In honor of National Novel Writing Month I submit to you the first chapter of a novel I am working on, but will not finish by the end of this month.
Jason Gregory had not been sitting in Eric’s diner,
on Fifth and Viola, long before he knew he was falling in love. He was not falling in love with a waitress,
or the cook, or any other person in the diner, but with the diner itself. He
rarely allowed himself to think about concepts like love. He simply had too much time for such things. But, Jason could not help let his guard down
in this diner. Jason was simply amazed by the perfection of this restaurant
which he had, up until yesterday, never even heard of. Normally things which
seemed perfect scared Jason, but not Eric’s. As soon as he had stepped into
Eric’s the aromas of perfectly seared beef, fried chicken, French fries and
gooey, sticky, sweet, crimson cherry pie did a jig in his elated
olfactories.
The enchanting waitress with the licorice rope hair
and the Emerald Isle eyes said, “This way, Hun.” Jason chuckled and muttered, “Hun…perfect.”
He loved when women he did not know called him pet names. Maybe hearing those words filled just a
little bit of the gaping void of human companionship he so desperately needed
but would never again allow himself to have. “What’s that sweetie?” the waitress
asked. “Oh nothing,” he replied. Jason
smiled a Cheshire smile at the words “hun” and “sweetie” and drank in his
surroundings. He was shocked at how impossibly nice this diner seemed.
The very word “diner” normally brought forth images
of greasy fry-cooks with two-day stubble and stained aprons which look like the
inside of a toddler’s underwear, waitresses with Iguana skin from years of
smoking and hard living, torn naugahyde booths, a slightly sour smell caused by
using the grease in the fryer about 100 too many times, and a thin layer of
what can only be called “muck” blanketing every possible surface. Eric’s was
nothing like the prototypical diner. The
booth seats were genuine leather, the lollipop red tables were spotless, and
all the chrome was clean enough to check your hair in the reflection.
On the surface Eric’s was perfect, but Jason decided
to reserve his final judgment of this place until he had tried the food. Jason wished he had found this place earlier
in his stay in Bakersfield. He knew he would likely be leaving today one way or
the other. It was probably for the best
he had not happened upon this paradise earlier in his sojourn. Jason hated making connections, to a person
or a place, only to have those bonds torn away every time he was forced to move
on.
As Jason plopped himself down into the booth seat he
had been led to and picked up his menu, he actually hoped the food in Eric’s
diner would be awful. He realized if he fell in love with this place, he would
have an even harder time leaving Bakersfield. Whether he wanted to or not, he was
going to have to leave, he always had to leave eventually. His proverbial winter had arrived and it was
time to fly south. He was tired of his perpetual motion. It hurt too damn
much.
Jason had learned, through his years of solitude,
when you deny yourself human connections for a long enough time you find
yourself much more easily attached to places, foods, even smells. Sometimes, Jason would find himself becoming misty
eyed over a missed smell, the damp
woodsy smell of Lufkin, the smell of cherry blossoms in Hood River, the smell
of freshly tilled soil and dried corn stalks in Ames. He had decided humans for
whatever reason simply needed something to ground them, to remind them they are
real, they belong. Jason was no longer
sure he really was human, but he knew he still had very human emotions and
needs to be a part of something. He
needed to belong. Jason wondered how many more times he could possibly be
displaced, uprooted. The thought made
him shudder.
“Have you found what yer lookin for yet, Hun?”
Jason looked up and saw his redheaded waitress had
returned.
“Looking for?” Jason asked in a puzzled tone.
“Yes, have you found what you want to eat in that menu
you have been staring at for the last five minutes?”
Jason panicked for a second when he realized he had
become lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts and forgotten to actually look
at the menu. He had picked the menu up
and stared at it, but his brain had never engaged its contents enough to make
any type of decisions as to what he would eat.
“Uhhh, What’s your biggest burger?”
“The Destroyer.”
“The Destroyer?”
Jason asked through a chuckle.
“Yep. Two
half pound patties, four slices of thick cut applewood smoked pepper bacon, two
slices of American and two slices of smoked gouda, and then each layer is covered
in sautéed onions, mushrooms, and jalapenos.”
