The Diner

I pack the sugar away, and slide away from the counter. I switch the lights, and watch the neon signs flicker off. I untie my apron, and hang it on a hook in the kitchen, and lean back against the sink, and take a deep breath. It had been a long day. And I had met so many different people. Such different characters.

Pancakes. That was how my day began. Flipping pancakes in my kitchen. Flipping pancakes for my first five customers, that showed up at my door as regular as sunshine.
Moris, Genesis, Barney, Travis, and Bailey.
They’d show up five minutes before opening time, each, with their five dollars, and would amble up to the counter and seat themselves right in front of the cash register.
Then Moris would call for me. “Missus Hailey-Jean, now, if you ain’t gonna show us your bright little face, along with those fiiine pancakes of yours, hows we gonna get on with this darn here day?”
Then Barney would tap that bellhop bell I had sitting up there and say. “Pancakes for three Misssus Jean actually, them ladies there wouldn’t want their right little bodies too big for that dress I saw down at Yasmine’s Boutique.”

“Shoot Barney.” Genesis would say, fumbling with the ends of her hair. “I wouldn’t give up Hailey’s Pancakes if the dress was designed by Coco Chanel herself. Humph!”

Then I’d show up from the kitchen, tying the apron around my waist, unable to help that smile from creeping up onto my face.
“Why Genesis, if I’d known you love them cakes that much..... Now right here darl’n, how’s bout I make you a dozen of them cakes with a pint of that special syrup y’all like s’much. Then y’ll never have to worry about fitting into a Coco dress ever. My guarantee!”

We’d all laugh crazy as a look of horror crossed Genesis’ face.


I walk up the stairs that are almost hidden behind the kitchen. I move into my bedroom, and close the windows. It’s started raining. Looking across my room, I notice a small tin cigar case sitting there. I remember who gave that to me. It was Obolong Joe.
He stopped coming ‘round two years ago. I asked about him to some folks. But they all had different answers. Some said he had gone back to Texas, while others said he had travelled all the way to his grave. I stroke the tin box, as if doing so would tell me of the true answer.

Obolong Joe was a downright riot. He was the life of the party. Heck, he was the party. Except you couldn’t really say so at first glance.
Obolong Joe was a cowboy that had accidentally found himself caught in the winds of Chicago. He had often said so himself. He was always dressed in his worn out pants, his long cowboy boots, checkered flannel, leather vest, empty gun belt, floppy cowboy hat, and of course, the toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth.
He would push open the doors of the diner, as if he had just walked into a saloon, of the west. He would slowly take the toothpick out of his mouth, then take a few steps towards the counter, the spurs on his boots announcing his every step.
“Slam me a pint Hailey-Jean.” He would then announce, steady and dreary-like. Then he would slowly push the toothpick back into the corner of his mouth, and would sit with his head hung low until I gave him his pint. Of coffee.
Somedays he would bring his guitar, and would play some toe-jiggling tunes on them which would right drive me out of the kitchen, and urge me to dance.
And then one day, Joe walked in, without his dramatic entry, without his toothpick. Just Obolong Joe in his cowboy clothes. I hadn’t even noticed that he was in my diner until he tapped the bell, and asked for a cup of coffee.
“Obolong Joe?” I asked, hands on my hips, “Is that you? Plain and simple, no Chicago Cowboy?”
He smiled weakly. “I’ll always be a cowboy missus. Always.” (Sigh) “On that note....Hailey Jean, I want you to have this.” (take something out of shirt pocket.)
“It’s just....something for you to remember this cowboy by.”
I laughed nervously. “I’ll never forget you Joe.”
“Well then....this is just...in...case.... Well I’ll be darned, is that the moon I see?”
“I oughtta be ridin’ off about now.” He looked around him at the diner. “Goodbye Hailey Jean.”
“Goodbye.” I said. I was wringing my hands tightly. I had a bad feeling this was the last time I’d say bye to Obolong Joe.

It’s just too darn bad I was right.


I unfold my bedsheets, and blankets, then turn on the television which sits heavily on a weak three-legged table. I Love Lucy is on, and I mute the telly while the theme song rings. I hate that theme song. It gets stuck in my head, and I can’t ever get it out....even when Mrs. Freida Barnsby comes in with her loud voice, and tall tales.....



“When I was a little girl, I used to take music lessons you know. Mmmhmmm it;s true. My music teacher always insisted that I be the lead singer. Ohhh...myy, I...haha....I was always just so humble, Down to Earth you know...just, pleased...oh.... but that was then. Nowadays, oh dear, its a right pity. No one seems to understand how to be humble. I’ll say, they ought to take a leaf from my book....don’t you agree dears? Mmmhmm? See Hailey Jean. I’m never off. Ohh....but you... doo try to add a smidge less bit of sugar in that coffee right....haa right. Don’t worry, I don’t expect everyone to be perfect.”

