The Jukebox

A Story by C. Banae

Our main character reflects on her relationship with a friend from high school.

I feel guilty for being here now when I should’ve been here a long time ago. At home, there is a giant stack of papers sitting on my kitchen table, just waiting to be graded. I should be sitting in my ratty sweatpants on the couch with a glass of red wine and reading all about the religious influences in Hamlet my junior class reluctantly wrote. But instead, I’m here at the little diner off of Fairman Lane that I drive past every day but haven’t set foot in for damn near a decade.

The coffee is still too bitter, and the cream is still too sweet, but I sip it anyway from the comfort of our old booth and take a long look around. In a way, it’s comforting to realize that not much has changed. Just like then, the place is almost deserted besides me, four other patrons, and the poor employees. The decor hasn’t changed either, still in the stereotypical red and white. The booth still has scratches from when you would unconsciously dig your pencil into the seats when you were stressed over homework.

By the bathroom door, the old jukebox that ate every third quarter we put in is still there. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear you cursing the thing as you spent ages flipping through trying to find the perfect song. I don’t know why you bothered wasting two minutes of your life. You always ended up choosing the same Johnny Cash tune.

As he rattled off everywhere he had been man, you would tell me all about your most recent travel plans because every week it changed. One Friday, it would be France and Prague the next. When you weren’t working at the local fast food chain trying to save up money for your travel fund, you would be researching flight prices and the best hostels to stay at. Your eyes always shined so bright when you talked about all the dreams you would make come true once you graduated and got out of this simple-minded, small town. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that you couldn’t do it because you were the most ambitious freak I knew.

These old memories are making me emotional, so I sigh as the boxed blonde waitress comes over to me. I decide to go with your usual order of chicken tender and fries. I always made fun of you for being so childish and refusing to eat ‘grown-up’ foods, but right now, I don’t mind feeling like a child. After raising a too dark eyebrow at me, the waitress scribbles on her notepad and smacks together her hot pink lips before walking away.

Before today, the last I had heard from you was a year ago, and I was shocked to see you. It had been eight years since we graduated, and like most high school forever best friends, we fell out of touch. I went to the state school that half our class went to, and you headed off for New York City. You were hoping to catch a flight to Europe from there. For about six months, we sent each other the occasional texts, but then, we just stopped. I assumed you were somewhere thousands of miles away living your best life, and I was busy working on my degree.

Every once in a while though, you would pop into my head, like the one time I was at the mall looking for a new coat. I saw an olive sweatshirt that looked exactly like the one you wore the only time I had convinced you to go ice skating. That night, you fell and knocked me and two other strangers over. I started laughing out loud right then in the crowded Hollister.

But then, last May came by. It was a random Sunday night at nine-thirty when you showed up on my doorstep. The first thing I noticed after the initial shock of seeing you wore off was how small you looked. I mean you were always petite, but now you just looked tiny. I didn’t say anything though. I just pulled you into a hug and ignored how sharp your shoulder blades were.

Once we were seated on my couch in the living room, you told me how you were in town visiting your family and couldn’t leave without seeing me. And then, we just talked and laughed like we were teenagers again. I told you about my disastrous first experience with tequila and how I was now a teacher at the very same high school where we once roamed the halls. You told me about your travels, about the amazing places you’ve seen, the odd jobs you worked, and the handsome foreign men you spent your evenings (and sometimes mornings) with. Your eyes still shined like they did in this diner, even with the addition of smudged mascara on your waterline. You seemed happy, peaceful even, and not the trapped girl I knew way back. You left around two in the morning with a smile and the promise that we would keep in touch.

I didn’t know that you killed yourself a few hours later until today.

I was at the grocery store earlier this evening when I ran into your mom. She looked exactly the same, with the addition of some grey hairs, from when I would spend every other weekend at your house. She was so happy to see me. We were only talking for maybe a minute when I asked about you. I was so angry at you for ignoring my texts and calls. That’s when I learned the truth, in the bread aisle of all places.

You never went to Europe. Hell, you never made it to New York. All the farther you got was yet another small town four hours north from here. After a couple of months, you ran out of money, so you got a job at a diner that probably looked a lot like this one. I keep trying to picture you, with your head full of dreams, stuck in a dead-end waitress job, but I can’t.

After that, she gave a lot less details, but I can fill in the blanks. You were lost and alone, so you started self-medicating. It got worse and worse until finally you overdosed in your car fifteen minutes away from me.

They say it wasn’t intentional, but I know you. As I replay that last night in my head, those signs you exhibited are becoming neon. I saw them back then, but I wanted to believe you.

I should’ve said something.

After that, I said goodbye to your mom, and then I abandoned my cart full of groceries I needed. I got in my car with the intention of going home, and somehow, I ended up here. By some miracle, I’ve held it together for this long, but now, I’m blinking back tears.

The waitress is coming back with my food when two teenage girls I had last year in class walk in. When they notice me, we give each other a polite wave before breaking eye contact. They laugh awkwardly, and walk over to the jukebox as I munch on my soggy fries and stare at my plate.

My mind is still spinning with regrets and apologies when I hear the familiar strum of a guitar. My head snaps up so fast that for a moment my neck hurts.

It’s your song! Out of hundreds of songs, those girls chose this one. By now, my tears are freely flowing, but I can’t seem to care. In our diner, eating your meal, listening to your song, I know it’s a sign that you’re still here with me.