WHAT'S AT STEAK
Anton Chigurh (No Country for Old Men - 2007) x Reader
You're working the closing shift at a desert diner when a cryptic stranger limps in from the rain. You're underpaid, depressed, and your coworker, Cole, is really getting on your nerves. You wonder if any of it will ever let up.
1,950 words
Includes a made up character for the purpose of this story.
Warnings: none.
Tags: non-local Texan reader, Fem reader, weirdo coworker, kinda casual sexism (reflective of time), 1970's, subtle tension/slow burn 🧇🍴
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WHAT'S AT STEAK
You're scrubbing the counters when you hear the bells above the door jingle. A gust of wet air rushes into the diner, and the hammering rain drowns out the music only to be muffled again at the door's close. Heavy boots scuff on the carpet unhurried. They tap once, twice. You look up.
An umbrella snaps shut flinging droplets and in the same motion a tall man emerges behind it. He flicks the last of the rain off the fabric in one firm shake then wraps it with his palm until it is taut. With his thumb and forefinger he fastens the strap and he lets the handle fall loose in one palm. Both of his large hands still dripping.
He looks at you. Dark clothes and.. a peculiar haircut.
"Evening, sir," you call out.
You look at the time on the wall. Half past ten.
His boots click on the linoleum with a slight limp. He takes the corner booth by the window and leans his umbrella upright by the aisle.
You've walked around to wring out the rag in the kitchen sink. Your knuckles and tips of fingers are red and sudsy under the cold water. A cloud of smoke enters your peripheral and the cook, Cole, bumps into your arm.
"Whoops. Didn't see ya there, miss."
"Please do the dishes," You mutter. "I can't right now."
He grins. "My pa'd fire ya for bein so useless."
You dry your hands on a towel, careful around a fresh cut on your pinky. You'd cut yourself while washing the utensils earlier. You grab a bandaid from the emergency tin under the sink.
"What if I do you instead?"
You ignore him, carefully wrapping the bandaid around your pinky,
"We have a customer. Aren't we closing in thirty?"
He raises a brow. Sees the blood,
"Cain't expect much from a princess."
He flicks his cigarette,
"And yeah, suppose it's fine if it's one. You takin' that order or am I doin' it too?"
"No."
He snickers and steps around the corner to peek out into the lobby. Lingers at the door.
You finish securing the bandaid, and the counters are shining. There's nothing more to clean for now.
When Cole returns, he's pulled out his cigarette. He clears his throat before he moves to take your place, voice low.
"I'm gon' get started."
You grab a menu and head toward the booth.
The man is looking outside with his hands folded, though it's difficult to see through the downpour. Everything is smeared into watercolor, the silhouette of cars and miles and miles of plain desert washed in solemn grey. You notice a beige truck nearby, and as the only patron, know it must be his. A truck driver, perhaps, though still it seems without the gait of one.
His face is devoid of expression.
You set the menu down.
"Here you are. Would you like something to drink?"
His eyes move before his head does. He looks up under his hard brow. His eyebags are deep set, jaw clean shaven. His hair is combed neatly to the side. You've served cowboys and deadbeats but this looks different than any Texan you've seen.
His voice is lower than you expected.
"Coffee, please." He says. "Milk, no sugar."
"Of course. We also have a special deal for wings on Wednesdays."
You gently reach down to flip through the menu. Your bare arm grazes against the man's dark jean jacket. The coldness of it raises goosebumps and you move aside to restore some distance. You gesture at the specials.
"Feel free to look through, sir."
He says nothing. You step away to fix his coffee.
When you return, he's pulled two tissues from the metal dispenser and is wiping his hands down to his wrists, the hem of his jean jacket soaked. He pats them though they do little good. He crumples the tissue, useless, sets them aside.
You place the mug down and the swirl of light brown settles with a clink.
"This should warm you," you say, offering a smile. "It looks like you had quite the journey."
His voice seems to drown out the rest of the noise.
"A journey for stopping at this restaurant?"
"…Yes, it's thunderous outside."
He lifts the mug but doesn't drink it, staring at you,
"I just drove and ended up here."
"Well- I mean it must have been rough."
"I didn't say it wasn't rough. First you say it's a journey, now it's rough. State it how it is."
You open your mouth but close it again. He takes a sip, his still eyes on you, waiting. You take a breath,
"It's just raining."
He sets the mug down, closes his eyes for a moment. Steam curls from the cup. When he talks, his voice remains level.
"Who's the man back there?"
You take a second.
"He's our cook."
He picks up the menu, his elbows on the table, and scans it without rush. His eyes sweeping back and forth as he moves down the page. He then closes it and gently slides it back to you.
"I'll have the sirloin, made rare."
You nod and bring the menu to your chest.
You walk to the kitchen, the doors swinging like saloon shutters and you only notice then your pulse hammering violently in your neck.
The smell of grease and smoke hits you and Cole is slowly pacing back and forth on the checkerboard tiles with a dying cigarette between his lips. The dishes remain stacked in murky green water, and his pack and its contents are scattered on the prep table. You look at it with disdain.
