The Diner
© 2014 Craig A. Hart
The diner never closed, not even on Christmas. That was what the girl with the blue kerchief on her head told him when he walked in with rain dripping off his fedora. It was midnight and she picked up a pencil and scratched out another day square on the 1934 Coca-Cola calendar.
“I love marking the days,” she said. “I work late, so I always get to do it.”
“You always work late?” he asked.
“That’s why I get to mark the calendar.”
He asked for eggs and coffee. Fried eggs, no runny yolk, and black coffee as hot as it could get. He could never get his coffee hot enough.
It was a typical roadside diner, sparse and utilitarian. The stools at the counter might have had padding at one point, but not anymore. The light was yellow, the walls were yellow. The tile was yellow, although it used to be white. The place smelled of old grease and rain.
Highway 12 ran past the diner and the lights of passing cars flashed by every now and then. It was not a busy night. It was rainy and dark and he was the only customer.
“You work by yourself?” he asked.
“Mostly,” she said. She had her back to him, setting a new pot of coffee while eggs popped and sizzled on the burner.
“That doesn’t seem safe. Working late by yourself.”
She shrugged. “People are pretty nice around here. There’s one fella who comes in, Mr. Pritchett. He’s not always nice, but he’d never hurt me. He just talks rough sometimes.”
“I don’t see how anyone could talk rough to you. If anyone talked rough to you while I was here, I’d lay them out.”
The girl looked over her shoulder and blushed a little. “He’s okay. He never comes in this time of night anyway.”
“Still, I’d lay him out.”
“Listen to you talk. I guess you’re quite the charmer.”
He removed his fedora and placed it on the counter. His hair was cut short and a section of his scalp was scarred and bare. The scar was an angry red and ran from the top his head to just above the left ear. He waited to see the girl’s reaction. She looked at it, but did not seem repulsed like most people did.
“What happened to your head?” She sounded genuinely concerned.
“Railroad accident. We were laying rail up by Traverse when a dynamite stick went off too early and sent a spike through the side of my head.”
“That’s awful.”
He shrugged. “It’s all right. Most people don’t survive that kind of accident. Or if they do, they end up kind of crazy. I’m lucky, I guess. I’m not crazy.”
A telephone jangled. The girl scooped the eggs onto a plate before walking to the back of the diner. She reappeared a minute later.
“Sorry, that was the boss. He always checks in around this time to see how things are going just before he heads off to bed. It’s real thoughtful of him.”
“Every night, huh?”
“Yeah. He’s real thoughtful. Here’s your eggs.” She set the plate of eggs in front of him and poured a cup of fresh, steaming coffee. “Hope you like them.”
“I’m sure they’re delicious. A girl as pretty as you couldn’t make bad eggs.”
The girl blushed again. She was young and could not be much more than eighteen. He liked that. Young girls were usually nicer than the older ones.
The door banged open and a small man stumbled inside. He wore a pea coat and a floppy hat with rain dripping off the brim.
“It’s like a monsoon out there!” he said, making a shivering motion. “Give me a coffee for the road.”
The man at the counter looked at the newcomer, sizing him up. He wondered if this was Pritchett.
“Don’t you want to sit a spell?” the girl said.
“Can’t. Wife’s in labor down at St. Anthony’s. I been working on the new roadwork by Detroit. The call came through earlier today that she’d been taken to the hospital. Jumped in the car soon as I could.”
“Is your name Pritchett?” the man at the counter asked.
The newcomer looked confused.
“He’s not Pritchett,” the girl said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“No, my name’s Adams,” the man said. “Who’s Pritchett?”
“Pritchett never comes in this late,” the girl said. She poured coffee into a cardboard cup and pushed it across the counter. “There’s your coffee.”
“Thanks,” Adams said. He clutched the coffee and took a single sip. He smacked his lips. “Good and hot! This should keep me awake for another few miles.”
“Good luck to you and your wife,” the girl said.
The door slammed behind Adams. His car rumbled to life and crunched gravel as he pulled back onto the highway.
“I hope he makes it okay,” the girl said. “What with a baby on the way. I think that’s very exciting.”
“It’s funny,” he said.
“What’s funny?”
“Somewhere in the world, there’s a thousand babies being born and a thousand people dying.”
The girl made a face. “What a thing to say!”
“It’s just the way of it. It’s the circle of life.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about that.” The girl began scrubbing grease off the fryer. “I don’t like to talk about people dying.”
He looked down at his plate. He hadn’t eaten a bite yet and was hungry. He picked up the fork and cut into the eggs. The eggs had sat too long and were cold, but the coffee was hot. If the eggs had been hot, but the coffee cold, there would have been a problem. The eggs were rubbery and he didn’t like that. He beckoned for the girl and she walked over.
“The eggs. They’re rubbery.”