Oooh, that Freida Barnsby did make my blood boil at times. She was an ample woman who thought that her fashion sense was singular. Her tall feathery hats, thick velvet cloaks, and pointy-toed heels of the most eccentric colours. She often thought that, because she was of England, she was the most sophisticated of all the people that were in Chicago. The rest of Chicago found her most quirky for all the same reasons.

One day Freida came in with a small dog. So small that I almost screamed that she had a rat clinging to her hand.

“Hailey. Hailey! Loook!” Now half the diner was looking at her with their mouths open, and eyes bulging.

“Freida dear....” I asked, I was still shivering from the sight of that rat-like dog. “What EVER is that thing stuck to your arm?”

She shot me an offended look, then looked down lovingly at her pet dog. “This is Frufru. He is a teacup yorkie. Which by the way, is very very ‘in’ nowadays. You do know what ‘in’ means..right Hailey dear, because that expression is not very ‘in’....along with that dress of yours....and is that apron...oh love I hope you do not touch that before you serve me....Ahhh....anyways I’ll have a glass of orange juice...freshly squeezed if you do not mind, and how about a plate of butter biscuits? Yes...that would do very well..... and, don’t bother ringing up the bill until the very end alright dear.....”

God. I think I’ll be indebted to that dog of hers forever for what he did then, because otherwise, she would have gone rambling on and on.....

That dog bit her. Right on the hand that was meticulously fluffing the hair on top of the dog’s head. She screamed loudly, and dropped the dog on the floor, pushing it out onto the streets.

“Fiend! Fiend Outrage! Lords I’d curse like a man, but it just wouldn’t do for a lady like myself! Ohh, my poor soul.” She seated herself at the counter. She sat there quietly for the longest time she ever remained silent. Then she jumped up to announce that teacup yorkies, as a matter of fact were not very in, and that it was a chihuahua she ought to get.
With a high-pitched ‘Toodle-Ooo’ she trotted out of the door, and left me to dread the time of her next visit.

I Love Lucy ends, and I turn off the television. The rain has stopped outside. I get up to open the windows. It smells like wet dirt. That, ‘it just rained’ smell. Heavens I love that smell. Reminds me of when I was a little girl.
Just about as little as AnaBella was. That sweet girl. When she was nine years old, she’d come in every Tuesday to get a Chocolate Malt for herself, and to pick up a box of fries for her little brother.
“Mrs. Jean. Are you there Ma’am?” The sweet soul’s head had barely reached the counter. She’d climb onto the cushioned stools to see me right. “Mrs. Jean, do you remember what I’d like?” She’d turn her head sideways and all her tight blonde curls’d slip onto one side.
And then I’d feign forgetfulness.
“Oh...oh no...Ooh AnaBella, I’mma’fraid I’ve gone and forgotten.
“Oh No Mrs.Jea-ean! You promised you’d remember!”
And so would continue our game-I would try to guess what it was she wanted, and she would giggle tirelessly at how bizarre my guesses were.

But now AnaBella had become a young woman. She was fourteen now, and had outgrown our game. But she never failed to drop by every Tuesday for her Chocolate Malt.
Last Tuesday she came in with her classmate Julianna. Ana began to tell her of how she used to come in as a child, and me and her laughed hours on end. She became quiet near the end.
“Geez Mrs. Jean. I wish I were at that age again.”
I thought I heard some sadness in that voice of hers.
“Don’t we all Love?” I replied. Handing her the Chocolate Malt and box of fries before she even asked.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. It’s terribly boring, and I can’t seem to get enough sleep.
Then I hear loud music outside. Automatically, I begin to think about Alex Malone. That smooth boy who never goes anywhere without his boombox sitting on his shoulders. He is one of my customers too. One of the ones that end up coming late. Much after closing time.
Then I hear his voice outside.
“Mrs Jean!” The music is lowered. “Mrs Jean!!!”
I walk to the window a smile on my face. I know what is coming.
“Yes Alex!” I try to sound as stern as possible, but both him and I know that that is one thing I cannot do.
“Mrs Jean? You think you could get me some of those pancakes? I know I’m late...sorry.....but I’m darn hungry, and my mum’s asleep, an’ I can’t cook....”
“Alex.....” I sigh, but I’m still smiling. I go back downstairs, and open the doors to my diner again. He comes in telling me all about his day.
Pancakes. That’s how my day ends. Pancakes have various compliments to them....syrup, berries..... but what we chose to put on top, is up to us. Whether complimentary or not, life is like a pancake...my life....my life is incredibly complimented by the most entrancing way my customers differ from one another, and how, even after they leave, much like the taste of pancakes in your mouth, they linger.

The In-Between

Okay, For those of you who might not understand the following.. "The In-Between" is about a person who is being taken by the Man Without a Face, (Death) to the in between. Meaning, the person has neither life wholly, nor death wholly.....


The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.

The In-Between

Okay, For those of you who might not understand the following.. "The In-Between" is about a person who is being taken by the Man Without a Face, (Death) to the in between. Meaning, the person has neither life wholly, nor death wholly.....


The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.