Diner

Rex exited the glass four-story office building that housed Trans-Form Corporation along with a several other tenants with similarly uninformative names. It was his final day of work – or rather his final night. He had volunteered for the 6 to 2 shift because it paid a little more than the daylight shifts. “Your division has been outsourced,” he had been told. He wasn’t entirely sure what division that was exactly. He hadn’t noticed any divisions as such. He and three other data-entry workers had been let go seemingly at random as far as he could tell. He suspected it would have been five had not his former coworker Cindy been diagnosed a few weeks earlier with the new sleeping sickness that so far had afflicted a dozen people on the East Coast over the past few months. The last he heard she was still in a coma. The CDC hypothesized a mutation of the mosquito-borne Zika virus was the cause, but had yet to confirm it. He wouldn’t miss the job, but he would miss the paycheck. He sometimes thought that the only reason some simple AI program hadn’t yet replaced everyone doing his mind-numbingly repetitive job was that his manager then would have no one to yell at.

He walked across the expansive asphalt parking lot toward where he had parked his aging Honda. At 2 a.m. the lot was nearly empty. The lights were out on the pole under which he had parked while the sky was still light. His car was now invisible amid a cone of blackness more than 200 feet wide at the base. He felt uneasy as he entered the darkness, but there was no sign of anyone else present. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.

Rex turned north up 202 toward the building where he lived. The 16-unit building had condo-converted several years earlier and he had bought one of the one-bedroom units on the advice of his accountant, who had said the tenant’s discount made it a sound investment. He just barely had qualified for the loan, and then only because the numbers he submitted on his application charitably could be described as optimistic. He questioned the purchase decision on the first of every month when the bank electronically depleted his bank account by the amount of the mortgage payment, which was higher than his previous rent. He questioned it again when property taxes came due each quarter. The unit was nearby work, which counted for something – or used to be. There was no telling how far he would have to travel to his next job.

He realized he wasn’t ready to go home. He lived alone. Most nights he was alone, and this long since had ceased to bother him. At the best of times he barely could afford to date, which in an odd way was a relief. Still, he wanted to be somewhere other than his couch in front of his TV, so he drove past his condo toward the Nonsense Diner, open 24 hours. The name of the diner came from nearby Fort Nonsense, a spot where some of Washington’s troops had been posted in the Revolutionary War. George, or more likely one his noncoms, apparently had an odd sense of humor.

Not many places were open this time of night, so the diner was moderately full. No one looked at Rex as pushed open the glass door. Beneath various aromas emanating from the kitchen was a hint of marijuana. The diner had been in business since the 1950s, and much of the décor and equipment was original. The customers in the small hours were distinctly different from the daytime mix. They included stoners with the munchies, drunks fresh from the bars that closed at 2 a.m., hospital workers in their blues, and a few inexplicably overdressed men and women. “Freak show,” thought Rex, fully aware that he was one of the exhibits. “One of us,” he muttered to himself. He sat on a stool at the counter. It squeaked as it rotated. The Formica counter was decorated with images of rubber band-like shapes in various colors. A middle-age waitress with long blue nails and bleached blonde hair was reloading the basket of the coffee machine.

 “Menu?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Sure.”

She slid one in front of him. “Here you go, honey.”

As in many diners, the menu was several plastic-sheathed pages of amazingly detailed options.

“I don’t see you in here very often,” she said.

“No. I’m usually too tired after work, but I think you’ll be seeing me more often.”

“Won’t that be great. Coffee?”

“Yeah…Maybe I’ll have a Western omelet.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“A Western omelet.”

She poured a cup of coffee and put it in front of him along with four prepackaged tiny plastic cups of half-and-half. He preferred coffee black, so he pushed the packets aside. He sipped the coffee. It was bitter as though having brewed for hours. He chose not to complain. 

He sipped again. He contemplated how his life was so much more bland than he had intended it to be. Back in college he had imagined himself to have traveled the world and to be at least well on the way to riches by now. He remembered how as a freshman he had announced to his parents that he would never accept a dull lifestyle like theirs. “You’re just existing,” he rudely had said. His mom hadn’t answered. Now, with his 30^th birthday approaching, he was nearly broke. The closest he had come to global travel was the World Showcase Epcot at Disney World in Florida, and that only because his parents had moved to Orlando, and he visited them twice. He closed his eyes as a dull headache that had come and gone all day returned. It faded in a moment. He opened his eyes, and took another sip from the mug of coffee in front of him. It was rich, smooth and wonderful. He savored the aroma and flavor so much that the change took a moment to register. Hadn’t the coffee been served in a cup rather than a mug? Perhaps the waitress replaced it. He put the mug down on a butcher block counter top. He could have sworn it was Formica.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Not much. Decide what you want?” said the fellow in a white t-shirt and cap behind the counter. The cap had the name “Bob” sewn on it. He was middle aged and slightly overweight but there appeared to be muscles beneath the layer of fat. He needed a shave. His stubble was gray. Rex looked at the menu on the counter in front of him. It was stiff brown paper and a single page.

Since the questions he really wanted to ask pointed toward madness, Rex asked about a menu item: “What are ‘possum fries?”

“What they sound like. Fries cooked in ‘possum lard.”

