Here's a happy tale I wrote. It probably has some kind of deep metaphysical, spiritual or scatological meaning. Let me know what it is.
Corner Diner
The door shuts with a bang as a Jerry Craznic enters my diner from the Fourth Street entrance. A rush of cold air follows him in, rustling the top pages of the newspapers beside the door. He flips shut his cell phone and pockets it as he takes his normal booth by the old jukebox. I can't help but smile. He's a bright, strong, good looking guy. I get lots of business men and women, impatient and demanding, but Jerry is always calm and relaxed.
“How's your kid, Judy?” he asks me. He always asks me that.
“Conner's fine. He's doing really well.”
It's a lie, of course. Conner isn't doing well at all. The chemo has destroyed lots of things – his hair, his appetite, the little savings I had – but the tumor is still healthy.
“What can I get you, Jerry?” I ask, coming over to his table. I place a white paper placemat in front of him, and place the silverware, wrapped in a napkin, on top. I take out my order pad, but don't bother with a pen, since I never need to write the orders down. Not even sure why I hold the pad anymore.
“Just some dessert tonight. How about a slice of apple pie and a cup of decaf.”
I nod to him and head behind the counter. Get a mug, pour the coffee. Get a plate, uncover the pie tin, dish the pie. How many times have I served pie and coffee on a late night?
I bring the plate and cup over. “Here you go, Jer.” He gives me one of his smiles, his eyes looking right into mine. For a second I imagine a different life – Jerry taking care of us, maybe at a resort somewhere with a beach next to some clear blue water. Conner digging in the sand while Jerry and I lay on beach towels, hand in hand. Conner and I could use that. Heck, we deserve that.
Yeah, right. People don't get what they deserve. Life doesn't work that way.
I sigh and turn away. The customer at Table 5 gets up and begins to put on his coat. “Thanks a lot,” he says, “Keep the change.” He's a large man. No, let's be honest - he's a fat man, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. Probably pushing forty, slightly balding. Wearing a fading blue jacket that was once expensive and new. He starts walking quickly towards the door.
Meat loaf meal, glass of Coke, slice of pie, cup of coffee. The bill was eleven fifty. “Keep the change” probably means he left thirteen bucks. If I'm really lucky all he had was a five and a ten, that would get me a three and a half dollar tip. Sometimes fat guys tip well after pie. Must do something to their brains.
I cross over to his table, nodding to the man as we pass. “Have a nice night.” He looks straight ahead and struggles with the zipper on his jacket as he walks to the door. The cash is under the ticket, it looks like two bills, and there's a five on top. A smile comes to my face as I reach towards the table, but the smile disappears when I realize the second bill is a one. Six bucks! He stiffed me! I turn around, looking for him, just as the door slams shut.
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Rush out the door and take a left out of the diner. Jog down the street and turn left onto Sixth Avenue, shove my hands into pockets and hunch my shoulders, trying to keep the cold night air from my neck.
What did I just do? I've never stolen anything in my life. She's just a waitress, but at least she's got a job. She can afford it more than I can. Hell, it's not like I didn't leave her anything.
“Hey! Where'd you go?” I hear a woman's shout faintly. I huddle against a doorway, looking down the street, but nobody comes. She's not coming after me. How did it get this way? Stealing meat loaf from a diner? I had it. I had it – good job, nice house, kids, money. Now look at me.
It's that damn Simmons. I'll never forget the look on his face when he let me know they were laying me off. He knew it wasn't fair, but he always had it in for me. He was sitting in his office, wearing one of his stupid turtlenecks under one of his stupid sports coats.
“Scott is taking classes to get his Master's degree, and Brad picked up on the new technologies really quickly,” he said. Suck ups. If I had kissed ass like those two did, I'd still be there. I might not have gone to as many training courses, and I didn't come in as early or stay as late as they did, but I worked hard.
And then he says I could come back, but with less pay as a second shift maintenance technician. Second shift! How was I ever going to see my kids if I was working evenings?
Damn it. Tonight was Lexi's dance recital. Margie said that if I forgot again she wouldn't let me know when Lexi or Tyler have events. Shit! That damn Simmons! He put all this stress on me, and now I'm forgetting my kids.
Margie's going to try and take my weekends away, too. She always wants to make me look bad to the kids. I've got to find a job. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be my day. And once things are back on track for me, I'll go back to that diner and give the waitress a big tip.
I start walking again. I'll find some flowers for Lexi, bring them to her tomorrow. I'll tell her how sorry I am. Buy her ice cream or something. I think she likes ice cream. She's got to like ice cream. What kid doesn't?
