‘‘The Last Sectioned Diner’ holds on to its title by a thin, legal thread, relying on its history (claiming to have served any number of politically relevant smokers and yellow-fingered authors) to allow for an indoor smoking section to exist in a state that has long banned them. Rumored to be the result of a technical clause in this ambiguous heritage, the ‘Diner’ has instituted a system far more complex than the smoking/non-smoking binary of young America, opting, instead, for a floorplan described as ‘fractal’ and ‘endless’ in its most recent review by the local fire marshal.
A favorable dining experience at ‘The Last Sectioned Diner’ requires no little cunning on the part of the customer, for each categorized section is likely nested within a dozen others. In order to understand the destination, one must understand the many branching paths that led one there in the first place.’
The non-violent section is, inexplicably, positioned as a sub-section of smoking- that much I recognized almost immediately. Is it calming effects of nicotine? A worry that spilled ashtrays might cause fires? The waitstaff won’t say (and I’ve never been one to needlessly bother a server). All this to say I noticed the smoking the moment I arrived.
The rest, I’ve learned over a week of waiting.
This, for instance, seems to be a section that discourages speaking above a whisper. It’s a section that does not offer wine but does have an extensive kid’s menu. This is a section that enforces a certain dress code, I found, when I arrived in flip-flops and pajama pants in the middle of the night- attire that wouldn’t be out of place at many 24-hour diner chains- and was offered a seat in an area that could not entirely rule out violence but was judgement-free, at least. Seeing the people dining there was like seeing my own soul laid bare and I was soon escorted out for quietly thinking that I must be better than them, for swearing under my breath that I would take the time to pull on jeans before returning.
There are static things about the diner as well. The walls that separate the sections do not reach the ceiling- they terminate in frosted, floral glass about six feet above the floor so that the smell of smoke is always present, no matter its origin. The menus are laminated and spiralbound, their pages sticking together with the residue of a recent cleaning. The tables are always mildly wet, the coffee always weak but plentiful. The cream is always in the little unspoiling plastic tubs, stacked neatly into a little ceramic bowl. It always takes two or three to bring about any change in the coffee’s flavor and they pile like insect shells as I wait and sip coffee and eat pie. I order a steak each time, not because I want it, but because I need an easy out for when she arrives.
It is impossible not to judge someone who orders the steak at a chain diner.
The Editor arrives on the eighth day, lead to my booth by the server. She is shaking, but not for any of the physical harm she has been subject to in the previous weeks. She is shaking with the effort of suppressing her anger. Cracks in the booth’s plastic cushions split and widen as she slides in across the table. My mug rattles as her feet connect with the supporting bar below.
“I’ll be back with that Shirley Temple!” the server croons.
The Editor winces.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her as the older woman turns to the kitchen, “They don’t allow judgment here.”
“Fuck you,” she says.
“How do you keep catching up with me?” I ask, “You tricked me the first time and now I can’t turn a corner without running into you.”
“We’re on the same path, now,” she says, “I know which book you have and that’s all it takes.”
“Are you going to tell me why you’re following me?”
Her drink arrives, dripping red.
“I’ve made myself clear.”
“You edited ‘Autumn by the Wayside,’” I say, “And you think I have something to do with it.”
“You wrote it.”
“You’re the second person to say that,” I tell her, “But I haven’t written anything.”
“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to the napkin under my elbow. I’ve scribbled my observations about the ‘Diner’ there: “A favorable experience at ‘The Last Sectioned Diner…”
“That’s different,” I say, stuffing the napkin into my pocket, “I write what I see, but the only reason I’m out here is because I’m visiting the places in Shitholes. The first I heard about it was the day someone handed it to me.”
“This isn’t you?” she asks, and she opens the back of her copy to the author bio. The pages are crisp and white and the man in the picture is me.
“That picture changes.”
“Bullshit,” she says, “I was the one that had to edit your teeth back in.”
I reach out to touch the unbroken spine of her book but she snatches it from my fingers.
“But it was already written…”
“You wrote this!” she seethes, “You’re writing it now! You will write it! That’s what’s happening. You’ve been writing yourself in circles and some of us are stuck in the loop with you, you selfish fuck! We’re circling the drain!”
“Calm down,” I tell her, noting the gathering of waitstaff at the edges of the section, “I don’t want you following me- I’m on your side! How do we fix this?”
“You die,” she says, “That might work.”
“How else?” I ask, “Can’t I just finish the book?”
“You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said,” she snaps, “There’s more than one version of the book and the one you’re writing now ends in disaster.”
“What?” I ask, “What’s wrong with this one?”
My own copy is gray and warped with water damage. It seems unsanitary to place it on the table.
“Ever wonder why the bio in your book uses the past-tense?” she asks, “That’s because we publish it posthumously.”
“You’re trying to kill me before I die?”
“Let’s just say that one of the nicer versions is a hell of a lot shorter than the rest.”
“But it’s not the best,” I say, confirming what I guessed in her averted eyes, “The best version is different.”
“The best version is complicated,” she says, “It’s long.”
“It needs a skilled editor.”
Her eyes flick back to my face and her grip tightens on Shitholes. She opens her mouth to speak when the server interrupts us with my order.
“A steak?” the Editor asks, eyeing the dry slab of meat on the table.
I try to warn her, but a condescending smile already grows across her face.
“Sorry,” I shrug, as the waitstaff descend upon her, “But you know where to find me.”
-traveler