“Table six wants the rare loin.”
Cole slows to a stop. He has sweat forming in the deep lines of his forehead.
"That feller in the booth?"
"Yes, him."
He stubs out the cigarette in the ash tray, rinses his hands, swings open the fridge and grabs the meat with mechanical calm.
"He say anythin' strange?"
"Why?"
"Nothin',"
He throws the steak onto the hot skillet and it hisses violently. He switches on the exhaust and the whole kitchen is submerged in the sound of it. He asks,
"You've plans tonight?"
An ugly feeling emerges in your chest,
"Now is not the time."
"After your shift, silly lady. Maybe hitch a ride. Y'ever been to New Mexico?"
"Don't start, Cole."
"I know you ain't been here as long as I have. And Texas will forever be my home I'll tell you that. But this whole place startin to smell like rot. Like some deer you've hit a week ago marinatin in the sun gettin pecked at by some vultures. You see that every time you drive down to this place, for years and years and you know, might needa change in view. That right."
"What do you mean?"
"And I do dream bout driving past that county line and just keepin' on but to be honest, I wouldn't know what to do once that road ran out. What if there's nothin' there? But, my pa- God, I'm sick and tired of this, should've kept my hands clean-"
"What are you getting at?"
"I'm askin if you're free."
You knock his pack of cigs to the floor. It comes down with a slap, some of them rolling under the tables.
"I'm not free, Cole. I hate this place and unlike you, I'd actually do anything for an out. Sitting around stealing our damn tips, always hitting on me, pressin me- this isn't my fate, don't drag me into it!"
"Woah there, princess." He says, meeting you with wide eyes. "'M askin for a consideration, is all."
"Stop pressin me!"
He slides the steak onto a plate and the blood gathers in a thin pool on the ceramic. He pulls out a steak knife from a drawer arranges it beside the fork, the silverware glinting under the fluorescents. You're breathing heavily. He continues,
"Ain't mean to press. Just."
Cole rinses his hands as you take the plate to rest it on your palm. He's muttering under his breath, hastily untying his apron. You wait for him to enunciate himself. His eyes are bloodshot,
"That ain't no damn trucker."
You push through the kitchen doors.
This time the man is already staring at you. His coffee sits untouched. A cozy melody plays on the jukebox.
You set the plate down, mindful of the space, and when you pull your hands away they are red from the heat. You press them to your apron, and whether it's from the adrenaline or the sting, you will them to stop shaking. Without bothering a smile,
"We close in ten. Thank you."
He hasn't looked away.
"Come here."
You halt as you're turning on your heel. He gently tilts his head to the opposite side of the booth. A smile tugs at the edges of his mouth.
You glance at the kitchen but you don't see Cole. Outside, a thick layer of clouds have rolled in and in the dark you can't see as far out as earlier. Rain splatters against the glass, striking down and again with tremendous force and speed.
You think about how you would get home. How Cole might get home.
You sit.
The whole sky flashes white before thunder splits through the atmosphere. The room is black momentarily, the above-head lights flickering as they swing and the ground trembles under your feet.
The man calmly saws at his steak with the knife, the blade gliding through the flesh. Red myoglobin bleeds out and the meat comes apart easily. He pierces it with his fork, places it in his mouth and begins to chew. You ask,
"Did you want me to watch you eat?"
He glances you, then at your nametag. He saws off another piece. He replies,
"How long have you worked here."
"Tell me your name first."
He pauses mid slice. You hold his stare, and he looks back unwaveringly,
"How long."
"I don't give out my business to strangers. What's your name?"
"You're not a stranger to me. How long."
"Did you hear me?"
Unblinking, his smile reappears.
"My name is Anton."
He resumes cutting until his knife meets the plate with a resounding screech. You answer his question.
"I'm coming up on a year."
Silverware clinks together as he stabs another piece with his fork. Chew, swallow. The rain hammers at the window. The steak is halfway finished.
He pulls another tissue from the metal dispenser. He wipes his mouth with it, and then uses a clean one to carefully slide the flat of his steak knife across, leaving a streak of red.
He grips the knife with his right hand. Turns it over on his palm under the light.
"Your chef come from out west?"
You let it roll in your head. You answer him.
"Fort Stockton. Sometimes he muses how he misses it."
Anton slips out of the seat.
"Excuse me for a moment."
He lays down two twenties. It's too much, far too much. You stare in disbelief and recall that the last time you'd held that amount was when you were allowed to count the bills at the register. You look over your shoulder and watch Anton limp toward the kitchen.
You don't know how long you've sat there.
You’ve fixed his plate and trash out of habit, though you know you may not even bring them back. His umbrella is safe with you, however.
All the noise blends into one, a low hum and the occasional, distant cry and the tremble under your feet. Your eyes drift past the truck.
Beyond this place, the rain is falling somewhere else, too.
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This song is so vibes; initially released in 77' and the lyrics fit nicely.