California

I hurt my ankle back in Denver last week. I had just been waiting for it to heal itself, but as we walked into that California diner it still didn't feel quite right and every step came with a twinge of pain.

Not five steps into the diner, a sixty-something-year-old black man finishes his sip of coffee and points to my foot from his table. Next to his coffee lies a platter of eggs and hashbrowns and a copy of the LA Times.

"It's your achilles tendon. It's torn," He says matter-of-factly.

Iris and I look at each other and ascertain the right response before I go with a simple, "Well thank you. Very helpful of you."

As we begin to walk away we hear him stand up. He comes and lays a hand on each of our shoulders, inviting us into his world.

"Why don't you two ladies join me for breakfast. I've been a bit lonely lately and you look like you got some stories."

We join him, eager for new conversation companions and a little bit sick of each other. His name is Robert, Bob for short. He is giddy about our road trip, and the fact that we are sisters. He's envious of our time together: his brother died a while back and he seemed to still harbor sadness over that fact. He opens up faster than any one else we've met on the road thus far: "I'm my favorite storyteller," He says.

And boy, was he right. He was originally from Monroe, Louisiana, and his journey was by no means easy. Iris and I knew all about the Great Migration, Mama's brother travelled north to Milwaukee in the 40s himself, but that's a story for another time.

20 minutes into the conversation I remembered my ankle. "We got so off topic," I say. "I forgot to ask: are you a doctor? Or just magic?"

"I'm a surgeon."

"What kind of surgeon?"

"A damn good one."

This man's conviction is striking, lovable, and slightly condescending all at once. Not unlike my uncle who traveled north from New Orleans during the same time period. He explains he was so taken by us because he could tell how we were wearing the road, and he remembered that feeling. That need to get away. But for him, we gathered, it was not always so easy. Life on the road as a black woman is perilous, but at least we can expect service at any old diner.

As Iris and I start to regretfully say our goodbyes to this man we knew we'd remember forever, a Ray Charles song came on the old-fashioned diner Jukebox. It was "I don't need no doctor."

"Well I'll be damned," Rob murmurs, smiling a pure, youthful smile.

"What is it, Rob?" Iris asks.

"Nothin.' Sometimes life just makes sense," He responded resolutely.

I left carrying a heavy sadness that this would likely be the last I ever hear from Rob. But, I think, he'd make a damn good character in a story.