A Night At Memoren Diner Read online

  A Night At Memoren Diner

  Victor Vahl

  My college professor Shocavsky once said that time was comprised of multiple passages. Passages of not just the past, present, and future but also a conglomeration of numerous variables that people call “alternate universes.” Professor Shocavsky theorized a station in the universe where all these points converged, meeting with one another with no awareness.

  Since then, I’ve always kept a scrap of packing paper with that writing. I stow it in my wallet for safekeeping.

  Does this concept ever apply to my everyday habits in life? Fuck no. I wish. I am, in fact, a brand designer on a business trip to Wisconsin. The muddy skies and grey dirt surrounding this small state do not support my rhetoric for “Yay, can’t wait to visit Wisconsin again!”

  What’s brought some excitement to my life is a diner I’m staying at. Unfortunately, I ran into a pothole that snugged itself into the darkness, and my left front tire burst. For now, I wait here for my mechanic to arrive.

  The name, in yellow neon signs accented with red, read “MEMOREN DINER.” I walked in to find a pristine white interior. To my left, a marble counter with stainless steel stools. All padded by a lush violet leather. And on the far end, a black jukebox with blue neon rods, and a clock mounted on the wall above it. The time was 10:15. A very compelling color palette, violet, white, and pink, although bizarre for a diner - which sticks typically to yellow and darks, or white and red-tinted closely to blood. An alluring colorway with a striking contrast.

  Coffee. I need coffee. I sat by a counter, where immediately a waitress approached me with a violet-glossed half-smirk. Her work attire seemed like a one-piece. A short sleeve, torso buttoned-up torso faintly revealing her pale collarbone. The front of her blonde hair was rolled up into three buns, fully

  stiff a la hairspray. Swirled around it were dashes of brown, like a golden cinnamon bun.

  “Hi, traveler,” she said in a soft pitch, “How are you today?”

  “I could be better,” I said. From the corner of my eye, the second hand of the clock ran backward. But I’m more gravitated towards this conversation. “Sorry, that introduction’s a bit rude of me.”

  “Hey, you didn’t insult me.”

  “Yeah, but not like my temperament is making you enjoy your shift.”

  She chuckled, rolled her eyes to the side, and beamed them back to me. “You’re overreacting. Come on, no need to be so stiff,” she leaned onto the surface of the counter, arms crossed. “What would you like?”

  “A coffee would be nice. With a splash of almond milk.”

  “Sure.”

  I’m surprised a diner actually uses almond milk. The waitress walked away, moving over to the coffee pot. At that moment, the door rang open. An old man limped inside, wearing thoroughly drenched jeans and a leather jacket of the same mishap. His face was clearly wrinkled, but he kept his head lowered to hide the rest from my perspective. Outside through the landscape window lacked any droplets of rain, nor puddles of water that would bounce back the reflection of the street lamps. Yet there he was, dripping so much water on the leather of the booth he sat in.

  “Here’s your coffee,” the waitress said. I turned back, and although she was at the pot, my cup was directly in front of me. Light brown, smoke rising out of the pink ceramic mug. I wrapped my hands around it to warm myself. Then, taking a gulp, I realized the coffee wasn’t even scalding hot. Usually,

  I’d have to take a sip. Or wait after burning my tongue once.

  “Thank you,” I replied. I didn’t even catch the waitresses’ name. She had a name tag, I’m sure of that. “How long have you worked here?” I asked in a way to urge her to turn back around and come back here.

  “Oh god, that century-old question. 5 years?” She replied, her back turned against me. At this point, her legs were the only thing in my line of sight. Bruises of different sizes spotted across her leg, but to no way I could conclude some sort of pattern. Rather random and sporadic. And her varicose veins stuck out as cerulean blue against her porcelain legs. They shined off the artificial light as if they had been recently glossed with oil, or if they were actual porcelain.

  “Is it interesting? Having to work here?” The door rang open again. I ignored it that time.

  “The job has its moments,” she said.

  “Well...who’s the craziest person you met?”

  The waitress turned back, looking past my glare. Her eyes directed to the elderly man behind me, sitting in one of the booths. His head was still lowered.

  That’s odd. So, I mouthed to her, “What’d he do?”

  “I’m sorry?” For fucks sake. I motioned over here. She finally moved towards me, her name tag revealed. ‘Dol.’ The second half of her name was cut off. Dol leaned into me and whispered, “What did you say?”

  I whispered, “What did he do?”

  Dol sighed, “He killed a cop.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How the hell is he still sitting here?!”

  “Well...this all only happened a few days ago. I have him in the freezer.”

  Eyes widened, I tried to articulate the right set of words. But the impulsive twitch of my lips kept me baffled. She continued, “He’s been coming in every day, checking in to make sure I don’t slip up.”

  “You don’t think talking to me would make him suspicious?”

  “I’ll say you’re my boyfriend.”

  Back at the clock, the second hand was now spinning back wildly, while the minute and hour followed right behind it. But I was too bewildered by the old man behind me, stoic in his motion. I needed a plan.

  I remembered I had a badge. A police badge. The badge was scuffed from scratches since I carried it around with me for years now as a keepsake.

