Flames, beautiful circling flames,
they were all Frank could see in his dreams, ebbing and flowing, building. They
were engulfing the diner and he was outside to see it, a marvelous spectacle it
was. He wasn’t sure, in the dream, if he
was personally there or if this was being shown to him. Possibly by some kind
of ghost of Christmas past, or future, but it had all seemed so real. The
flames engulfed everything, the floor, the kitchen, the stools, even the sign,
which read simply ‘Diner.’ He saw them shoot up curl around the exterior and he
remembered laughing hysterically. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing in the
dream or in real life but it didn’t matter. The diner was empty at the time,
and as Frank awoke he wondered what it meant.
He opened his eyes as the first
rays of the sun hit them, and he found himself in his car, the bottle of
bourbon almost half gone. Can’t put the
sauce away like I used to, he thought as he wearily opened his eyes. Why can’t
I just stay asleep? Just remain away in that world. He had more control in his dreams, in his
dream’s he actually had money, and respect, and casual sex. Frank could vaguely recall getting into his
car after wandering down the dirt road that led to his home taking the bottle
with him. He had told his wife some vague lie about taking about the garbage or
going on a walk-it was hard to remember and had gone behind the trash cans
outside the garage where he had stashed the bourbon. Frank’s plan was, at first, to drink and
maybe come up with a solution, a way out.
A way to unburden himself of everything of everyone. Yet Frank found as he got deeper down into
the bottle the idea’s he came up with got crazier and crazier. To fake his
death and move down to Mexico, to hire a hit man to take out his boss, to
travel back and time and get into random adventures. Frank had been in his car pondering the time
travel idea when he had passed out a dreamt of the flames. The lovely flames,
he thought. Frank hadn’t had a drop of
alcohol in over 5 years before a day ago, he had turned himself around, devoted
himself to being in ‘recovery,’ and had gone to AA and even considered himself ‘reformed.’
Although that was always the danger,
he knew. Those were the ones they talked about in AA the ones who went back to
their old ways, the ones who stopped going to meetings, stopped calling their
sponsors, the ones who considered themselves ‘cured.’ He could see himself
going down a dark path this time, and he doubted he would be able to pull
himself out. It figures, I work with a
bunch of alcoholics it’s only a matter of time before I go back. He looked at
his watch, 6:30, fuck. No time to go back to sleep, no time really, to get
ready. He had to be in at the diner at 8 to open and help Jim cook. Frank got
out of his car, the air was cool and felt good on his skin. He was still
slightly buzzed from the night before but it seemed to him nothing that a
shower couldn’t cure. Would they notice
that I was gone? It was hard to say, he hoped not. Frank was a terrible liar
and eventually they would figure it out. He open the door to his car and pulled
out the bottle, walking over to the garbage cans and carefully placed it behind
the first one. I wonder what she would do if she found out? Probably divorce
him, possibly. It was hard to say if that would be a bad thing. He’d probably
get fucked over, he knew. He always seemed to get fucked over.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding
me, Marge thought as she walked by the dish area to get her coffee. She always
came in 20 minutes to a half hour earlier to get her coffee, have a cigarette,
or several. The bus pans were piled on
top of each other, and the ones in the dining area were filling up as well.
What the fuck have they been doing all night? She thought as she poured her
coffee. ‘Hey Marge.’ Lynn said to marge
as she poured her coffee. All bright
eyed and chipper, Marge thought, obviously this one isn’t too bright. In her
estimation anyone who was that bright eyed and chipper after working a long
overnight at the diner had to have a few screws loose.
Lynn was putting an order into the
computer while a four person order sat in the window. She would always do this
and then eventually the food waiting would get cold and have to be remade. ‘Busy?’
Marge asked, more for the sake of being cordial than anything else. Marge
walked through the door to the kitchen, ‘Hey Marge,’ Ed said as she walked by
and she said nothing. Fucking useless asshole, she thought as she walked
outside to the shed. She still had 20
minutes until 8 and she intended on spending every last second of them outside.
She could smell the vague odor or marijuana as she stepped into the shed. Marge
sat down and lit up a cigarette, that’s all they do on that 4-12 sit around,
get high, eat. Officially the F.R. Rogers company had a half price rule on
food, but unofficially Gary, for the most part let them have whatever they
wanted for free.
Marge and 1st shift
resented this because Frank always took a harder line, making them ring in what
they ate. They still ate but they just had to by sneaky about it, she would have Jim cook her a hot dog or
something, and furtively take bites over at her station. Marge knew that most likely Frank wouldn’t chastise her for it but he would also likely
make her pay for it. As Marge saw it the
company was already fucking them over with low pay, no benefits, no vacation
time, the least they could do was let her eat a fucking hot dog once and a
while. She took a drag of her cigarette and opened the door slightly to look
outside. The sun was coming up and it looked like it was going to be a nice
day, too bad I’m stuck in here. A red
truck pulled up, right next to the rear entrance. Jim and Judy marge thought,
she looked at her phone, ten minutes.
Jim and Judy walked up to the shed. ‘How’s it going?’ Judy said as she
entered. Marge nodded, ‘It’s pretty bad
in there.’ She said. Judy lit up a smoke
and Jim followed suit. ‘Ed’s been alone all night, he doesn’t know what he’s
doing, there’s piles of dishes, trash everywhere, looks like
a fucking bomb went off in that place.’ Jim nodded, ‘Sounds like a Sunday
morning.’
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