Elmer's Cafe Bar, Route 99

My husband casually admired the tattoo of a snake that was slithering out of the low-slung waistband of her jeans. - 📖 FOUR-MINUTE FICTION

Tim Mossholder on unsplash.com

This little adventure was posted in April 2022. If you have already read it, thank you! If not, I am sure you would like to meet sweet Cheri.

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We lurched across the graveled parking lot of Elmer’s Cafe Bar and came to a bumpy stop under its bright, blinking neon sign. After six hours on California State Route 99 South, we’d finally pulled off in search of something to eat.

The interior was a little dark, but nice enough for the likes of us. Elmer’s, apparently, had a full bar and specialized in both Italian and Mexican cuisine. Our waitress identified herself as Cheri. I noticed she had dotted the “i” on her name tag with a flirty little heart. Cheri had playful purple hair, a tiny nose ring, and an adorable sparkle in her eyes. Her t-shirt was very short, displaying a bare belly-button at just about the eye-level of my seated men. My husband casually admired the tattoo of a snake that was slithering out of the low-slung waistband of her jeans. She was snapping her chewing gum and was as cute as a kitten.

“How y’all, doing today?” she chirped.

“Well, we are doing just great, Cheri,” said Tom, trying to tear his eyes away from that snake tattoo. “We just thought we’d better stop for something to eat before we head out on our last leg to Burbank.”

She handed out menus. “Can I bring y’all anything to drink first off?”

I deferred to Tom and Frankie. Tom said, “How about bringing us one tall glass of ginger ale, and a liter of red wine. The house wine will be fine.”

“Y’all want the big liter or the little liter?” she asked, pencil poised.

Tom, amused, looked at me straight-faced and shrugged. “Ah... well… how about we just start with the little liter for now.”

“Got it,” she said, penciling it on her pad.

the big liter and the little liter

Ya’ll want ahssenit? she asked, looking at me.

“Excuse me?”

“Ya’ll want ahssenit?”

I looked at my husband for help. He raised his eyebrows and grinned, “It’s up to you, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry, Cheri ... I don’t know what ahssenit is.”

She looked at me blankly and then, with a sweet, sympathetic smile, spoke to me very slowly, as one might speak to someone with dementia. “Do. You. All. Want. Ahss. In. It?” she asked again.

“Ahss? … Oh! Ice! Sorry.” Tom and Frankie gave me The Look. “Um... no, thank you, Cheri,” I said. “We’ll take it just as it comes this time.”

Cheri advised us that there were three different pass dah specials on the menu tonight. I was just about to ask what pass dah was, when she said, “We got Spaghetti Bolognese, Ravioli with Mushrooms and Linguini Alfredo.” Aha. Pass dah. Right.

We all ordered the ravioli, and found it to be delicious. We left a generous tip for Cheri, and were back out on the highway by seven. Frankie, the ginger ale guy, took his turn at the wheel, and we left Bakersfield behind, with a hundred miles to go.

The ravioli had been better than expected, and it turned out the house red was absolutely drinkable. Tom and I both agreed that it really hadn’t needed any ahssenit. And the little liter was just about right.

Robert Bye on unsplash.com