  Back in my college years, I had gotten into some...scuffles with some delinquent friends. We had ambushed a cop and beat the shit out of him. His face became swollen to a pulp, and then my dumbass cohort grabbed the gun out of the officer’s holster, shooting him directly in the head. How I felt like the canvas of a Pollock painting when the blood spattered against my face. I remember the backward motion his eyes took, leaving only whiteness. I swiped the badge, like a sort of primal instinct. Ever since, that badge reminded me of the bad years, to always avoid those again.

  I explained to Dol, showing her the badge, “Listen... I’m an undercover cop. You take my phone and shoot a picture of the officer. I’ll distract him.”

  “But... you’re a brand designer.”

  Wait. Something isn’t adding up. “How did you know that?”

  “You told me, Freddy.”

  “Freddy’s not my name,” I replied. Is it Freddy? How the fuck am I having such a rough time remembering my name.

  A sudden bang boomed from the left, near the jukebox. A door, as white as the walls, emerged out of thin air. Had that door always been existing, and I simply didn’t notice?

  I wonder what else went over my head. Well, there was that godforsaken pothole. A few women who had signaled flirtations with me. But how am I supposed to decipher what a flirtation or a friendly gesture is?

  Another 3 bangs boomed from behind the door, solidifying my focus. From the corner of my eye, Dol beamed not at the door, but my face with a cold, sharp glare.

  A tiny black gap emerged from the door, void in its space. My heart stopped. My hands are frigid, unlike the warmth of the coffee. My vision warped my essence into this other dimension. Another 2 bangs.

>   And, in a split-second, the diner’s light shined into the void, revealing a ghastly grey jaw. Spotted with dark yellow and microscopic strands of hair. A thin black line with multiple cracks just above the chin. The closer I analyzed, the more I realized the bare patches of flesh and bone. What is it? Is Dol hiding something else? Something with her and the old man? The jaw clenched, and the black line opened to unveil a yellowed, ill-refined smile. The door immediately shut.

  “What...what was?” I asked, unable to form words

  “What did you see?” Dol asked. Her voice raised to an unsettling pitch, so quick that I nearly jolted out of my seat. Once again, it was hard to place on what I should do in this predicament, or what to say. “What did you see?!”

  She screamed at me. I jumped, and quickly my aggression kicked in. I refused to be cornered like prey.

  “You have someone in there, don’t you?!” I yelled, walking toward the door.

  “DON’T open that door, Rick.”

  “Oh, SHUT UP,” I yelled, “I’m putting an end to this bullshit and calling the police,” my hand reached for the doorknob.

  “Please...you have no idea what you’re opening,” she said. Her sincere words were foreign, leaving me starry-eyed in what exactly she meant. But my heart pushed for the door. The door would provide me with the truth, not this waitress I just met. I open the door and stepped through the darkness.

  *******

  My college professor Shocavsky once said that time was comprised of multiple passages. Not merely the past, present, and future but also a conglomeration of various variables that people call “alternate universes.” And what existed was a point where all of these times converged. I kept that thought handwritten on a small piece of packing paper.

  That’s what first came to my mind as I entered this diner and watched the clock’s second hand moving backward. 10:15. I pulled the scrap out of my coat pocket, entranced to my former professor’s theory.

  I needed a coffee or something to keep me awake while I waited for someone to come fix this car--another battery issue.

  My wife is going to kill me. I have been running hours late, and I

  promised I would take her out on a long overdue date. Her silk skin is enough to hypnotize me into having good dreams in my sleep. Her smirk is this nanosecond spark of energy that fills me with life. I wanted to remind her all of that tonight and so much more. But fate compels me differently.

  I fucking hate technology.

  As I approached one of the bartop stools, I heard a voice from behind, calling me. Turning back, I found a man wearing a poorly stitched crewneck sweater. The stripe pattern bobbed up and down, more like waves. The colors matched his brown slacks and polished dress shoes. To his side was a leather jacket drenched in water. He must have traveled far from the city, with not a single drop of rain around here today. “I’m sorry?” I asked the old man, making sure that my mind was not playing tricks.

  “Where did you buy that jacket?” the elder asked. He turned his face, the light reflecting off a single foggy eye, the other a light brown. His cheeks sagged, and his face bloated around his jawline. I felt like I’d seen him before, but perhaps my fatigue was beginning to play tricks on me.

  “Oh. From a retail store. I can’t quite recall which one.”

  “Is it Ross? I love Ross.”

  “God, no. I mean, no offense.”

  “None took. But you should consider your thoughts. It saves so much money for other things.”

  “Eh. You pay for the quality,” I moved on to my seat, thinking that was the end of my spontaneous conversation.

  “Wait a minute,” the old man’s words stopped me midway from planting my ass onto the seat, “Why don’t you take a seat here? I’m a bit lonely, sorry.

  I’ve not the slightest clue when I’ll be leaving this place.”

  “Well, a night at the Memoren diner is always a long, unforgettable night,” I chuckled.

  Wait. How did I know this was the Memoren diner? I don’t recall ever taking a look at the sign outside. Did I?

