A friend recently wrote that he did not want to fool himself into thinking he was a writer, that is the same way I feel. What I do think is that I have something to say, I just am not articulate enough to say it and make it a full length book. I can only hope to achieve getting my thoughts and points across in 500 words or less.
When I wrote this short piece, I honestly believed there was a story here. I still like the concept, but by the second paragraph I knew Stephen King I was not. Oh well, I know I have no grand big American novel in me, but I enjoy what is inside my own head. Who knows there might still be a story here, I might find its voice somewhere here in the Asylum, one of the inmates may provide some inspiration and insight to the loss of ......
TIME....
Through the steam of my cup I could see a miniature set of shiny red shoes swinging back and forth underneath the counter at the diner. A little girl had been sitting atop the red stool since I had arrived, just sitting watching the cook flip pancakes all morning long with a mature sense of fascination. Up and down, and up and down, over and over again, the batter always formed into delicious solid creations, some with blueberries, some with chocolate, some just plain and simple. The cook sported a wonderful apron that looked like it had been around forever, cooked a million pancakes, and still lived to tell its tale of the oils and toppings and syrups it had seen in its day. The old man’s red shirt could be seen through the burn holes in the apron, as if they were war wounds. The cook didn’t seem to mind the heat of the stove, or stir at all when the burning oil from the pan spat at his flesh. He was caked in a film of grease, butter and batter, and only occasionally broke from his cooking rituals to wipe his forehead with the sopping wet rag that was slung over his left shoulder. Each pancake was a delicate creation that the old man prepared with great consideration and effort, making each one perfect, but none the same. Never would the man be compared to any machine- every one was original, every one special.
The special of the day was peanut butter pancakes, although I didn’t see anybody order that one. The little girl with the shiny shoes, who had been there since I had come in at 8;20, kept watching the cook flip his pancakes over and over again. I like people watching and tried to figure out whom the little girl belonged to. There was a young couple sitting in the booth to the back of me sipping on coffee and discussing family issues, from what I could hear. There was also a businessman in the corner eating chocolate pancakes while engaging in stock talk on a black cell phone. He was dressed in a dark suit and dark shirt but wore a wonderful bright red tie, perfect for the Christmas season I thought. Although it seemed too hot to wear an additional jacket on top of a suit, the man didn’t seem bothered. I glanced around the diner and noticed the lack of decorations; it was abnormal for a little diner not to dress up the place.
The little girl was still a mystery to me. The couple had just recently come in so I knew they weren't the little girl’s parents, and the businessman was obviously not associated with the child. There had been a boy in his twenties tending the counter, but he had disappeared into the back long ago when his service wasn't needed anymore. I wondered if he was busy in the middle of a brilliant game of solitaire back there, or perhaps that he was still in school and was studying for a mid-term exam. Maybe the boy hadn’t gone to college at all and his future was running this small diner on the corner here. Or then again, maybe the boy was just a boy.
The old man would make piles of about nine or ten pancakes tall on a plate to the side of the stove, and then he would let the stove cool down for a few minutes while he prepared more batter. I didn’t know why he continued to make pancakes when there were no new customers. It was already 9:48 then, according to the clock above the entrance. Most people would have been on their way to work or been at work by then, so nobody else was due to enter the diner now that the morning rush had ceased. The entrance to the diner was at the front and only a door blocked my view to the street; the wall to the street of the diner was glass and I could see cars inching past the glass to the right. The diner seemed very still although the cook was still working steadily at his pancake business, the girl’s shiny shoes still swung back and forth, and the sizzling of the oil and the buzz of the business man and the conversation of the couple were all quite real. I looked down into my bowl of coffee in all its glory.
There were several rims of dried up coffee lining the interior of the checkered bowl from which I had subconsciously sipped. I used the long shafted spoon with the small head to resuscitate life in my once steaming and lively cup of Jo. I stirred the coffee to the left in small hope that I would undo time and its effect by churning counter-clockwise. I managed to squeeze a woof of smell out of the dying bowl of coffee but I couldn't reclaim the steam that had once thrived. With a dead bowl of coffee sitting in front of me I decided it was time to give up the spoon. I stopped stirring and tapped the spoon on the side of the bowl as if to prevent the death from spreading beyond the bowl’s parameters. I looked up at the clock above the entrance and it read 9:48.
I was confused and felt disoriented for a few moments as I remembered how it had been that exact time a while ago. I looked to the businessman in hopes of asking the time, but there was no businessman. Instead, in his place, I found an old man with a worn out face dressed in casual attire that held a phone to his ear in silence. I looked across to where the couple should be and saw only an empty booth with a single salt or pepper (I could not tell which one) shaker on it. Where had the people gone to, I wondered. Everything seemed so different. I was relieved when I then recognized the familiar sizzling of the pancakes on the grill.
I turned and saw not the old man, but the young boy slopping batter into the pan carelessly. On the counter lay the old apron the old cook had been wearing, which the same little girl was cutting up with a rusty pair of scissors into childish Christmas tree shapes. Feeling completely distorted, I headed for the exit and pushed past the rusty door into the fresh cool winter air. Passing the fingerprinted window of the diner, I glanced inside and noticed that the once-shiny red shoes of the girl were dull. The bright warm Sun of the morning had given way to the dark full face of the moon.
