Free Hitchers by Will McIntosh Page A

woman. She had an energy that made me wish I could go on talking to her.
    She glanced toward the door, widening her eyes theatrically. “She’s not meeting you here, is she? Should I hide?”
    I felt a pang. “No, no.” I shrugged.
    â€œWell, please tell her I’m sorry.”
    I shrugged. “She died, actually.” I had never come up with an easy way to say it. And for some reason it seemed important to add, “Believe it or not, it was the same day as that argument.”
    The waitress pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I felt it welling up, but could do nothing to stop it. “ I’m telling ya, she’s a little tramp, ” I croaked.
    The waitress gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, covering my own masked mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that. My doctor says I’ve got some sort of neurological disorder. He thinks it’s temporary. It’s not contagious.”
    â€œOh.” She reached as if to touch my hand, but didn’t quite. “Oh. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. About your wife, and—” she paused, reaching for a word, “your problem.” I could see from her face that she was more scared than sorry. She recovered her composure, cleared her throat. “So can I get you something to drink?”
    Before I could answer a buzz of excitement rose through the diner. I leaned around the waitress to see the door.

    There he was. Unmistakable, speaking into the other waitress’s ear, a hand on her shoulder. He still had the spiky blonde hair, and his outfit, though not particularly loud or flashy, announced that he was someone of note: black-rimmed hipster glasses, expensive leather jacket, jeans. He wasn’t wearing a mask—the only person in the diner.
    I waved. He spotted me, gave me a two-fingered salute, sauntered over wearing a big smile, his hand outstretched. I met him partway and we shook, then he clapped my shoulders as if making sure I was real.
    A young woman was hovering behind him, clutching a pen. I motioned to Mick. He turned, exchanged a few pleasantries with the woman as he signed her napkin.
    A few other admirers left their booths to meet him. Mercury gave his attention to each of them in turn, listened to their brief testimonials—how they’d seen him at his first Atlanta concert, what this or that song meant to them. He seemed to enjoy himself.
    When an elderly woman came forward, her hand outstretched, Mick blurted, “ Mom, not in the middle of my show.”
    The woman let out a startled “Eep”; others gasped in surprise.
    â€œSorry,” Mick said, holding his palm over his mouth. “Been working on a new vocal style. Thinking I might try crossing over into some of that Goth vampire music.” He grinned brightly, eliciting a few nervous chuckles. “Finn and me are going to have some breakfast now, so if you don’t mind...” He gave everyone a gentle “shove off” gesture.
    When everyone was back at their tables, Mick and I settled in.
    â€œSo. What the fuck is wrong with us?” Mick murmured.
    I took a quick sip of water—my mouth was dry. It was jarring, to realize I was sitting with a rock star. I found it impossible to look across the table at Mick Mercury and see nothing but another guy. It was Mick freaking Mercury.
    â€œSeems to me it’s got to be connected to the anthrax,” I said.
    Mick pointed at me, nodding emphatically. “That’s what I said,
but the doctor said it ain’t possible.”
    The waitress came over. I stared at the table, still embarrassed by my outburst, and it seemed as if she was standing a lot further from the table than she’d been before. She was wearing gold sneaker-shoes with Cleopatra’s face on them.
    She gave Mick a level look. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not going to ask for your autograph or