One Washington Diner
2:30 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep, what with the incessant muffled chatter of the television in the apartment next door, and a pillow that couldn’t—and for the umpteenth night in a row wouldn’t—support the weight of a filled mind.
Not to mention the soft, staccato beep that never seemed to go away.
I’d rolled repeatedly onto my left side, then my right, and back again, entwining the sheets around my calves and ankles. I had to get out, anywhere; the silent roar of darkness would thrust me headlong into some witless state of sleep-deprived insanity if I didn’t. A quick splash of cool water upon my weary face, a rinse of the mouth, and the next thing I knew I was standing in the diner parking lot, nary a soul around. Ironically it felt as if I’d slept on the way over. I couldn’t remember any singular action I’d taken to make the trip from point A to B.
The interior lights punched holes in the dead of night, and in the stillness I could hear the buzz of glowing neon from the sign above. I’d hoped there would be the slim chance of some distraction from the empty, laughing darkness that taunted me. Pinching the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, I shuffled through the front door, greeted by the hostess/cashier/night manager, who apparently was thriving on the not-so-delicate thrush of caffeine. Her uniform bore the hallmarks of traditional diner-dom: bobby sox, her skirt hemline right around knee level, and wide, flat lapels on her blouse. She looked me over for all of two seconds before making her vocal appraisal.
“Let me guess…can’t sleep?” Her voice was disarming, welcoming, like a puppy that jumps in your lap. Managing a frustrated grin I hoarsely replied, “That obvious?”
“Your eyes, your body language—yeah.” I should have had some snappy retort, but my mental haze precluded any such response and subsequently I let slip my small window of opportunity for any suitable comeback.
Instead, I yawned.
“Jeez, my only customer and I’m already boring you,” she blurted out. I thought she smirked, but couldn’t be certain in my unwillingly wakeful state. I glanced around the dining room and motioned from left to right. “Looks like you’re swamped. Should I come back later?”
Soft brown curls played upon her left shoulder as she turned her head slightly. “Early a.m. sarcasm—I like it. Sit wherever you like, I’m good at finding people in crowd.” Even in my sleepless haze, I had to admit she was delightful. “If you don’t mind I’ll sit at the counter,” I croaked. “I’ll try not to be a bother.” Her hair gently fluttered as she shook her head. “Works for me. Cop a squat and I’ll be right with ya’.”
Yes, delightful, in a common denominator kind of way. Having never exceeded the mathematical scope of algebra during my academic career, that suited me just fine.
The decor was predictably chromed most everywhere and included the almost requisite white tables with red vinyl booths. A solid string of red neon glowed from its hiding place close to the convex ceiling, broken only in the center of the room by the Elvis clock that swung its hips in time to each passing moment. A pie display sat two-thirds empty next to the cash register, and at the far end of the room I could see a ketchup bottle turned upside down upon a red squeeze bottle, the round openings of each perfectly aligned against each other.
“Want some coffee?” she suggested.
“Since I’m having trouble sleeping, it’s probably not the best idea…” She spun as if on cue, like she had completely anticipated my remark. “We have this new stuff we put in this pot with the orange handle, called decaf. Amazing what they can do with a simple coffee bean, ya’ know?”
“I, umm,” I stammered. She raised one eyebrow. “Sure, why not.” The plain white ceramic mug in front of me landed with a soft thud as she turned it over and set it down and then carefully poured.
“Sugar or cream?” she asked, topping off the mug. Folding my arms in front of me, I nodded. “Help yourself, they’re right in front of you.” She grinned mischievously.
“I’m going to play a hunch here,” I began, reaching for the condiments.
“What’s that?”
“I’m guessing you only drink the leaded stuff, judging by your keen focus and energy level.” Sugar cascaded into the steaming blackness.
“Here and there. Makes the long night bearable.”
The cream didn’t swirl so much as float like some newly manifested apparition as I drizzled it into the mug. A pyromaniac is fascinated by the dance and destructive fury of a flame; a prospector’s eyes twinkle at the discovery of the smallest flake or nugget of gold shining at the bottom of a pan. I sat cosmically mesmerized by the suspended cloud of whiteness slowly ballooning inside my mug of coffee—until her voice snapped me back to harsh reality.
“Anything interesting, you know, like a famous face, or did you see the future?”
“No, sadly,” I began, picking up the spoon to stir. “But it’s entirely possible that through some altered state of metaphysical being I’ve become privy to the meaning of the universe.” The spoon blended the fading cloud of cream into the coffee, turning it a velvety caramel brown.
