*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual act are at least eighteen years of age.
*
Chapter 1
Serena Lee slurped at the large chocolate malt. She wasn't really hungry, but Jackie insisted that she drink it.
"You need to put some weight on you, girl," Jackie laughed as she affectionately popped her dishtowel at Serena's bony rump.
Serena Lee and Jackie Washington stood at five foot four, warm brown eyes to brown eyes, but there the similarity ended.
Serena Lee was bone thin, with pasty white skin splotched by orange freckles. Her long bright carrot orange hair hung limply down to her the back of her knees. She wore a bra, simply for modesty's sake, but had absolutely no breasts whatsoever.
Jackie's skin was the color of a chocolate candy bar (that's why I'm so sweet' she would laugh) and wore her black hair cropped close to the scalp. Her breasts were large as were her hips and rear end. She had a bit of a paunch to her belly as well.
"I really like her," Jackie confided to Chad Fontenot, Serena's boyfriend.
"Yeah?" he smiled and pulled another rack of clean dishes from the dishwasher. "Me too."
"Ooh, you know what I mean," Jackie laughed. "I wanted to hate her, but I just can't."
Unbeknownst to Serena, Chad and Jackie had enjoyed one hot afternoon, making love to each other. Jackie, after the thrill had worn off, had told Chad that while it had been very enjoyable, Louisiana in 1978 just wasn't going to be very kind to a black girl and white boy loving each other.
He had to agree with her; there were just too many small-minded people that wouldn't be able to look beyond the color of their skin. They both agreed that that afternoon would be their 'little secret,' there would be no benefit in telling Serena, or anyone else about it. They weren't ashamed of it, or ashamed of their friendship though.
----
Charles McCall sat at the red light, taking the time to re-examine the interior of brand new Mercedes Benz 500 SEL. The tan leather was butter soft to the touch, and smelled great. It's light color was a nice compliment to the pearl white exterior of the powerful car.
He looked over; three teenage girls had pulled up to the red light in a battered Datsun B210. They were openly admiring the car as they sat, side by side. The light turned green and he easily left them behind; the large motor responding magnificently to his touch.
That's when he saw it, the 1949 Indian Chief. It was parked in front of some greasy spoon diner, the 'Roundabout.' By the time he saw it, he was whizzing past the diner too fast to pull into the parking lot, so he had to wait until the next traffic light to make the U-Turn.
He had to laugh as the three girls tooted their horn as they zoomed past him.
----
Jackie sat down at the counter next to Serena, who was gamely trying to finish the last few spoonfuls of the thick malt. She swiveled in the seat and faced the large window that looked out onto Veteran's Memorial Boulevard.
"Ooh, I got him!" she perked up and called out as a tall blonde haired man got out of a Mercedes Benz.
Zoë, the other waitress looked up and shrugged her shoulders. Jackie was still new at witnessing; she would learn in time. The people that drove big flashy cars and wore expensive suits often expected special treatment, overzealous service, and left the stingiest of tips. If they tipped at all. They seemed to think that their money and prestige entitled them to the servitude of everyone else.
The man was good looking enough, with his shaggy blonde hair, blonde mustache, and nice looking suit. Zoë shrugged her shoulders again, and put the check down in front of her own customer.
"Who owns that Indian out front?" Charles asked loudly as he entered the diner.
"I do," Gary answered from the grill.
"I'll give you five thousand for it, cash," Charles offered.
"Not for sale, man," Gary smiled and shook his head.
: Six thousand," Charles countered.
"Nah, man, that bike was my old man's bike; left it to me when he died last month," Gary smiled.
"Oh, well, then, I understand," Charles smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry about your old man. They are such sweet rides, though."
"Yeah, fucking shame they got them helmet laws, though," Gary, agreed. "You got one?"
"I wish, man," Charles said. "Was saving up my money to get this cherry Indian Scout but had to give that up."
"Why?" Gary asked.
"Girlfriend was late, had to do the right thing, had to finish up school, you know, life got in the way," Charles said.
"Yeah, man, sometimes life's like that, you know?" Gary agreed.
"So, what's a man got to do to get some service around here?" Charles asked loudly.
"How 'bout sitting down?" Jackie asked and Charles found a booth near the window where he could look out at his car, and at the Indian Chief.
"Oh, no, I already know what I want," he smiled as she handed him a plastic laminated menu.
"Yeah?" she smiled. "What you want?"
"I want a greasy cheeseburger, as greasy and nasty as you can make it, loaded with unions and mayonnaise and mustard, but leave them nasty pickles off of it, give me some French fries with it," he said.
"Comes with fries," Jackie told him.
"And, what you got to drink?" he aced.
"Coke, Tab, Sprite, sweet tea," Jackie intoned.
"How about a big old strawberry malt?" he asked.
"Yeah, we got that," she smiled widely. She was real proud of the attention to detail she gave the malts she made.
"Want them onions grilled?" Gary called out to Charles when Jackie gave him the check.
