"In the white room with black curtains, at the station"
I stil listen to that old song while driving my old run down chevy. The smell of the old days is still fresh inside the screeching doors. The red lack’s got scars from 10, no 20 years past. I can see and even smell the pine trees next to the old dusty road. How did it come to this I do not know? I found myself alone so I got back to my hometown, where things didn’t turn out different. I was alone there too, quite a mentally suffocating experience. The thought of me being tough had not long ago left me; well I wasn’t that of a hot shot to begin with.

From time to time some old trucks pass by, but never in my direction, always in the opposite. Just like an old time machine, giving me that creepy feeling of regret and anxiety I’ve always hated so much. Some more miles south where the pines give way to vast spaces of grass I manage to spot the road sign I was searching for. “12 miles more eh” I murmur to myself, the almost burned out cigar between my clenched teeth. “Wonder if home’s just like it used to be?” And to be honest I never thought it would be the same, it’s just the flickering memory that’s keeping my mind occupied. Maybe I’ll go back to my old job from before I left the country, maybe I’ll meet my old friends. Well maybe not, but who cares at that point any more. If I cared I wouldn’t have left town in the first place.
The sight of the first small white wooden houses brings back soothing memories to my mind. I used t play in front of one when I was a child . Still holding hope to find that one house I drive through the small town centre. No changes at all, just the people, yes the people are different. But still, I can feel something of the old days in them. The smell of tobacco and coffee mixed up with cheap eau-de-Cologne and the smell of fresh bakery in this surprisingly chill, for this part of the country, morning.

I decide to stop at Randy’s for a cup of black and something to strengthen me from the long drive down here. I’ve been on the road for almost four days; I can already smell my clothes, reeking of sweat cigarettes and cheap women. But my destination is here under my feet. Pushing the old glass door leading into the café I take a seat next to the window overlooking the promenade.
“What would you ask sir” – the waitress doesn’t make me wait for her too long. Dressed casually and maybe a bit pissed, her blond hair bound to a pony tail. The slow ticking of the pencil on the small writing pad she’s holding gets faster and faster, pointing out that she’s getting impatient.

“Two times English breakfast, two cups of coffee and a doughnut with cherries please” – I tell her without even looking at the menu.

“Ok, so ya want twice English, same count blacks and a cherry dough.” Casually repeating the order she walks away and vanishes behind the bar.