“Ooh, goodie! I would love to know what it is!” she squealed. Whether being playful or not, she seemed genuinely excited, or perhaps she was simply patronizing me—either of which were welcome at this point. I raised the mug halfway and stopped.
“It’s quite simple, really,” I teased before taking a cursory sip. She thrust her hands into the hip pockets on either side of her blouse and stared at me.
“Oh, you want the answer.”
“You’ve poised me at the brink of a soul-bending epiphany, so…yeah. Hit me.”
Setting the mug down, I glanced around the diner in mock secrecy, then leaned in toward her and whispered my reply. “Forty two.” The sound of air rushing from a balloon filled my head as I watched her expression change.
“I think my cerebrum just imploded,” she mocked. “All that from a cup of coffee? Hmm, perhaps I should switch to decaf.”
“It’s a very zen-like thing, actually,” I explained. “A profound sense of existentialism; call it ‘coffee spirituality’ if you like.” I began raising the cup for a second sip.
Clasping her hands together, she leaned her forearms on the counter, glimmering eyes of honey amber peering back at me. “And you divined that from staring at your coffee, all by yourself?” The lip of the mug never made it to my lips.
“Well, number one, if you’re going to be condescending, I won’t order any food,” I grinned. “Second, I had a little help from Douglas Adams.” She never moved, never blinked, just stared as I sipped nonchalantly at my coffee. “Questions?” I asked.
“Who am I to question such mystic philosophy? So, what can I get you?”
“Whatcha’ got?” I stopped her as she reached for a menu. “Nah, just tell me. I’m enjoying the company.” Placing her hands behind her, she leaned against the back counter and crossed her ankles. “Well, what we have is whatever I can cook.”
“You’re a one-woman show, huh?”
“I’m a hit, as you can tell.” She spread her arms wide to as if to fashionably display the empty diner, like some game-show model gesturing at the prize car as the curtain lifts.
I patted my pockets pretending to check for something. “Dang, I seem to have forgotten my pen, otherwise I’d sure love your autograph.”
“This is your lucky morning, isn’t it? Just so happens I always have one handy.” Reaching into the front pocket of her apron she produced a thick pen, clicking the top button several times for cartoonish emphasis.
I cupped my hands over my mouth and feigned rapturous joy. “Oh my gosh, I’m your biggest fan!”
“I must admit, it’s always nice to meet a fan.” I could tell she was clearly enjoying herself. She reached into the opposite apron pocket, bringing out a receipt book. “Now, fanboy, what would you like me to write on this here check?”
Not-so-subtle reminders of the diners offerings were plastered at every conceivable pl
ace a pair of eyes could look: upon the walls, table tents, refrigerated display cases, even as advertisements on the floor: pancakes, fried chicken, chili fries, milk shakes, all vying for one’s stomach and wallet. The eat-what-you-see school of persuasion was hardly lacking reserve judging from the decor.
I swiveled on the stool while contemplating the cornucopia of unhealthy choices. “Do you know the concept of mindless eating?” I asked. She crossed her arms and considered the question. “No, can’t say I do.”
“Interesting, actually. It says that even the most seemingly inconsequential things can influence what or how much we eat, like the size of a plate or the lighting in the room. The science of it is predicated upon a whole slew of studies done in just about any place you would find food: restaurants, movie theaters, malls, homes, and yes, even diners.” Her body language screamed indifference, but I could tell she was paying attention.
“They’ve termed it mindless eating because through the studies they’ve found that people, on average, make some kind of decision about food somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 times a day—as it turns out, that’s about twenty times more often than they were aware of doing it.” I paused to take another sip of coffee and gauge her interest, which wasn’t easy. She hadn’t moved since I’d begun my little lecture. “If you have things to do…”
“There’s a party of six over in station two I need to get to,” she deadpanned, “but they can wait. Please continue.” I couldn’t help but look to my right. I hadn’t heard anyone come in, but my natural curiosity wouldn’t be denied. The diner was still empty—except, of course, for me.
Then it struck me how eerily quiet it was.
“I couldn’t help but notice how little noise there is in here.” She shrugged. “Never occurred to me, actually.” I closed my eyes for a moment, concentrating. “Do you…do you hear that beeping sound? It seems to be coming from outside?” I asked, gesturing to the left. After a few seconds of peaceful alertness, she shook her head. “Nope, I don’t hear a thing.”
“Been hearing it a lot lately. I mean, like, everywhere.” I looked down at my coffee, then back up at her, trying to remember what I’d been ranting about before. “Where was I?”
She waved her pen in small circles. “People thinking about eating…”
“Oh, right. So anyhow, in one study they found that people sitting near a clear bowl filled with Hershey’s Kisses ate something like close to 70 percent more than those seated near a white dish filled with the same candy.”