“Well, it sounds like it lives up to its destructive
moniker there.”
With a gleam in her eye the waitress looked at Jason
and smiled. “Yeah, I told Eric he should
call the damned thing something different.
I said he might as well call it the ‘The Myocardial Infarctionator,’ but
he told me that men have a need to feel like they are facing up to some danger
or challenge, or they simply do not feel alive.
I guess he must be right, because people order it more than any other
item we sell. Apparently, this burger is
one of the only dragons some men can find to slay anymore. They come in here in groups after work or a
softball game, and challenge each other to see who can finish one of ‘em and a
basket of fries off the fastest. Maybe
they feel like they are not only beating the burger but death itself. I don’t know. Men have never made any sense
to me.”
“Myocaradial Infarctionator?” Jason asked with a
furrowed brow.
“Yeah, it’s just medical terminology for heart
attack. I was in Medical school at the
University of Houston for awhile. That’s
where I met Eric actually. He was just
finishing up when I was starting. I
never finished.”
“So, in your professional opinion this burger could
kill me?”
“I didn’t finish remember? I cannot legally have a professional
opinion,” she said through a smirk. But, I would say if you ate it like once a
year or so you should be fine, but if you ate it very often, then…maybe. You look like you are in good enough health.
I don’t think a a young gentleman in his mid-twenties or so should have
anything to fear.”
“There are very few things I fear anymore and
myocardial infarction is nowhere on the list. So, after your wonderful sales
pitch there Red, I think I am going to have to mount my trusty steed and face
up to the Destroyer.”
“Feeling the need to take on a Dragon, Hun?”
“Not really, dragons got nothing on me. I have beaten the worst they have to offer. I just like a good burger. Go ahead and give me the fries as well…and
how are your milkshakes?”
“They are way too good. I have to limit myself to one a week, so I
don’t turn into the Michelin Man… or Michelin Woman, I guess. The best one is the Mama’s Mountain Berry
Medley.”
“That sounds perfect. Lemme have one of those as
well,” Jason said has he handed her the menu.
“Alrighty, Sweetie. I will be back with your food in
about ten to fifteen minutes, ‘kay?”
Jason nodded and thanked her.
“Red,” as Jason had taken to calling the engaging
waitress, came back with his food even quicker than she had promised. Jason
closed his eyes and offered up a mock prayer to a God he did not believe in,
“Please let this food taste of dung and cause Exorcist-like projectile
vomiting, Amen.” Eric smiled over his
insane prayer. He did not understand why
he still felt the desire to pray at times even though he had lost faith in the
existence of any type of divine being many years ago. Some habits die hard he guessed. His mother had made him pray before he could
eat anything as a child, even just a snack. He guessed subconsciously after all
these years, somewhere he still wanted to please his mother.
Unfortunately, the food was more than good, it was
heavenly. The burger had proven to be a St. Helens of juiciness as soon as his
teeth had pierced its seared skin. The
beef was perfectly cooked and seasoned. This was one of those burgers where you
have to wipe your chin after every bite, because it is marking its territory. Jason
moaned a little with each bite. “The
Destroyer,” was not simply food it was art.
The shake and the fries were every bit as good as the burger. They were masterpieces. Jason wondered if
Eric had sold his soul in order to be able to create food of such caliber.
The food was so delectable Jason imagined husbands
and wives had probably divorced from the arguments over who got to eat the
leftovers when they got home. With each
bite of burger and fries, and each pull from the straw of the shake Jason felt
a sense of calm sweep over him. The food was having an ambrosia- like effect
upon him. He was being washed clean and redeemed by “The Destroyer.” Jason laughed at the irony.
The burger, shake, and fries even washed away the
very reason why Jason had come to Eric’s Diner.
Jason’s memory was soon ripped back into reality. When Jason was halfway through his conquest
of The Destroyer, the door of Eric’s diner opened and two mismatched men
stepped in. Upon seeing the two men
Jason was torn from the security of the Diner’s womb. Jason’s stomach suddenly became the Gordian
Knot. These had to be the men whom he had been summoned to meet. He had received a cryptic e-mail a day
previous which said, “We know who are and we would like to talk to you about an
opportunity to belong to something worthwhile.