The street is quiet, empty. The shops are closed, and the only light comes from a street lamp across the street. The lamp on my side is burned out, and I hug the wall, trying to stay in the shadows.
Suddenly I feel a body up against me, pushing me into a dark doorway.
“Just give me your money. Now. Hurry up!”
I'm being mugged? What is there to take? “Listen, I don't have any money. I'm broke. Please leave me alone.”
He's got my back pushed against a wall, one hand on my chest. He's not a big guy, but he's strong. I can't tell what he looks like in the darkness. He pushes my chest hard, I catch my breath. “I ain't in the mood for no shit, Fatty. Give me your damn money!”
Oh, God. I'm not built for this. I've never been in a fight in my life. This guy is going to kill me. My eyes close. “Please. Please. Please.” Warmth runs down my left leg.
The pressure is removed from my chest. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The man is still there but he's backed up a step. I begin to thank him, but he speaks before I can say anything. “You're pathetic, you fat fuck.”
I see him reach back, and his fist crashes into my face.
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His nose cracks. Damn, it's a nice sound. I dance back, ready to avoid the counter attack which is never going to come. The pussy has both hands on his face, whimpering, blood running between his fingers and onto the back of his hands. Too fucking easy. I place one final right hook at his temple, and he drops. Flops down like a beached whale waiting to die.
I rummage through his pockets until I find his wallet. Twenty bucks in cash, pictures of some ugly kids, and an expired AAA card. What kind of moron doesn't carry a single freakin' credit card? I kick him in the side. Next time carry plastic.
I keep looking. He's got no watch, and nothin' of value in his pockets. There's a reason I've never mugged a guy before – it ain't worth the aggravation. I slip the cash in my pocket and head down the street. Twenty bucks sure as hell ain't gonna square me with Crowbar.
I take a left onto Fifth Street and flip open my cell. Speed dial 4.
“Stevie, it's Bug. Give me some good news. How we doin'?”
“Sorry, Bug, but it's not good. The whole shipment was junk. You're going to have to try and get your money back from Wang.”
I stop. This ain't good. “Shit. You know that can't happen. What we gonna do? We need the money now! Where you at?”
“I'm gone, man. You borrowed from Crowbar. He's going to be looking for you. I don't want to be anywhere near when he finds you. Good luck, man.”
“Stevie, wait! At least get me a ride out of town! Stevie!”
He hung up. He's gone. The bastard is ditching me. I need three thousand dollars right now, and I've got no angles. I'm gonna have to rob a bank or something. Ain't never done that, either. Shit.
I continue down the street. Man, I need a miracle.
“Hello, Bug.”
Oh, fuck. He's right behind me. How the hell did he find me here? OK, just play it cool.
“Hey man. I was just coming to see you.” I turn around to face him.
“I bet. I'm sure you're loaded with cash right now. I'm sure you've got my three large. I'm sure you beat up that fat guy just for fun.”
I look at his face and shudder. Crowbar is one ugly bastard. One of his eyes is dead, pea soup green and seeping pus out of the inner corner. A ragged scar runs from his left ear to his mouth, and his nose has been broken numerous times. He's a scary fucker, even when he's not carrying a crowbar.
“Listen, Crowbar, I'm a bit short right now, but in two days I'll be able to pay you. Hell, I've got a buyer coming in tomorrow – a big sucker. I'll be able to pay you back then.”
“Somehow, I just don't believe you, Bug.” He's got his crowbar in his right hand. He's holding it lightly, like he's not even thinking about it. Just swinging it back and forth. Back and forth. I can't take my eyes off of it. “I think you're gonna have to pay up right now.”
I knew this day would come, and I'm ready for it. I've practiced at home, I've played it out a hundred times. When he moves his arm, I'm going to duck and roll to the right. There's a boot knife on my right leg, bought for this exact moment. It's stainless steel and double bladed, sharp as hell. In one motion I'm going to pull the knife from its sheath, leap towards Crowbar and extend my arm. I'll stick the big bastard right in the gut before he even realizes that he missed me.
Good bye, Crowbar. Hello, Boot Knife.
His fingers tense, his arm begins to rise and I make my move. Dive to the right and roll. It's not as smooth as I would have hoped, but he didn't hit me. I reach down to my boot, but I can't get the knife. Shit! My pants leg is over the sheath. I fumble at the denim, trying to raise my jeans to get at the knife. I look up.
Crowbar has his arm raised over his head, and he's looking down at me. He's smiling. He didn't miss, he hasn't even tried to hit me yet. This is not good.
“Good bye, Bug.”
The crowbar comes down in a blur.
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My crowbar cracks Bug's skull with a small splatter of blood and the sound of splintering bone. One swing and it's over. I look down at Bug's limp body. Squished Bug. That's pretty funny.