She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, and that has what to do with me or the diner?”
“Suffice it to say, no one leaves here hungry, I’d bet.”
“Well they’re not coming in for the entertainment, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.” she mocked.
I cleared my throat before speaking. “Clearly, that’s their loss.”
Waving both hands briskly in front of her face, she put on her best Southern drawl. “I do declare…aren’t you quite the charmer!” I shrugged before taking another gulp, “Eh, it’s a gift.” She smiled, perhaps a bit too coyly.
“Well, Santa, are you going to order or just keep tryin’ to sweep me off my feet?”
“You got waffles?”
“How many?”
“Two would be good.”
“Bacon, hash browns…anything else with that?”
“No, but thanks,” I replied. Something about her seemed very familiar, as if I’d known her from somewhere. As we grow, some of our fondest memories are those kept from childhood, of friends you’d run around with barefoot or go on trips with their families during summer break. Still others come from high school, laughs and rumors shared and started in the bleachers during a pep rally—neither of which did I have much recall. From college on, though, that was different. Perhaps because the onset of adulthood blurs into the somewhat structured chaos of college life. I knew her, just couldn’t remember from where. I watched as she dutifully strode around the corner and into the kitchen.
“They should be ready in about five,” she yelled.
“That’s fine,” I countered. I listened to the sounds of utensils banging against aluminum bowls and the eventual sizzle as batter hit the hot waffle iron. She came back around the corner briefly to offer to warm up my coffee and disappeared into the kitchen again. The lack of noise had grown beyond the point of conspicuous, and coupled with the inability to feasibly remember how I’d arrived here, I felt the gnawing onset of inconvenient disquiet. Something was amiss, something intangible yet important. I swiveled upon the stool to look outside, but the windows looked out into nothing—not so much pitch black as just the absence of light drifting aimlessly.
And yet, as indistinct as some of the surroundings were, I could still hear—if I could call it that—the soft electronic beep that seemed to follow me.
“Order UP!” she called from the kitchen as she slid the plate upon the chrome shelf in the delivery window. I jumped slightly, jarred from my self-imposed preoccupation. She seemed to glide around the corner as she picked up the plate and set it before me. “Dos barquillos, verdad?”
“If barquillos means waffles, then, si,” I replied, staring blankly at the plate.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry—they look delicious, really.”
She turned around and reached down to pull some butter out of a cooler. “You can look as long as you like, but they ain’t gettin’ any warmer.” Three pats of butter materialized in front of me, followed by a small container of syrup. She looked directly into my eyes, her gaze perforating my addled thoughts. “Something wrong?”
“What?” I said dryly, “uh…no, no it’s fine really.”
“Uh, huh.” Sharp, this one. Smoke and mirrors wouldn’t suffice with her, so I had to settle for the one thing many men want but fear the most—the truth.
“I remembered a quote from Mark Twain; just made me think, that’s all.” She walked around the counter and sat next to me before speaking. “And it was?” I gave her a momentary glance, trying to discern if it was worth the utterance; the reluctant conclusion was that I had little, if nothing, to lose by sharing my thoughts with her.
“Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is…”
“…because we are not the person involved.” Her look was one of wanting to smile blended with concentration. “You look—surprised.”
“Well, yeah, I am,” I blurted. “I mean, I hadn’t expected you would know the quote.” Somewhere, neurons in my brain were firing faster than I could measurably conceive, bringing to bear one inescapable thought: Hey, idiot…had you filled your mouth with waffle that little verbal misdeed wouldn’t have happened. Apparently it decided to take matters into its own hands and began to move my own, cutting off a chunk of waffle and impaling it upon my fork.
She only smiled, a knowing, sweetly insidious smile. “It might surprise you, what I know.” My jaws moved as they chewed, preventing some other malfeasance of thought from diving off my tongue, while that little voice crossed its arms and chided me, you got lucky, buddy. I just nodded and chewed. Wasn’t until the third bite I sensed there was no taste—it wasn’t dry, stiff, bland, doughy—it just…wasn’t.
“Do you fear death?” she asked matter-of-factly.
I finished chewing and swallowed. “No, not really.” I paused, considering my words. “It comes to each of us one way or another,” I added pragmatically. Lifting another fork full, I stopped midway and quietly dropped my fork to the plate again. “Why would you ask that?”
“Twain’s words, on the surface, have a subtle comic truth to them, I think you’d agree.” I nodded silently. “But its deeper premise, it’s emotional power—that’s what made you think, made you pensive.”
