There is nothing that brings perspective like a good, public cry and, in the aftermath, I seek out a familiar place to console myself. I go to a diner, a chain diner, one of those 24 hour places that keeps your coffee topped off and doesn’t ask why you’re there alone and still a little teary-eyed. A place where nobody knows your name and, under most circumstances, will never ask. A familiar place, no matter where you are.
‘Familiar’ is a funny word in this context.
The noun, I mean.
Traditionally a witch’s demon friend, a cat, a raven, an imp- could be anything, why not a diner if it serves the same purpose? Baba Yaga had something like that, a mobile home. I have the chain diner which cuts to the chase and exists everywhere at once- multiple entrances to what is, basically, the same place.
Didn’t even have to do away with the chicken legs.
The diner suckles on my wallet like an extra teat and offers me sanctuary in exchange, a barter I’m happy to accept in most circumstances.
These are not original thoughts. Well, they come from Shitholes.
So maybe they are.
‘‘Autumn by the Wayside,’ endeavors to remain solidly in the realm of non-fiction, despite our eccentric choice of content. That said, the author must occasionally allow for the printing of rumor, superstition, and that which borders upon conspiracy. The following represents such speculative research.
It is said, in certain circles, that the cowboy paths of old have collapsed into ley lines. Like all things, strange and otherwise, the lines are governed by numbers and fueled, in part, by money. In our civilized present a wanderer may forsake the deserts and travel in the relative comfort of a diner booth, penciling coordinates onto a slip of paper and paying fare. When your number’s up, well, step outside.
The trouble with Keno Coordinates, I’m told, is that nobody seems to know any that work. This dubious method of travel is kept by that most passive gatekeeper, the friend of a friend, whose mysterious absence seems only to add credibility to what they guard. It is the friend of a friend who knew a couple strings of Keno Coordinates and who would, on occasion, simply disappear. It is the friend of a friend, and perhaps a word of warning here, who would invariably never return. I would enjoy your coffee, reader, and think little of things that could not happen.’
It could be that the author is a better, saner me, a me whose body remains unbroken and womb-smoothed. A scarred creature like myself, with an arm that can barely lift a warm mug, represents a divergence from the man in the picture, or, the way I remember the man. As the back cover has faded, cracked, and torn away, I have only my memory to go on.
It did look like me, once.
The divergence is why I can enjoy my coffee and think of things that seem unlikely happen. I am not limited by the author’s hesitations or by the smoothness of his unbroken skin. It is not enough to approach the unknown; if I want to understand the book then I will need to prod the unknown with a short stick and be ready to run. The once placid sheen of my exterior has already been disturbed, further ripples will likely go unnoticed.
I have not slept.
The waiter mops a puddle of coffee from my table and I switch back to my healthy arm. He takes the money and the ticket I hand him and he enters the numbers into a machine. My burger comes in record time. I order a slice of warm pie and match a few numbers to the screen, a few of many. It is too dark outside to see anything.
I pay up and exit the diner into a place that is distinctly unfamiliar to me. I shake away dreary thoughts and stretch my tired limbs. I double-knot my shoes and take several deep breaths.
I will walk for now but I am ready to run.
-traveler
