The Stalwart soldier

The Stalwart Soldier

‘You go down there and they want to make you speak Spanish.’ The trucker said to John as he refilled his coffee. ‘Yup.’ John said nodding. The diner was empty except for the lone trucker who was going off on a long political rant. John listened to various parts and pieces while about his usual nightly routine, wiping down the counters, restocking, bringing  the bus buckets into the dish area, and the while the trucker had been ranting, oblivious to his disinterest or lack of contribution to the conversation.  This guy just likes to hear himself talk, John thought, one of those.  It was 3:30 in the morning and he was by himself, which was how he liked it. Over the years at the diner, they had sent all manner of strange characters to work with him, people who had tried to fight him, who smoked crack in the parking lot and came back in to cook, that working alone was almost a blessing.

When he had come in it had been a disaster, but that was what he usually expected.  Zach had been on the line and the shed smelled like Woodstock.  He always changed things to how he wanted it anyway which was also one of things he liked about cooking alone.  He had become so accustomed to working alone early in the week that he always had to adjust when Ed came in later in the week to cook. To have to wait 20 minutes for a bowl of oatmeal, to get over easy eggs burned to a crisp.  John had worked with Ed years before and he had been exactly the same way, slow, ponderous.  Of course then he had been cooking on a line with several other cooks to it hadn’t been quite as bad, but by himself.  John knew he could jump in and clear to board before Ed could finish one slip, but Ed was old, obstinate, so he had to wait.  The trucker had finished his Omelette and was looking at a tablet,  ‘I’m going out for a smoke, do you need anything?’ ‘No, I’m good.’ He replied not looking up from the screen.

John walked past the line and dish station through the office, he had been there for over 20 years and it always struck him how the place seemed to change yet always stay the same.  He lit his cigarette as he walked outside, a slight breeze in the air.  Is Coleen going to show up tonight? He wondered to himself, probably not, maybe but probably not.  Coleen was, technically, the overnight, ‘janitor,’ who was there to clean the grease traps and floors on other things on nights when it was slow. In reality the position had been created solely for Coleen to keep her job. She had been a cook not long before but after she had come in drunk one too many times, swearing at customers and causing scenes Frank had regulated her to the overnight. Of course he sends her to me, John thought, grinning taking a drag. Coleen was a good worker, he knew, when she was sober.  It was like flipping a coin with her.  On the schedule she was on from 12-6 but she usually came in anywhere from one to never.

              

  John wasn’t sure why he put up with it, but he made good money.  He had sent his son to college with the money he made, which he felt pride in.  Speak of the devil, John thought as he watched Coleen pull in in her Subaru.  ‘Hey, John.’ She said as she got out. ‘Is anyone in there?’ ‘It’s a packed house?’ He said joking. She reeked of whiskey, this was not the good Coleen,  he could tell instantly, this was the other one.  ‘You just wake up?’ ‘Yeah, I overslept a little, forgot..’ she didn’t even attempt a coherent explanation.  Not that he would ask her, he already knew the answer.

             

   Frank watched the lines of the highway buzz by as he rode down the highway. It was empty mainly save for a few truckers, and the random lone car. Frank wondered about those lone cars, wondered what their story was, what mission it was the led them to the open road on such an ungodly hour.  Frank bourbon was riding shotgun with him and he picked it up and took a long swig. He felt the burn deep in his chest and it clarified and reaffirmed to him what his mission was. What it was he had to do.  Sunday morning had been long and grueling. He had been sober for so long that he still hadn’t had much of a tolerance and he had puked twice in the bathroom. He could have sworn someone had heard him in there because Jackie had asked him when he had come out if he was alright.

               

 ‘I’m not alright, damnit.’ He had wanted to say. ‘I haven’t been alright for a long time.’ But instead he had muttered something and gone out to take a break a buy some scratch tickets.  I’m doing alright now though, he mused, because I know what I must do. The thing in question was not something easy or simple but it was necessary. It can’t go on forever, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.  After he had counted the drawer and left for the day he had gotten another bottle of bourbon.  He had finished half on the way home, passed out for a while, and then gotten up hours later and finished the remainder of the bottle from the night before.  As he drank and night war on he remember the flames, the beautiful dancing flames, and it had come to him. It was all so simple, so brilliant. It was going to be beautiful.

                ’24 hour diner,’ the sign read with a list of other restaurants at the exit.  It doesn’t even say our name, he thought amused, which was known locally as the Deerfield diner.  Exit 24, You’re on captain he thought to himself as he pulled unto the exit. The exit led directly out to the diner, and Frank pulled off. He did a quick scan of the interior as he rolled through the parking lot. There was a solitary man at the counter and it looked like John was outside or in the back. Not sure what’s the best way to play this, he thought as he pulled into the back. Probably best to be direct, I am the manager after all. Act like you’re in there to finish up some paperwork, adjust some prices.  Frank took another long swig of his bourbon, those AA fucks are right, he thought, right about everything. I should just go back, get back on the highway and forget about the whole thing. Frank knew this was the rational thing to do, the sane thing, but he had come to far to go back. And there was no way he was returning to his Monday morning routine.

                Frank came in through the back, the light assaulting his eyes.  He walked through the office and through the kitchen door to the dining area, act like everything’s normal. Coleen was mopping the floor and John was looking at the newspaper, standing up as always. ‘Hey Frank.’ Coleen said. Frank nodded, good, perfect. He walked back into the kitchen and over to the flat top grill, turning all the nobs to the highest setting. He walked back into the office to go on the computer. They had been having trouble with the flat top lately, it wasn’t cooking things very well. This was a problem as when they worked on Sunday morning they liked to turn the grill up to cook things faster. They had noticed that when they turned it up it seemed to spark so they hadn’t touched it after. 

               

 Only a matter of time, Frank went out to the dining area and poured himself a coffee.  He poured some cream and sugar in it and walked back unto the line. It was sparking, and a small flame had started on the side of the grill. The grill was coated on all sides and underneath with grease, years and years of built up grease, like plankton on the side of an old ship.  The flames spread slowly and Frank made his way outside.  He took a sip of coffee, it tasted strange after the bourbon and he poured it out. It was more for show than anything else. Speaking of a show, Frank thought and walked around to his car. He got in the front seat and took another swig of bourbon, better get front row seating, he thought and pulled his car around. He parked far enough away so that he could see what was going on but he wouldn’t be noticed.  The smoked filled and he could see John going in to check it out, get out John, he thought.  Sure enough a few minutes later he saw John Coleen and the trucker hurry outside as the flames consumed the kitchen. All he could see was flames behind the window, engulfing both grills, cleansing fire, he thought to himself. Firefighters will be here soon, followed by police.  Got to go, he thought,  but it’s such a nice show. 

              

  Frank took another long swig of his bourbon, it was empty now.  The flames were rising higher and higher and he saw the first firetruck pull in.  He heard his cellphone ring, who the fuck is this? He thought. But he knew who it was, who it could only be. ‘Hello.’ He said as he answered his phone. ‘Dad, it’s Ricky.’ The voice on the other end said. ‘I’m in jail, can you come bail me out?’ Frank said nothing for a moment watching the fire chief talk to John and figure out the best strategy.  ‘Dad?’ the voice asked impatiently. ‘Yes, son, certainly.’ Frank said finally and broke his phone in half and threw it out the window. I’m done.