This little excursion I’d taken to try and relieve my sleeplessness had just added a few new eggs to my deprivation basket. “You understand, don’t you, that your ability to perceive my state of being is most unsettling.” Suddenly she sa
t up straight, completely removed from her prior relaxed demeanor.
“I honestly didn’t mean to scare you or make you nervous…”
I waved her off. “Please—really, I suppose I’m a little disappointed to find out I’m that easily read.” I took another quick sip of coffee. “I, uh, can’t seem to avoid this feeling that I know you from somewhere. You seem very familiar, but that—you know—knowledge feeling, that sensation you get when you suddenly recall something—it’s like, way out of my grasp at the moment—and it’s buggin’ me.” Her posture changed slightly, certainly less rigid.
“Well, who do I remind you of?”
“That’s part of the problem; I know you remind me of somebody, but I can’t seem to get the gears to mesh. I can’t quite clear this…this…mental fog that seems to keep me from reaching out and connecting with that memory.”
“That has to be incredibly frustrating.”
“Maddening is the word you’re looking for. Kind of like when you feel a sneeze coming, but it won’t come. You know it’s there but you can’t get to it.”
“I hate that!” she spouted. “That’s so—irritating.”
“So now you see my dilemma.”
“See?” she exclaimed, “I so get it now!” She leaned over onto the counter, left forearm outstretched, regarding me with a calmness I found hypnotic—she knew something I didn’t. Her mute intimation of enlightenment should have felt like fingernails scraped against a chalkboard, but instead only served to amplify my intrigue. Her every move, nuanced or exaggerated, seemed not so much planned as purposeful, like she was supposed to do it. I began to convince myself it was she that was there for me, whether by design of prudence or some inexplicable twist of fate. All manner of sensibility pointed less to random chance than to some calculated arrangement of whispered prayers answered. No, she wouldn’t reveal anything to me that she knew I wasn’t ready for. I wasn’t even sure how I knew…but I knew.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and set it atop the remains of tasteless waffles. My hunger was different now. Gently pushing the plate aside I carefully scrutinized her uniform.
“I don’t see a name tag, and you never told me your name…you know, most good waitresses do that. ‘Hi, I’m Michelle and I’ll be your waitress,’ something noticeably lacking in your presentation I might add.”
“Well, Michelle, nice to meet you. My name is Brenda—Brenda Carty.”
I suddenly felt woozy, my dizziness blurred and blended all streams of thought into one muddy stream of confusion. I knew that name—it meant something. Something profound. Like a fish nibbling at a baited hook, I could feel her name tugging repeatedly at me, the sound of it careening in my head.
Still the heady sensation of cognizance eluded me; I couldn’t connect the dots.
“Whoa,” she said, alarmed, “you okay?”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You got pale all of a sudden. I don’t know about you, but in my experience that’s not usually associated with pleasant feelings.”
Steadying myself against the counter, I hung my head in an effort to clear my thoughts and focus on remaining conscious. “Just, uh—your…your name,” I mumbled at the white Formica countertop. “Seems pretty silly to have that strong a reaction to a name, but it feels like my mind and my emotions are going out of their way to avoid one another.”
“It’ll come to ya’, hun’. Give it time.” Her voice was soothing, strangely reassuring. I looked at her and nodded gently. I knew it would, but it seemed to be taking its sweet time getting there.
“Now it seems I’m at something of a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” I looked up and caught her beautiful brown eyes. “Umm…”
“Take your time. Morning rush shouldn’t start for a couple of hours yet,” she needled.
“Daron—if I remember correctly, it’s Daron.” Her eyes, her hair, the way her smile stole a moment and made it a memory—I desperately wanted to remember. I ached for it.
“Seems to me, Daron, like you have a lot on your plate. No pun intended.”
“What really bothers me is I can recall childhood rhymes, but I can’t piece together things which I know mean something.” I stated flatly, pounding my fist lightly upon the counter. The fork barely clattered against the plate as I did so.
“Maybe it’s because you’re so tired. Maybe once you get some rest things will start making sense again,” she offered.
I pressed my palm against my forehead, then let it travel through my hair, fingers pulling lightly as they went. “Maybe. I hope it’s that simple.”
Brenda rose and stood behind the stool. “Let’s try to keep it simple, then,” she said, stepping to the spot where she’d greeted me earlier. “You remember coming in the door and seeing me, right?” I spun slowly on my stool and turned to face her.
“Sure,” I remarked calmly.
“Do you remember what you felt when you first walked in?”
