Diner at the End of the World
Truckers passed by sending waves of air onto the battered sign that read Roadside Diner, “The finest place west of this end of the world.”
A 50s style diner at the end of the road, at least the end of the city. The name changed from nowhere road to state route 53 at the city limits. Truckers passed, sending waves of air to crash into the battered sign that read Roadside Diner, “The finest place west of this end of the world.”
Several cars were parked in the undersized parking area set to the side of the small building. On the other side several semis sat dormant, some with loads and others with none. Each, a formidable tower over the stunted shrubs peeking through cracks in the pavement. The front of the diner was a sheet of glass that stretched from the ceiling to three feet from the floor. It was only interrupted by small aluminum supports and glass door. Set against the glass was a row of booths, some filled, most empty. Along the counter was a row of stools, most were taken but some were ready to be claimed. On the walls were various bits and pieces from the era, pictures of famous icons took up the most space. Elvis who was simultaneously playing softly in the background sat with his snarl pronounced on his face. Beside him sat Eddie Cochran whose life and career was tragically cut short. Jerry Lee Lewis was further on the end. Little Richard, Ray Charles, Ritchie Valens, whose life was also tragically cut short at 17, and Chubby Checker, who was in the middle of his famous dance, despite it being inappropriate for the period, all sat on the wall too. Marilyn Monroe was up there along with several other pretty ladies and movie stars such as Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor just daring the men not to look.
The booths were cushioned with cyan blue vinyl; a white stripe two inches wide ran down the center as if to split two love birds into separate seats. The stripe was wildly ineffective and tended to just be regarded as a decoration, as proved by the young couple tightly together in lip-lock while waiting for their food. The bathrooms were marked Greaser’s and Doll’s. A song, American Pie, which was also inappropriate for the theme, played in the background as a young woman ran back and forth along the bar. Another took care out at the booths, taking orders and bringing the food back with perfect grace.
Behind the bar an old gruff guy, with a beard that was more salt than pepper, was standing at a grill flipping patties, frying two batches of fries and putting together three burgers, double cheese, just mayo and ketchup, and trying not to gag.
The goal of the burgers was a trucker who commonly came by with the same order. Sometimes he mixed it up and got fries. Instead of waiting for his burgers, he was at the toilet, on his knees and letting all hell break loose. He was a drinker; it helped him numb the pains of the day and it helped hide his secret.
Now, most people when drunk, cannot hold onto secrets and usually blurt them out at anybody who will listen and sometimes to those who don’t. This wasn’t him, when he drank, he became quiet and, most of the time, he didn’t say a thing. His calm demeanor was just a shell of himself. If he was angered, he would lash out with all the strength of his huge bulking arms that, however, had seen better days.
He had several faded tattoos, one on each shoulder depicting a skull and an American flag in full beauty. He also had one on his cheek depicting something that was graciously covered up nearly all the time by his thick beard. He would never speak of it.
Meanwhile his beer was going flat.
Sitting next to his flat beer was a young punk who weighed roughly a hundred pounds. He had a scar on his left temple and two sleeves of tattoos. He was a high school dropout and never knew how to stay out of trouble, or off drugs, alcohol and whores.
Next to him was a blond fellow wearing casual attire, his hair a mess. He kept complaining about a headache, which really got on the punk’s nerves, and was scribing something onto a napkin. He made sure to thoroughly say goodbye despite knowing none of them every single time. He came in the day before, and would stop coming by not long after, with the same conditions: a headache, an odd attraction to writing on mediums such as are easily found in a diner, and the odd way in which he left.
Two seats over from him was another guy, with his lack of hair on top of his head hidden by a baseball cap, with a full beard and a small beer gut. His shirt was stained with black splotches from oil and his pants were of no better condition. The legs were a bit too long for him and as a result of continual harassment from pavement and his boots the hems had been completely worn through.
He was making polite conversation with another of the same stature. He only had small tufts of hair that were, too, covered with a baseball cap that advertised his trucking company.
In one of the booths a young family happily ate their burgers. The man, tall and lanky, wore a button up shirt and a loosened tie with a crude knot that matched his wife’s attire. His wife wore a nice dress, deep blue with a scandalous plunging neckline, though, it was modest enough to get into church while wearing it. Across from the couple sat their boy. No older than ten or twelve who’s particular meal that night was a single, lettuce tomato and ketchup. He even had a red stain on his polo shirt which his mom had already fussed at him about.
