A Midnight Diner (excerpt)
The diner was a lonely lighthouse on an ocean’s shore of highway on that sweltering, rainy night. The neon and chrome, relic of a bygone era, split the darkness and downpour, calling out to wayward souls like mine. ‘Here,’ it said, ‘is safety. Here is rest. Here is a shelter from the storm.’ And like untold other fools following the siren call of that architectural will’o’the’wisp, I listened.
It must have been past two in the morning when I saw the diner emerge at the horizon's edge. I had been sailing the asphalt tides hours longer than intended. My perception of how long it would take to drive two hundred and fifty miles between cities was warped. I should have stopped at that dumpy motel around midnight. It was not particularly welcoming, but it would have been somewhere to sleep. Somewhere to get off the blacktop sea, weigh anchor, and rest my head until dawn and daylight came.
Instead, I insisted to myself that I press on. It’s not that late, I thought. I’ll grab a cup of coffee at the next gas station. I can make it to the next town. The little lies we tell ourselves when we want to believe we are sturdier of constitution or stronger of will than we really are. A cup of coffee might as well be eight hours of sleep. Two hundred and fifty miles is barely a blip on the cosmic scale. I can make it.
When the diner appeared, I was far beyond weary. My eyes burned, and the lids drooped. My body occasionally involuntarily jolted to keep itself awake, causing me to swerve my little truck erratically. The yellow lines could barely contain my exhausted, fitful driving. I needed to stop, and I knew it.
A row of classic gas pumps greeted me as I pulled up to the lighted parking lot. Everything about the diner and its service station was bright. Almost garish. Light flooded out of the big picture windows and reflected blindingly off the polished pumps. My little truck splashed through a puddle as the rain pelted the awning over the service station, and I shielded my eyes at the dazzling opalescence of the diner out there in the middle of the hot, dark night.
I was amazed at how many people were inside. Through the windows, I could see truckers and travelers, tourists and townies, gathered around red and white checkered tables sipping hot coffee and eating fresh pie. A team of waitresses with beehive hairdos performed an elaborate ballet on roller skates from table to table, balancing trays towering with milkshakes and malts on one hand. A corner jukebox, the old Wurlitzer kind with bubbles and neon, was blasting mid-century rock and roll. The whole scene looked sixty years out of place and suspiciously lively considering the absurd hour.
I had plenty of gas, but I figured I would top off the tank before going inside to get a cup of coffee and a bite. One less thing to worry about later. I reached for the pump, slick with rainwater, when I noticed the machine did not have a credit card reader or anywhere else for me to prepay. With a sigh, I replaced the pump on its rocker and pulled my hood over my head as I stepped out from under the awning to go inside. The hot rain soaked my jacket and wormed its way to my skin like warm, slithering spit.
Despite the rain and the uncomfortable dampness, I paused at the diner's door. I turned back and looked at the parking lot and service station. My truck was the only vehicle there. Where did all the customers come from? The nearest town was more than one hundred miles away. They had not walked there. So where were all the other cars?