My eyes fell, almost automatically to the floor, myopically expecting to detect the answer glowing with a resplendent shimmer upon the crisscrossed tile surface, then they lurched toward the obsidian windows, and finally came to a thoughtful pause upon her now familiar countenance. I squinted in the way one does when trying to force a thought to the front of the brain.
“All I can remember…is, uh…feeling tired, I guess. Like when you feel so deeply tired you can’t begin to sleep, you know?”
Brenda considered my answer before forging onward. “Okay, I can understand that. When you saw me, I mean when you first came in the door—did anything strike you? I mean, you almost passed out on me a few minutes ago when I told you my name, so I thought perhaps…”
I shook my head definitively. “No, no I’m pretty sure I would have remembered reacting like that when I first saw you.”
She crossed one arm over her chest and rested the other elbow upon it, looking very much like an upright version of Rodin’s The Thinker. After a few more moments of disquieting silence her eyes widened in some sort of partial epiphany. “What about your trip over here. You must remember that.”
“Strangely, I really don’t. I’d say it was a blur, if it was, but I can’t even say that.” With every passing sentence things felt increasingly surreal.
Brenda walked forward and stopped directly in front of me, her line of vision boring into mine. Her eyes shifted quickly back and forth as they searched for something I couldn’t begin to fathom. “Do you remember anything from the last day or so?” I clasped my hands together and held them in my lap, then let my eyes wander of their own free will, hoping they’d hit upon something that would flip at least one switch, draw that one elusive line and connect just a couple of dots for me. Some cosmic force had decided to hide the truth behind an obscure locked door and conveniently misplace the key. And yet, I could make out bits and pieces if I carefully spied through the keyhole.
Pensively I inhaled and closed my eyes. “Vaguely. Something about an argument.” A slow, festering ache began to bleed through the emotional haze. “Yes…yes, that much I feel is certain,” I murmured as I opened and lifted my eyes to hers again.
The ache: it was in her eyes too.
“What was it about?” she asked softly.
I struggled with the recall, but her face, especially her eyes, provided an enigmatic spark that danced along some frayed neural pathway. A murky, distant image taunted me from deep within, the undefined blur of shapes gesturing in the heat of disagreement, muffled words floated about, bubbling and sticky like melted marshmallows.
“A chair?” I heard myself question aloud. Brenda’s face contorted slightly, perhaps in syncopation with her puzzlement. I gently shook my head, trying to jar a little more definition loose. A raised voice drifted by, indistinct in form but undeniably feminine. Then a masculine laugh followed by heavy silence.
“Umm, something about,” I gestured, hands flapping
in mid-air, “a gift for a relative.”
“The chair, perhaps?”
I nodded. It seemed to fit. “I think so.”
“So, you and someone else had an argument about a chair that was given as a gift…”
“There’s more to it; little bits and pieces are coming to me—shards and quick, blurred glimpses. It’s kind of like—like driving in the mountains at night. I mean, you can barely see the road or scenery as you drive through, but you can make out something as your headlights pass. It’s quick, but it’s something.” There was no attempt at persuasion in my explanation, only the excitement of fleeting remembrance.
Brenda sat back down as she spoke. “Okay, okay, that’s a good start. So what are you feeling or seeing?”
I closed my eyes as if I had to emphasize the process, to make it somehow more believable. “A…a…woman. I can’t see or make out her face or any of her features, but the voice that keeps playing, it’s definitely a woman’s voice.” I hung my head in concentration. “Her voice seems frustrated,” I said, and then paused. “ No, I think it’s perhaps more—”
“More what?” Brenda whispered.
Holding my head up, I opened my eyes and looked at her. “More—angry.”
“About a chair?” she asked, seemingly incredulous. I sat motionless, hoping whatever fragile waves of grace were washing over me would continue and not suddenly ebb. My inward vigilance paid off.
My expression must have been quite confusing, I wanted to grin and frown simultaneously. “I, uh—”
She sat quiet this time, apparently content to wait for my entire reply.
My brain felt like a merry-go-round—one memory would come, however faintly, but then would shrink as it faded around a corner, and another would come around the other side, only to shrink as the other had; at least they were coming, though. “I think I said something off-handed.” Recall seemed to flicker and jump, like an old movie that won’t synchronize with a projector. “Ok—yes,” I nodded, “it was meant as a joke.”
“Do tell,” she quipped.
“Mother-in-law,” I murmured, the words barely leaving my lips.
Brenda smiled again, that I know something about you kind of smile. “You made a crack about someone’s mother-in-law?”
“I should have thought twice before saying it, but it seemed so natural to say it, and next thing I knew it was out there.”
“Must have been a doozy,” she said with a snicker.