Yeah, these are the times I live for. The simple times. Just me, a crowbar, and some loser who thought he could rip me off. I still remember my first – Johnny Z, the crack dealer. He tried to stiff me, right in front of my buddies. We had just finished working at McGarvey's place, demolishing their old garage, and ran into Johnny Z in the alley behind George's Pub.
“You're going to have to wait a week,” he told me, “I'm out right now. Unless you want some blow.” He straightened the collar on his fancy silver suit, wiped off some imaginary lint.
“I gave you fifty bucks yesterday, and you said you'd have some for me today! You owe me, now!” I was pissed.
“Fuck off, man,” Johnny Z said to me. To me. I looked down to my toolbox, and saw the handle of the crowbar rising above the screwdrivers, tape measure and wood handled hammer, almost begging me to pick it up. I grabbed it, swung it hard and fast, and smashed it right into Johnny Z's face. One shot, down he went. Blood all over his suit. There were maybe twenty people standing there, but nobody said a damn thing while I took his stash and his cash. Instant respect.
Bug might have been able to pay me back in a couple of days, but I don't care. I'll get five payments this week after word gets out. It's like a goddamn TV commercial.
There's not much in Bug's pockets. Two hundred bucks, two fake Rolex watches, an ounce or so of smack. I open up the baggie, lick a finger and scoop out some of the powder. Sniff it, taste it. Low grade, probably mixed with baking soda. Worth maybe twenty bucks, but only to a junkie.
I pocket the baggie and walk down the street. I'm revved up now, I need something more. I take a left onto Fifth Avenue, and see the entrance to the corner diner at the end of the street. Yeah, that'll do it. Finish the day off with some extra cash.
I reach behind me and pull my revolver out from my jeans. Not as good as a crowbar, but sometimes a piece does the job. Gun in my left hand, crowbar in my right, I push open the door and enter the brightly lit diner. I rap my crowbar against the closing door and raise my gun to the ceiling. “Everybody shut up and stand still! Don't move! You! In the back! Get out here!” I point my gun at the cook in the kitchen, he puts his hands up quickly and comes out, shuffling sideways. Always making sure his hands are in plain view. I point to a booth with the barrel of my gun, and he takes his seat, like a trained dog.
“All right, wallets, watches and jewelry on the tables. You,” I point my crowbar at the waitress, “get behind the counter and open up the till.”
There are only three customers, an old couple and a young guy. A pretty boy. Looks like he spends time in a gym. Spoiled rich kid, probably thinks he can be a hero. If he makes one move he's going to get his head cracked.
The waitress slowly goes behind the counter to the cash register. She puts her head in her hands.
“No.” Good. The bitch better be scared.
“Just do what I say, sweetie.”
I hear something by the jukebox. Beep of a cell phone. Is Pretty Boy trying to call the police?
“Don't get fucking cute!” I stalk over to Pretty Boy, lifting the crowbar. He cowers back into his seat, tosses his cell phone onto the table. Probably noticed the blood dripping off the end of the crowbar. Knows that I ain't here to piss around. “Stay right there and you just might live.” I love saying shit like that, like I'm in a mobster movie.
I hear a click to my left and turn to see the waitress, the pretty little thing, with a gun pointed right at me. Where the fuck did she get that? For a split second I notice her eyes, not scared, but hard as steel. Dammit. I fucked this one up.
My eyes focus on the barrel of the gun. It's a shitty place to be, staring at the bullet hole of a .38 Special while your piece is pointing at the ground. Maybe she'll try something cute, give me some speech, try to be a hero.
But she doesn't.
I see the flash from the gun, and I know that I've only got one hope – that the bitch misses. But that ain't gonna happen. I was looking square down the middle of the gun, and that girl's shot a piece before. I've got a fraction of a second to live, and not a damn thing I can do to save myself. I can't move in time.
The gun starts to lift up and I see the smoke begin to rise out of the barrel. I know the smell, the feel, the taste of it, even though it hasn't reached me yet.
I can't see the bullet, but I can see the shimmer of air that the bullet passes through. From my dead center perspective it's a halo, and everything behind the halo is a wavy blur. The damn thing is a true shot. The only thing I don't know is if it will get me in my right or left eye, or right in between. Closed casket for sure.
Another slice of time passes and I can't see for shit. Everything is stars and rainbows and blackness, all in different places and overlapping each other at the same time. Kinda pretty, if it wasn't going to kill me.
The sound reaches me a split instant before the bullet does. I knew it would end this way, but I didn't expect it to come from a pretty waitress. Life's a fucking mystery.
My world ends as I hear the bang of the gun.