Rex looked around him. The dimensions and layout of the diner were unchanged, but the materials were rustic and a musty smell underlay the aromas coming from the kitchen. A customer gnawing on ribs caught his eyes and audibly growled.

“Is there a costume party somewhere?” asked Rex.

“Somewhere there is bound to be, I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, that fellow is a pretty convincing werewolf.”

“Freddy? Yeah, well he would be, wouldn’t he? It’s a full moon, buddy.”

Working the floor was a stunning buxom redhead with a very 1940s coiffure and uniform.

“Am I sleeping?” Rex asked.

“Not so far as I can see. If you’re going to sit at the counter you have to order something, buddy.”

“A Western omelet?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Did someone already say that?”

“Not that I heard.”

Rex forced himself to stay calm while he figured out what was happening.

“A Western. You take US dollars?” Rex asked.

“Why? You got something else?”

“No.”

 “One Western omelet coming up,” he said. “Possum fries on the side?”

“OK.”

The fellow pushed open a swinging door in back of him a crack, and barked, “Western and P-fries!.”

In his peripheral vision, Rex saw the wolf get out of his booth and growl. Rex instinctively grabbed a fork. Freddy growled again but sat back down.

Bob said, “Freddy just doesn’t like to be stared at. Wolves take that as a challenge.”

“Why did he back down?”

“Silver fork. He’s all about finger food.”

“The tableware is real silver?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You ask a lot of funny questions.”

“I’ll ask one more. Where am I?”

“Right there.”

“Will you excuse me a second?”

He stepped outside. It was definitely Morristown. He recognized the topography and the road layout, but it was a crazy ramshackle version with fewer than half the right number of structures and not one of them stood straight. The streets were unpaved and wildlife teemed on vacant lots. Baboons stared at him from across the street. Baboons in New Jersey? In the parking lot were luxury cars, monster trucks, and horses tied to posts. Not knowing what else to do, he reentered the diner and sat on the stool. Bob slid a stoneware plate in front of him with an omelet and possum fries. The food smelled delicious.

The redheaded waitress leaned on the counter next to him. “Seems crazy at first,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“None of this can be real. Am I crazy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You seem to know what is going on.”

“Maybe you wanted me to explain things to you. Doesn’t mean I will.”

“You mean I wanted… all this?” he asked.

“Maybe. Not everything is about what we want though. They’re what we fear, too. Be careful of that.”

“So you’re saying this is a dream,” he said.

“I’m not saying anything of the sort. You are the one questioning what is real. I was just saying you should be careful.”

The tall man rose from a table near the back. As he walked toward the counter, he did not stand out because of his size, his striped double-breasted jacket, or his fedora. His most eyecatching feature was his lack of any color other than black, white, and gray. He looked as though he had he had stepped out of a ‘40s film noir.

“OK, I’m definitely dreaming,” Rex said, “not in some weird scifi sideslip dimension or something.”

“Red’s my girl,” said the noir goon.

“I’m not anyone’s girl, Moose,” said the waitress

“I’m not talking to you,” said Moose.

Rex pinched himself hard enough to hurt. Apparently even if he was dreaming he still could feel pain. He wasn’t about to fight a movie image if he could feel the punches.

“Whatever you say, pal,” said Rex.

Satisfied, Moose returned to his table – he couldn’t fit in a booth. “Red” lost all interest in Rex, too, and checked the booths for any coffee refill requests. Rex turned his attention to the eggs and fries. They were more flavorful and satisfying than anything he’d ever eaten. He paid his check – $1 including tip – and walked outside. He didn’t see anything resembling his Honda compact. He took out his keys and pressed the “unlock” button on the remote. The lights of a 1939 Packard flashed.

“A Packard with remote door locks,” he said to himself. “OK.”

He got behind the huge steering wheel, slipped a key that previously hadn’t been on his remote into the ignition, and pressed the starter button on the dash. The flat-8 rumbled to life. Rt 202 still existed though it was unpaved. He saw no sign of the interstate that should parallel it. He manhandled the vehicle south along the rutted road flanked by deep woods. He swerved once to avoid a large sabretooth cat, but met no traffic. He didn’t know to expect when he reached the location of his condominium, but the palatial gothic estate on the spot still came as a surprise.

He parked in the circular drive and walked toward the huge oaken double doors to the main house.

His head began to spin. Painfully bright light blinded Rex. He dropped to his knees and then onto his back. The gravel transformed into something softer. Faces in green surgical masks hovered over him. He shut his eyes against the glare, but heard voices. One of them said, “Just like the others. It’s as though they fight being wakened.” “We really can’t up the dose,” another voice answered. The words ceased to be comprehensible but blended into rising and falling buzzes.  He couldn’t tell how long this continued other than too long. There was nothing about it or the life he had led that he wanted to face. He willed himself back to the driveway.

Quiet returned. Rex opened his eyes and recognized Cygnus in the stars overhead. A gentle breeze rustled the trees. He rolled over onto his stomach, got up on knees and palms, and then rose to his feet. He walked to the oaken doors and tapped a knocker. A dark-haired beauty in a blood-read full length dress opened a door and tilted her head to welcome him inside. Fangs were clearly visible behind her parted lips.

Rex hesitated only a moment. Whatever this was, it beat hospital bills and unemployment. He walked inside.