Two booths behind them two teens fresh out of high school were making out and the guy was pushing the boundary of that with his hand tactfully slipping between her legs. She wore a pair of high cut denim shorts and a tube top, her hair pulled back tight into a ponytail. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and a leather jacket over top of his graphic t-shirt. They were briefly interrupted by the waitress who gave them their order. Neither gave any mind to the food, and went back into the motions of young love.
At the very end of the row sat an old man by himself contemplating the meaning of life while he eats three hotdogs, Carolina style with chili and slaw. He thinks of his recently deceased wife who had told him on countless occasions that he would die before she did because of his bad eating habits. “I showed her, didn't I?” he had scoffed after learning she had succumbed to the cancer in her liver. She got it three years before it came back. They removed the diseased part of her liver, set her up with some appointments for the next few months and let her go, thinking it was over. She didn’t know it had come back until it was too late.
Their marriage was diseased for even longer than that. They had gotten into an argument over his eating habits like they had for multiple years before. This time something clicked, and nothing was ever the same. She began nagging him incessantly and he had, for the first time in his life, hit a woman. A huge arching slap with not so much force behind it. It sure shut her up and she rarely said anything on the subject of food except for “What are we having?” or “What do you want to eat?” He was changed too he became more and more prone to the idea of divorce which his parents berated him to hate with a passion.
He looked at his hot dog with disgust. He shooed a fly away and took another bite chewing slowly before swallowing to take another bite.
The blond fellow left in his red Dodge after thoroughly saying goodbye to everyone there. Nearly a minute later a set of headlights pulled into the small, damaged tarmac and replaced the Dodge. All except the old man and the couple, who had moved into a more romantic position, looked out the window to the newcomer. It was rare for a guy like that to come to some shabby little place like this.
He wore mid-calf leather cowboy boots, a pair of jeans with the hems tucked neatly under the edge of the boot. His shirt was a button-down plaid neatly tucked, and a cowboy hat topped his full head of mousy brown hair. He had stubble growing from his chiseled cheek and a hardened look on his face. He walked in casually and took a seat at the bar right next to the kid, nearly a full replacement of the blonde.
A waitress comes over to him and asked what he wants. He looked at the menu for a couple of seconds then replied with a deep accent, “I’d like a triple with cheese, two small fries and a large tea.”
His voice was so deep and rich and masculine the smooching girl took a peek over the top of the booth then shuddered before diving back down. The wife looked admiringly, and the husband had an exasperated look on his face.
The drunk trucker came out of the bathroom wiping his mouth with the hem of his shirt. He sat at his beer and took a sip before spitting it out, “This damn beer is flat! I want another.”
The waitress, who had seen what he could do and was too tired to bother arguing, just went ahead and got another. The cowboy gave him a look and the boy stopped him, “You don’t want to mess with him brutha.”
The drunk took a sip of his new beer and exclaimed, “Now that’s better.”
Everyone who had been there before relaxed, including the old man who had looked up from his hot dog mid bite and only then noticed the cowboy who had his arms on the counter leaning against it. He had lasted longer than the rest and had seen a lot of them come and go but never had he seen a man like that. Most were alcoholics or dope heads; rarely there were nice families that never came all together, usually bringing back another family member when they returned again. He had never seen someone exactly like him. He also never noticed a young couple such as the ones who were now getting up, her hair frizzled and going into the bathroom, only one door shut. He knew which door because of the distinctive squeak it gave when opened past halfway.
The wife complains to her husband for getting a bit of mustard on his tie.
Most of the time they came in on a regular schedule like him—who came in on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when they had their hot dog special. He sure did like the hot dogs. When they missed a day, they usually didn’t come back, and they typically leave in groups. It is about time for another clear out by his reckoning.
The cook passes out the three doubles with mayo and ketchup and the waitress transfers it to the drunk who voraciously takes a bite before thanking her and asking for another beer. Another two burger and fry combos come out and go to the twins. Both of them nod their heads, a silent signal of thanks. The family gets up and leaves; the man pays for the meal and thanks the waitress. The man looks at the waitress a little longer than normal. His wife doesn’t even notice because she too was enamored by someone outside of their holy pairing.
