‘There are few public places as familiar and uncomfortable as ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ a venue that reeks of stale coffee and fifties-era cigarette smoke. Despite the matted carpets and dusty décor, ‘The Hall’ hasn’t taken a reservation in more than a decade, re-directing phone requests to a pre-recorded message without so much as a courtesy ring. The message, read aloud by a man that sounds as though he is speaking the words from his deathbed, indicates that there has been a spike in demand for places such as ‘The National Reunion Hall’ and that the owners will place a call back at the soonest moment. The message ends before allowing the caller to leave any of their information. There has been some speculation in recent years that the message is not pre-recorded at all. Samples have revealed slight variations in tone and instances of subtle throat-clearing that might be attributed to the dying man’s weakened state. Attempts to communicate with him or to shock him from his script with loud noises or lurid replies have failed. The man’s identity remains unknown and is ultimately irrelevant.
The trick, if one might call it that, is nobody needs a reservation to attend one of the daily reunions. There are no set lists- nobody checking names. This could be chalked up to sloppy management except that one always arrives at a reunion at which they belong. In that way, management is the furthest thing from sloppy. Management is impossibly, terrifyingly effective.’
When I arrive at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ I find that my 20-year high school reunion is taking place, there. I leave without showing my face- literally without taking off my helmet- and I return two days later, assuming the coast has cleared. This time it is a traveler’s reunion and, though it remains eerily pertinent, I figure it is bound to be less personal and certainly less awkward than having to mingle with the weary present versions of my high school peers.
I’m wrong, of course. When I step into the hall I find it decorated and catered for a hundred people and only one other person has shown up- the Stranger who, loyal readers might remember, had previously decayed into a sort of wight and then a specter and then a more traditional shadow. My shadow. I check my shadow and see it remains much as it has been these past couple years. It shifts uneasily under the rainbow lights that swirl above a vacant dance floor.
The Stranger looks up from a plate of dainty sandwiches and seems as surprised to see me. He scans the hall in case anyone else has managed to sneak inside. He opens his mouth and lets a gob of bread and cheese fall out onto the paper plate.
“I thought you were dead,” he says.
Something shifts beneath his chair and I step backward, thinking it’s his own shadow that’s reaching out. It’s only a rabbit, its hair tied in long, gaudy braids alternating black and gray. It drops a half-chewed carrot on the floor and hisses so loud and so long that I worry it might pass out. Hector shivers in my arms.
“I thought the same about you.”
We are quiet for some time, each of us trying to figure out what to say next. I’m about to speak when the Stranger cuts me off.
“This is my fault,” he says, “I walked away from a reunion of the strangers when I first arrived here three days ago. I run in limited circles, you know, so ‘The National Reunion Hall’ must’ve had to scramble to come up with another reunion on the fly, bringing you back from the dead as a workaround. Sorry about that.”
The Stranger picks up the half-chewed sandwich and pops it back in his mouth. His rabbit hisses like a leaking balloon.
“That’s all right,” I say, and then I shake my head, “Wait, I mean, no- you were dead. Otherwise, though, yes. I agree.”
The music playing from the dance floor shifts to a slow song and the lights dim to sultry. The Stranger crumples a napkin onto his plate and scoops his rabbit up from the floor.
“Let’s not argue,” he says, and he begins to step backward between the chairs, mirroring the movements he once used to disappear into the darkness of ‘Echo Cave.’ “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says, “Maybe-”
The Stranger yelps and trips backward over a folding chair. He’s gone before I’m able to weave my way through the tables, having disappeared into the institutional geometry of the carpet, I guess, or having slipped between the course fabric of the table cloths. I don’t pretend to understand the sort of magic he does. It’s quicker than exploiting the gray roads. More prone to glitches.
Hector sniffs cautiously at the Stranger’s chair while I bag up a week’s worth of food from the buffet, the very thin silver lining to this whole encounter. I suppose a man could eat perpetually at ‘The National Reunion Hall,’ but only if he were willing to spend each night re-living the past with the people he thought he left there. Everything comes at a cost on the Wayside and ‘The National Reunion Hall’ is just a hair outside of my budget for a repeat visit.
-traveler
