ribeckulous

When he visits home, his father ambling toward the end, but stubbornly standing on two feet and insisting Trent continue his city living; his father mentions Trent's favorite chippy has a new bloke at the helm. Old Mannion passed the shop to his young wife, who has hired an American to run the thing. Notes there is some chinwagging, but doesn't know aye or nay whether it has any standing.

That news is bewildering. Baffling. Upsetting to no end. An American?

Of Trent's collection of spots, there are no places that hold so much sentimentality as the local he was raised on. The walls should be soaked in fryer oil and the chips should be just the right amount of soggy. There should be a small crowd gathered after the sun goes down standing piss drunk in the mothy, fluorescent light under the front awning. Bodies should be glowing from the alcohol sweating through their pores. Light shining muted from the greasy, see-through paper bags. There shouldn't be room to move in the queue.

The first time Trent tried (and failed) to ask another boy if sometimes girls were just a nuisance was in that shop after school. He got ketchup on his tie. It never did wash out completely. The first time Trent noticed a boy looking at him sideways was while he was leaning against that lone storefront window. The boy had been dressed up so punk Trent spent the next decade visiting his record store every weekend, hoping he might happen on that boy, until he was able to con himself into his first and favorite job ever.

This chippy, his local, had etched itself onto his very tongue, a short, permanent scar from a second degree burn across the side, discoloring bright red there.

How on earth might some American understand this particular gastronomical culture?

The moment Trent has his father tucked in for the night, Trent steps out to follow the sunset, one foot in front of the other, until he is standing in front of two bistro tables. Bistro tables? There is an awning, new and striped blue and red, but there is no fluorescent light. There are no moths. When he looks up, there are a number of young people sitting inside the window, bright smiles on their faces, sipping on straws and plucking perfectly golden chips inside small white bags.

When he steps inside, there is a boy, much too young to be taking his order, with a curious smile on his face. A dimple on one cheek. Dusky hair. When he calls Trent's order back, an affable older gentleman, Trent has to assume his own age, responds with some cartoon cowboy accent. The man bares the same dimple on one cheek. Has an affable mustache that compliments his snaggletoothed smile. He wears a simple white tee-shirt and a white apron over it. Wears a baseball cap to cover his hair. His nails are trimmed and neat when the man reaches to dredge the fish in front of him, dropping it into the crispiest, bubbling oil Trent has heard from this close. It's nearly impossible to look away.

The walls still smell like his youth, though there must be a new ventilation system. Trent doesn't feel like he is breathing oil. There is a fresh lick of paint. The front counter is lower than he remembers. Trent can see now just how small the space is and just how much the American can do. The menu, tacked from the ceiling, is not much more expanded, though it includes a few things that seem to make a lot of sense. And the man sings along with a small radio set on a shelf, sweet and swoony. Trent must be gawping. The American looks up briefly, doing a double take when he catches Trent's eye. Offers a wink.

Trent is undone. He stutters to the child as he passes his coins. Smiles awkwardly as the boy hands him his food and flushes as he turns to the door. Where he'd usually turn right at the door and stand on the wall, Trent finds the sky growing purple and the empty bistro tables beg him to rest. So Trent sits and is startled when the young boy runs out of the shop with a bottle of Coca-Cola he'd forgotten he'd ordered. The boy snaps the bottle top off right in front of him and wishes Trent a lovely night before running back in.

And shit. When he reaches into the bag, the fish is blisteringly hot. When he can finally bite into it, the batter is shatteringly crisp. It doesn't taste quite like Trent remembers from his youth, but instantly, Trent understands it's because the fryer gets cleaned regularly now. The oil is maybe a day, maybe two days old at most. The vinegar is sharp, clearing his sinuses. The salt is perfect. And when Trent reaches for a chip, it is thick. Sturdy. Perfect for a blob of ketchup.

"Well hey there. You must be the Crimm boy. Your dad's been a frequent visitor. He's very grumbly, but he is kind."

A red squeeze bottle appears on the bistro table in front of him, held by a slim, clean hand with neat, trimmed nails. Trent has watched this skyline for so much of his life that it may well be etched into the back of his eyes. When he finally shakes free of the horizon and looks up, the American is smiling warmly. Nods at the table next to Trent's.

"Do you mind if I sit a spell? I've been on my feet a few hours and these bones are much older than they look."

The American looks Trent directly in the eyes with a confident boldness that Trent has never once betrayed in his entire life. Flustered, Trent has no choice but to consent, "Oh, ehm. Yes! Yes, of course."

The American rounds the table to sit directly next to Trent at the second table. Removes his baseball cap and places it on the table before leaning forward on his elbows and rubbing his hands over his face. Trent cannot help but take a peek between bites. The American is handsome. Broad. His apron is missing and Trent can see the shadow of every muscle, every sinew of his fine back in the light of the chippy. Trent wants to remain nonplussed, but the ball of energy beside him is dimmed and quiet. Heavy.

Dressing a chip, Trent takes a chance. "How did you know?"

"Hm?" The American turns his head and Trent cannot help but register the distinct look of some bedroom he'll never cross the threshold of.

"Oh. Ehrm. My dad…" Trent can only imagine what impression his father has made on this man. This fit, capable man. His father is a bit corny. A bit sentimental. More than likely to offer his single, gay son for a bag of crisps on a good day. Which doesn't help that another bite into his fish and Trent is one proper pudding from proposing they take this back to his.

Brightening instantly, the American responds, "The hair and, uh, the whole…vibe, I s'pose."

"Right." Surely the American cannot see just how Trent's cheeks burn with embarrassment.

They sit in an oddly comfortable silence as the last of the sky grows from purple to black, the light behind them shifting as bodies rise and exit the chippy. The group of young people turn to the American and bid him goodbye by name.

"Goodnight, Ted!"

"Y'all be safe and make wise decisions, now. And I'll see ya when I see ya," Ted says, his dimple appearing like its own private goodbye to them.

Trent zeroes in on how unexpected it is, that a handsome man should be sitting next to him in the dark. That he is dining, but in some form of company. That this American is a stranger, but is already somehow familiar. And maybe it isn't so bad that some strange man turns his chin just right and grins Trent's way. And maybe Trent will let loose tonight. Tuck the instinct to pull out his little notepad and his clicker pen and don his foldaway glasses to make a handsome friend who just happens to work in a chippy.