She smiles at the man, dismissing him, clears their table and gives it a quick wipe down before going outside to smoke a cigarette. There was no rule against it, but the drunk didn’t quite like the smell the last time she did it inside.
The drunk drops his burger and runs into the bathroom. A small shriek and a grunt of surprise follow the entry. The drunk burps once before letting his already consumed burger out into the toilet. A moment later the couple revoke themselves from the restroom and make their way on their burgers. Her hair was a mess, his face was bright red, and his fly was open. The old man made a mark on an old napkin; thirty-seven times he had guessed something would happen and it did.
Over two years that didn’t amount to much, but it dwarfed the number of times he was wrong, three. Only three times had something unexpected happened. A trucker who looked about as sober as you could without being on deaths door, but he was actually stone cold drunk, he threw up right into his plate. Another time he guessed that the drunk had come in to get something different after declaring that the burgers didn’t taste the same. He never did. The third one was where a customer spilled some of their drink, a waitress walked along the path with a plate of food for the next booth and slipped, instead of falling and spilling everything she was able to place the plate down before her feet slid out from underneath her, he counted that one as half.
A three-hotdog combo came out for the boy, just ketchup as the boy ordered. He was the only other that ate the hotdogs. He was fairly new just a month or so. The young couple were fairly recent as well, this being their second time as a family. The twins had come in a week or so apart three months ago and the only other one other than the old man that had lasted longer than six was the drunk. The waitresses had been there since he came but the cook was a new addition.
The cowboy’s burger and two fries came out a minute later.
The drunk came out five minutes after going in. He paused at the couple, “Sorry ‘bout that! But when ya got ta go ya better go. Also yer fly is open.” before returning to his beer and burgers.
Everything settled down for a while as everybody quietly ate. The couple were the first to leave both still flabbergasted; the boy, his fly untended, paid and they left. The bald twin left next followed by the drunk. He got up to the register, took out his wallet and asked how much. The waitress answered with something that was, to him, a little too high. He argued about it and was about to slap her when the cowboy stopped him holding the arm back with his weight. The remaining people watched, and the old man perched up in his seat. He had finished a long time ago but stayed to see if anything would happen. A lot happened when the drunk was around.
The drunk looked back at the cowboy and swung a punch right at the guy's stomach. The cowboy who cried out as if he was hit directly in an open wound fell with a thump and a gasping oof. “Did ya like that pretty boy?” the drunk yelled out before narrowly missing the guy’s crotch with a dirty kick. The cowboy got up onto his legs and staggered for a moment and just as the drunk was turning away the cowboy punched the drunk right below the eye. He bellowed in pain, but mostly in anger, spun around, eyes burning and lunged at the cowboy who seemed to be about a foot shorter than he used to be.
The drunk backhanded the guy into the Greasers door leaving a dent. The cowboy collapsed and the drunk kicked him in his side. There was a loud retort to this as the cowboy yelled. He swung his arm straight up and hit the guy straight between the legs. There was another bellow as the drunk fell to his knees grabbing at his junk to make sure everything was alright and to hopefully suppress the pain.
The cowboy stood up, “That is for hitting a man while he is down.” He left the guy holding his balls and went to the register. He offered to pay for damages, but the waitress refused saying that it was a memento of the only time the burly brute had lost. The guy also began to pay but was declined by the waitress with all the message in her misty eyes.
The other waitress who had been looking in on the situation with a half-finished cigarette hanging between her lips popped her head in, “If anything we should be paying you.”
The cowboy refused like a gentleman, offered to pay again and walked out the door with a tip of his hat when his money was again denied. He was halfway to his pickup when the drunk got up. As he hobbled to the door, he picked up a spare chair and before leaving he said, “Y’all are dead.” in a monotonous tone filled with pain, sorrow and some mysterious feeling that was held back regretfully.
He went up behind the cowboy, yelled and smashed the chair over his head. “That is for hitting a guy in the balls!” He then got in his ratty pickup and sped off into the darkness never returning.
The cowboy got up a minute later rubbing his head, cursing the drunk, got in his pickup and left in the opposite direction. He did return.
The boy left next and after a couple of minutes the second twin left. Leaving the old man to himself and his contemplations. He sat there for an hour and ate half of another chili dog before paying and leaving.
He didn’t return.