Please meet us at Eric’s Diner on the corner of Fifth and Viola on the
28th at 7 p.m.”
Normally, Jason would have simply packed his bags
and moved on. These types of meetings
never ended well for him. The people who
tracked him down always wanted something from him, something “only he could
do.” He was tired of being used. Tired
of being told about his duties to humanity or whatever other bullshit pitch
they used to convince him he would be a terrible person if he did not accept
their offer. The word “belong” had
entrenched itself in his mind and even as he packed his bags, he could not help
but heed the siren song of belonging.
And so, he had come to Eric’s, despite his
trepidations, to meet, he assumed, the two men standing at the entrance. The
man on the right was tall, impossibly skinny, with wiry dirty blond hair
stuffed under an old dingy fedora. His hair shot out in all directions from
under the hat as if his hair was trying its damnedest to escape and find
another head to place itself upon. He
was dressed in an ill-fitting wrinkled olive green suit. Jason immediately
thought of the villain “The Scarecrow” from Batman as he absorbed the sight of
the man. Jason laughed as he looked at the second man despite feeling sick and
angry. The second man looked exactly
like a penguin to Jason. He was short
and round, dressed in black with white cuffs. The penguin man even rocked from
side to side like a penguin as he shifted his weight repeatedly from one foot
to another. Even though the man did not
really resemble “The Penguin” from Batman (no top hat, no umbrella, no
impossibly long pointy noise, no monocle) Jason decided henceforth these two
men would be known as “The Scarecrow and The Penguin.”
As Jason looked more closely, he realized The
Penguin’s outfit was actually the garb of a priest. Jason pursed his lips and
gritted his teeth wondering if it had been the Catholic Church who had tracked
him down. Maybe, the offer to belong was
just some religious ploy. He cursed
himself for his frailty. He could not
fathom what the Church might want with him.
He didn’t guess it really mattered, for he wanted nothing to do with
them.
Were these really the men who had summoned him to
this Nirvana? Jason found himself
wanting to hate both of the men. They
had briefly given him the gift of escape by leading him to Eric’s, and then
they had untimely ripped him back into reality, simply by their arrival at the
door. Jason laid his burger down and fought back the nausea which was quickly
overtaking him. He watched as they
scanned the room looking for him and stopped when their eyes alighted upon
him. They both began their trek towards
his booth. The Penguin still rocked back
and forth even when he was walking. Normally, Jason would have laughed at the
site, but he could taste the bile in his mouth.
The Scarecrow reached Jason’s table first and
attempted to fold himself into the opposite side of the booth table. The Penguin
did his best to insert himself into booth next to The Scarecrow but do his
rotund stature it was a tight fit and took a little effort.
“I am glad to see you here Mr. Gregory. I calculated the odds of you showing up at
32.89 %. We have already beaten the odds
simply by getting you to show up. I am pleased.” said the Scarecrow with a
smile. The Penguin said nothing. He only sat and glared at Jason. “I am Dr. Emil Christopher. But, you can all
Emil or simply “M” as the others do. I will allow my associate to introduce
himself.” The Penguin turned and
glowered at the Dr., Jason could see the muscles in his jaw twitching. After a
moment of staring at the Dr., The Penguin turned his gaze back toward Jason and
continued staring. Jason squirmed a bit under the stare, The Penguin made him
feel anxious. “My apologies to you on behalf of my associate, Jason. He is not really a very happy or nice
person. He also seems to have taken some
sort of vow of silence sometime within the last week in another vain attempt to
get his God to remove his abilities.”
“Abilities?”
Jason asked.
“Yes, Mr. McCann he is like you, well at least
somewhat. He is able to do things which
most humans cannot.”
“What do you mean by abilities?”
“Jason, you know what I mean.”
Jason stared mouth agape for a moment shocked to
hear there were others beside himself. He collected himself and said, “I wouldn’t
call what I have an ability,” Jason said as he crossed his arms.
“Oh, what would you call it then?”
“I don’t know. For me, I would say it is more of an
inability than an ability.”
“That is very true, Jason. So, tell me.
How many times have you actually died?”
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