Mute-Personal Narrative

She still wore her cheap make up and red lipstick, which with all due respect makes her seem a lot older than she really is. Her piercing green eyes looked at me questioningly, waiting for me to respond. I smile again and give her a small wave, indicating that I am who she thinks I am.

“Oh right, you don’t speak anymore,” she says with sudden realization. “You’re one of them mute fellars now, right?” I try not to give away any hint of my disapproval at the name. Mute. I nod, deciding not to make an issue out of it. I walk towards the bar, pulling a stray napkin across the dirty countertop towards me. I mimic the movement of a pen towards Janet, who took a while to understand what I exactly I was looking for. She scuffled behind the bar before protruding a pen and handing it to me. With slight difficulty I wrote on the napkin, trying to keep my sentences as short as possible.

“Bike out of gas. No phone. Can you please call someone to pick it up for me? It’s parked next to Senora Freeway, close to Thomson Yard, underneath Patriot billboard. It’s good to see you J :)” I hand the napkin over to her,

I dig in my pockets, pulling out a crumpled $10 note and putting it on the countertop. That ought to be enough for the night; I try not to drink a lot. Just remembering something, I scribble on the napkin again.

“Mind to also phoning my buddy Lester? Tell him I’m in Sandy Shores and will get back to LS once I have enough gas for the bike.” I also scrawl on his contact details before handing the napkin to her. Again she glances over it with a nod. I point towards the table hidden behind the wooden half-wall as she hands me a beer. She takes the napkin, walking towards an old, busted telephone which to my amazement still works. She punches in the digits and with the earpiece against her ear she examines her nails while she waits. I was extremely grateful for her willingness to help me