  The back of my neck prickled with an icy chill, running down my spine. I turned back, and for a split second, I swore, if my vision wasn’t deceiving me, it was a dead corpse staring at me. Or something where the skin had completely rotted but still full of emotive movement. Especially that rotted smile.

  I went back to the old man to shake my paranoia off, and continued, “And you don’t have to apologize about that. Frankly, I’m bored too. Only this diner is around while I wait for a mechanic.”

  “Oh, what car is it you need fixed?”

  “Honda.”

  “Hondas, Hondas are good if you take care of them right.”

  “They are, aren’t they?”

  “I had a friend who once traveled all the way from Florida to Tennessee in a 2002 Honda Accord. 2002!” He laughed, “I wish I could be that active and reliable in my old age.”

  “You’re telling me. I’m 36, and I feel like I’m such a hindrance to my wife at times.”

  The elder scoffed, “Women. There are only gems that’ll make you useful,” the elder scoffed. He took a sip out of a vanilla shake, colored in a gradient of white to brown to a light brown. Bubbling fizz at the top emitted the fresh,

  acidic smell of cola, “Oh, do you want some?”

  “Oh, of course,” I sipped the drink out of the same straw. From a stranger that I met 10 seconds ago. I’m still thinking about the disgust to that, but I can’t help but not give a shit and keep drinking this shake. It excited my tongue with a harmonious balance of sweet and salty. I finished my sip, then saying, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m Rod.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rod.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “You’re married, too, aren’t you?” I pointed out the band on his ring finger.

  “Ah, well, I’m a widow.”

  “Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s fine, I completely understand the conception. Just feels wrong to take it off.”

  My eyes watered up a bit hearing that. “It sounds as though you had a beautiful love life.”

  Rod faced to the window, simultaneously rubbing the steel band with his opposite thumb and middle finger. “I think about...midway through the marriage felt more like a financial reliance than true love.

  I regret saying that. And I regret thinking that way too. Watching the love of your life’s eyes fade before you. It can’t be helped that a part of you fades with it. Next comes the ‘I should’ve done this better, I should’ve done that.’ I stayed with her, right?” Rod wiped his eyes. “Sorry, I’m spewing a tirade. Not many I talk about this to. Or, someone spiked my shake with alcohol...Either I’m tipsy or I’ve lost my mind-”

  “Y’kno, y’kno, y’kno, at least you were together until the end, right? Tonight, I was supposed to have a date with my wife. Now it’s completely blown out the window.”

  “Well, won’t she understand?”

  “Oh, of course, she would. She would nod her head and put up the role of the wife as ‘yes baby, yes, I totally understand,” In the middle of my speech, the phone in the diner began ringing. But I continued talking over it, “But in the back of her head, she would be irate. Thinking, ‘This fucking man can’t even have his car fixed before our only date within this whole year, the WHOLE year.’ I couldn’t even request time off for our anniversary.”

  “Don’t you think you’re over-reading.”

  “Y’kno, I am, but then I’m left with the fear that if I’m too honest, we propel ourselves into this unnecessary fight. You ever fear that your wife would leave you because you’re not hot enough?” Suddenly, my mind derails into this train ride that I cannot stop. Even if I bit my tongue now, I wouldn’t be able
to stop.

  “Well, my wife is dead, so...”

  “And what if I can’t get it hard for one night? What then? Do I lose my big dick energy that these kids won’t shut up about?”

  “I’m sorry, big-dick what?”

  “Like in the whole world of man and masculinity, discussing our feelings is considered taboo. That if we reveal our insecurities, no woman would be with us, all our past demonstrations of confidence go out the window, and they end up turning lesbian. LESB”-

  “SHUT UP,” the old man banged his hands onto the table. And instantly,

  my speech halted like an emergency brake.

  My lips grimaced into a frown. I don’t know what came over me. I replied, “I’m so sor”-

  Rod cut me off again, “Shut. Up.”

  I leaned back into the seat. The phone ringing was the only ambiance, becoming increasingly louder. And then I shift over to Dol, the waitress, her back facing to me. “Hey, Dol! Can I get a water, please?”

  She turned back, and replied with a raised brow, “Oh. Sure,” and marched back into the kitchen area. ‘When did I catch her name tag?’ I thought. Why did these bits of memories keep impulsively being shoved into my lexicon? I couldn’t understand why, and from where.

  I turned back to Rod, who was staring at his silver wedding band with more bits of noticeable rust. It was dark brown and jagged in shape. Bits of blood dripped from his thumb. “Hey,” I said, “You should be careful with that rust.”

  “Oh. Right,” Rod wiped his thumb across the table, leaving a streak of blood. “You have a wonderful name, by the way.”

  “My...My name?”

  “Yes, your name.”

  “When did I say my name?”

  “Just now.”

  A drill began caving into my head. When the fuck did I say my name? What is my name? Is it Fred? Rick? I think my name is Rick, but it could be Erik, or Mick, or Dick. I wrapped my hands around my head as the phone ringing penetrated my eardrums. They’re nearly about to pop. “FUCK!” I screamed, jumping out of my seat, “Can no one answer the damn phone?!?!” I