“You don’t like the eggs?”
“They’re rubbery. I don’t mind cold eggs, but I don’t like them to be rubbery. I don’t like how they feel in my mouth.”
“I can make you some more.”
“Don’t bother. They’d just be rubbery too.” He pushed his plate away. “A girl as pretty as you shouldn’t make bad eggs.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t make bad eggs. The coffee’s good. Hot.”
“You want me to make you some more eggs?”
His voice rose a little. “Stop talking about eggs.”
“I’m sorry.” The girl went back to scrubbing the grease.
He watched her as she worked, arms moving rhythmically forward and back, like the piston rods on a steam engine. As she scrubbed, he saw a sheen of sweat on her brow. He licked his lips. Her head bobbed as she moved, the head of an engineer, working the controls of a train. She was a steam engine, working, sweating, steaming. Her arms moved, jerking forward and back. The metal surface around the fryer was gleaming, shining like new tracks, working, chugging, straining. A train whistle sounded and he sat up straight.
“Did you hear that?” His eyes darted around the diner, as if he expected to see a train come roaring through the side wall.
The girl stopped scrubbing. “Hear what?”
“I...it was a train.”
“It must be 12:30,” the girl said. “It’s the freight. Right on time.”
He relaxed onto the stool. It had been a train. He wasn’t crazy. It had been a real train. He drank from his coffee cup.
The girl leaned against the counter. Her face was beaded with sweat. She removed the blue kerchief from her head and wiped her face. Golden hair, lightly curled, cascaded around her shoulders. She gathered it up and tied it at the back with the kerchief.
“The boss likes us to cover our heads,” she said. “Hair in the food. But it makes me warm. He won’t be in tonight. He calls at midnight to make sure everything is all right and then
he goes to bed.”
“Do you get many customers after midnight?”
“Not many,” she said.
“How much longer before I get my eggs?”
“What’s that?”
“My eggs. You said you’d make new ones. The old ones were rubbery.”
“You said you didn’t want more eggs.”
He wondered if the girl was slow. If he had ordered eggs and the first ones were bad, why wouldn’t he want new ones? He sighed.
“I want eggs. Good ones this time.”
The girl looked annoyed, which angered him, but she cracked two eggs on the burner. They sizzled and popped. She slid the eggs onto his plate.
“I hope you like them.”
He took a bite of the eggs. They were hot and good. “I like them.”
She reached forward to take his coffee cup. He grabbed her arm. She looked up at his face, her eyes wide.
“You’re hurting my arm.”
He pulled her closer. Her upper body stretched across the counter and she used her other arm to brace herself. He fingered her blonde hair.
“You have pretty hair. I knew a girl with such pretty hair couldn’t make bad eggs.”
She struggled against his grip. Her resistance angered him.
“You shouldn’t struggle,” he said. “I won’t hurt you if you don’t struggle.”
His words, intended as comfort, only made her struggle harder.
“You don’t listen well,” he said. “Pretty girls never listen well.”
He gripped both of her arms and gave a massive pull. The girl slid up and over the counter, legs kicking. She screamed and he hit her.
“I don’t like loud noises,” he said. “Loud noises hurt my head.”
She looked up at him and he saw defiance there. She wasn’t going to be nice. Pretty girls were never nice.
He pulled her by the arms and dragged her behind the counter. She struggled and he hit her. He pulled the blue kerchief from her hair. He pushed up her skirt and fumbled with her stockings. He was breathing heavily. Then he was on her and she stopped struggling.
* * *
After, he rolled away and lay on his back, panting and swearing. The girl had not moved, but her eyes were open, looking up at the yellow ceiling. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she did not make a sound.
He sat up and buttoned his pants. “Thank you,” he said.
The girl’s shoulders quaked, whether in a shudder or a sob he wasn’t sure.
“Why?” she asked in a small, ghostly voice. “Why did you do that?”
He did not answer right away. He had never been asked that question before. He stood up and looked down at her and felt sorry.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Thank you.” It was all he could think of to say.
The girl lay still and he felt sorry. Maybe she was nice after all. He had acted too quickly and frightened her. A girl this young was probably a virgin. Of course she would scream and struggle. He thought about not killing her. He wanted her to get up and move around. He wanted it to be like it had been earlier, when he had first arrived at the diner. He moved away from her.
“You can get up,” he said.
Her face was white against the tile, which used to be white, but was now yellow with age and old grease. She straightened her clothes and awkwardly pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. She leaned against the counter and her shoulders shuddered.
He walked around the counter and sat on the stool.
“Do you get many customers this time of night?”
She shook her head and the golden curls, free of the blue kerchief, bobbed around her shoulders.
“Not many,” she whispered.
He pushed his coffee cup forward. “I’d like some more coffee, please. Hot.”
END