THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTON

xxiv. JOINT AFFAIR

WAITRESSING WAS NOT ALL IT WAS CRACKED UP TO BE. Shit pay, lousy tips, lousier customers. But bills had to be paid, winter break only lasted so long. There were only so many shifts to take, cups of coffee to drink, only twenty-four hours in a day.

New Year's Eve was no exception to Jay's Diner's hustle and bustle. The Ribbon was extra crowded because no one had school and if they were home, there was nothing on tv and they'd have to do chores.

Teenagers rolled in at eleven, a few hours after the stiff lipped businessmen left a 20% tip or more if there was a smile. The businessmen quickly thinned out when it came to Jay's for lunch. A 10% tip if not close to using the receipt as Kleenex was the thanks of the Socs and Greasers. It was rowdy and fun, sure, and Charlotte would have liked working there if she didn't have to wear the typical waitress uniform that barely fit. A uniform that may as well have been designed to remind everyone she was a woman. And of course, if all the laughs and ridiculous jokes were acceptable as payment to the bank. 

And so it was lunch time. Charlotte was playing hostess and waitress since the main hostess was MIA. Or as she suspected, bumping and grinding with the head chef for a raise. It was the usual crowd. Socs, a few greasers lounging around here and there. Then as Dallas usually did, he found her and made his way inside.

"Welcome to Jay's Diner, how the hell did you find me?" She asked in that overly friendly sort of hostess voice

"I wasn't lookin' for ya', I just got lucky." Dally replied, and he was either bein' honest or he was just up to his usual tricks. Since the diner wasn't a popular place for cops, he was probably being honest. "But hey, now that I'm here, reminds me that I was meanin' t' call you."

Charlotte nodded and sat at the bar, putting the menu down while pouring a cup of coffee. Black coffee. She'd never forget the way he got angry at the idea of coffee having sugar or milk.

"New Year's Eve party at Buck's." He told her, taking a sip. "Can y' make it?"

"What time?"

"Whenever the sun goes down and before the clock strikes twelve. I 'on care."

Charlotte nodded, "I'll stop by." She smiled, going back to the front. Buck's wasn't a place she was terribly fond of, but what was the harm in letting her hair down for a night? 

And so she did. With a fresh touch up to her platinum blonde hair and an old party dress made new, she was ready to ring in a new year. The artist walked into the smelly country pub and looked through the red lights, searching for the one and only, Dallas Winston.

She locked eyes with him playing pool, he winked and aimed his cue. Ready, set, he missed. He chuckled with his friends and went over to Charlotte, a cigarette in his smirk.

"How's it goin', toots?" He asked, lazily slinging an arm around her waist

She shrugged, still feeling leftover dejection from the past few weeks. 

"Cheer up, sweetheart. It's gonna be our year." Dally winked and led her around, introducing Charlotte to everyone. They respected him. Few liked him, but he was alright company. Every single one of them belonged in a painting. The drunkards of Tulsa, Oklahoma. 

Their year. What did that mean? 1966, the year of Dally Winston, the criminal, and Charlotte Porter, the painter. 

11:30 and all the drunks crowded around a small black and white television. They chattered and drank, their excitement growing. Like children on Christmas Eve, waiting for their gift of more drinking. "C'mon." The raspy voice goaded in the gentlest way it could