round here."

"Seems like a pretty steady place alright."

"Steady. Sure. Are you passin' through?"

Passing through. It doesn't matter what you look like here. If you aren't in the school yearbook then everyone knows it. You can't hide here. "Mostly. I just finished up some work out west and I'm headed back home for the winter but I'm in no rush."

"My name's Carl. I drive the tow truck round here."

"Jackson. I'm..."

"...passin' through. Got it."

Carl was a hospitable host. He and I ate deep fried meals and had a couple of bottles of beer. He was a good talker, for which I was thankful. I didn't feel like telling a lot of any kind of stories at this point.

Carl told me about how he got into the towing business, and about how he tries to make up the slow seasons by repairing vehicles. The trouble is that most people try to do their own repairs anyway. He makes a sufficient income overall, but just.

Carl gave me the low-down on the town and where to find food and lodging. I was already at the best (and only) motel in town, but based on his advice, I made plans to check out the cafe the next day.

Eventually a waitress comes by our table. We had been sitting and talking for nearly two hours before table service became a thing. We ordered our food and drinks at the bar up until that point, but some clock must have just ticked past some hour that mattered.

"Hey Carl. You two good?"

Carl replied with a non-verbal. She laughed when he did it, holding up his right hand with the pinky and thumb only extended. That Hawaiian "hang loose" thing. She shook her head and went back to the bar.

Carl told me the story of the time he went to Hawaii when he was 21. This seems to have been more than 10 years ago, but the memory was strong, especially when he was in a good mood and a couple of beers into the evening. In some ways, it was just yesterday.

He met an old man on one of the islands, who knew personally the man who was the origin of this hand sign. Now people call it "shaka" but the origin was pretty simple.

Back in the plantation days, before the Kingdom of Hawaii was annexed by the US, there was an old man who used to go out to the reefs and fish with dynamite. He was successful and he did this a lot, and made money selling fish. The man was well known and whenever passing locals in their boats he would wave.

One day something went wrong and his hand got too close. He lost the index, middle, and ring fingers on one hand. He was left with only a thumb and pinky on one hand, but still five fingers on the other.

Whenever he passed other locals in their boats, they would wave and he would wave back, with only his thumb and pinky. Pretty soon they would wave back the same way. It was as if the also had, rather than the ten digits he was born with, just seven digits.