The Diner

By Mark Mitchell

Nobody knew who the boy belonged to. No one had noticed who he walked in with or what he was doing there – besides creating a disturbance that is.

The diner was the only restaurant open late at night on a Sunday. The rest of the town had closed shop and rolled up the sidewalks by now. Because of this fact, the diner served as a catch-all for road tired patrons and late night hungry locals alike.

There were four booths along the wall, running parallel with the counter. Three of the booths were currently occupied. A family of four sat at one table, enjoying a quiet meal. A couple sharing a burger and milkshake conversed in the second booth. The last booth, nestled into the corner sat a lone figure with a hoodie pulled over his head. The man gazed down into a pitch black cup of coffee. His back was to the wide bay windows that looked out onto the sleepy small town street.

The town was a whistle stop settlement of a few hundred people. The locals were used to having transients and commuters passing through. A lot of the local business came from the truck routes using the highway a mile north of town. Truckers could just about always be seen grabbing a bite to eat inside the diner, like the two sitting at the counter now. The men sat with an empty chair between them, stabbing at blue plate specials and sipping at burnt coffee. The boy in question sat at the other end of the counter.

He started off keeping to himself, as most patrons in the diner did. The waitress gave him a little more attention than needed, solely because it seemed he was alone. She brought him a stack of pancakes with extra syrup, a tall glass of chocolate milk. She even smiled and told the boy not to worry when his excessive bubble blowing caused the milk to spill over the sides of the glass onto the counter.

The cook working the flattop had enough orders to keep him busy, but he still watched the boy in the mirror above the grill. It was the easiest way to keep an eye on the customers while his back was to them. The cook dropped a smearing of lard onto the grill, prepping for the next order should the man in the corner booth change his mind and order some food.

It had been an uneventful evening up to this point. Some spilled milk wasn’t out of the ordinary, so neither the waitress nor the cook had thought anything about it. That’s when things started getting weird.

The boy banged his fists on the counter, demanding more pancakes. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. Old enough to look out for himself, but also too young to be alone in the diner this late at night. Even if this was a safe town with one of the lowest crime rates in the state.

The waitress worked her way over to the far side of the counter, stopping to pick up the spent dishes and empty water glasses from the fourth booth that had been until recently occupied by an elderly couple celebrating an anniversary earlier in the night. Normally she would have had the table spotless within a couple minutes of the couple’s departure, but with the slow nature of the night, she hadn’t seen a reason to do it yet. Now with the plates stacked in the crook of her arm she passed by the boy spinning circles in his swivel chair at the counter to inquire what he needed.

Pancakes. More pancakes was the answer.

The waitress gave the cook a look and the man brought out the tub from the refrigerator. He doled out four dallops of batter which hissed the second it hit the grill. He replaced the tub in the fridge and returned to watch the bubbles in the batter to signify the pancakes were ready to be flipped. When the appropriate time came, the cook reached for his spatula, but somehow it was always just out of reach.

The cook pushed back his paper hat to scratch at his graying hair. Again he reached for the spatula. And again, right before he could grab it, the spatula inched away.

This time the cook lunged for the cooking utensil. The spatula clattered to the floor. Everyone in the diner picked their heads up to find out the source of the commotion – everyone except for the man in the corner booth.

The boy giggled from the end of the counter.

The cook tossed the dirty spatula in the sink and retrieved a fresh one from the walk-in pantry. He plated the pancakes and dinged the bell. The waitress delivered the hotcakes to the boy. She placed a new napkin on the counter seeing as he’d torn his first one to confetti, which now littered the floor.

Once the waitress had walked away, the boy turned his attention to the couple in the middle booth. They had their eyes locked on one another over the top of their shared milkshake. Two red and white striped straws jutted out of the mound of whipped cream. The young woman nibbled the end of her straw playfully, flashing her hazel eyes in the boy’s direction.

Without warning the milkshake erupted out of the tall glass, covering both teenages in a layer of runny chocolate. The girl screamed in surprise. The boy yanked a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table. He tried to hand them to his date, but because of the ice cream in her eyes, she couldn’t see his valiant effort to come to her aid.

The boy at the counter grabbed his midsection with laughter.

One of the truckers stood up from the counter and thumbed a couple bills from his pocket. He threw them down next to his half finished meal. In his experience, when the unexplainable started to happen, it was best to hit the road.

The waitress had sprang to action and handed a moist towel to the young woman to clean up her face and get some of the ice cream off her blouse before a stain could set in. She apologized to the couple, though she didn’t really know what to apologize for. She’d been working in the diner going on eight years and had never once seen a milkshake explode on the guests. Of course their meal would be covered.

The trucker pulled open the door to step out onto the street when the handle was ripped from his hand. The door shut by itself and the lock turned. He jiggled the handle, but the door wouldn’t open.

The cook turned down the heat of the stove and walked over to help the trucker who had taken to rattling the door with furious tugs. The cook hadn’t stepped more than a couple feet away before all the knobs on the stove turned up to the highest flame. The stove clicked, letting out more gas. A giant fireball rose up, tickling the ceiling with its red and orange tongues.

The two kids in the family of four screamed in terror and buried their faces into their mother’s bosom. 

Everyone’s face said the same thing: Just what the heck was going on here?

Everyone except for the man in the corner booth.

Dishes crashed to the floor next. Swiped right off the tables in front of everyone’s unbelieving eyes. Drink glasses shattered. Forks and spoons clattered. Gravy and ketchup smeared the checkerboard tiles.

The various seasonings and powders the cook kept within easy reach of his flattop and stove popped as if firecrackers had been placed in the packaging. They filled the air in starbursts of multiple colors. The white of flour. Red of paprika.

Those closest to the action ducked under cover of the counter. The family of four huddled together in their booth, arms raised to protect their faces and necks. The dating couple gripped one another tightly under their own table. Milkshake on their faces no longer their biggest worry.

The cook fought against the blaze on the stove. The fire extinguisher he kept under the counter failed to attack the raging fire with anything more than a cough of expellant. It had the equivalent effect of spitting on a burning house.

The waitress filled up a pitcher of water and handed it to the cook to use. He doused the fire, adding to the smoke filling up the diner. She ran back to the sink to refill the pitcher.

Amongst all the chaos and screaming, only the boy at the end of the counter found amusement in the proceedings.

The stove made a medley of clicking sounds and the fire all but put itself out. A few spots fires still burned on, but the cook was able to put these out by whacking them with a dishtowel.

The trucker rattled at the front door, using all his strength to try and pull it open. When the commotion had died down behind him, he gave up on his efforts and a quiet filled the diner.

The dating teens crawled out from under the table and the kids turned from their parent’s holds just enough to see what was going on.

The cook held up his hands to those in attendance and started a heartfelt apology over the weird events that had happened. He didn’t get very far into that apology before an invisible force pushed him against the wall. His breath was exhaled from his lungs on impact.

A new rattling came from the knife block. The handles sticking out of their designated spots wavered then all flew back. The knives were suspended in air about ten feet from the confined cook. He fought against his invisible restraints but couldn’t move. Before anything more could happen, the mom screamed out and pressed her children’s faces back into her bosom.

One by one the knives darted at the cook, barely missing his face and limbs, as if he were suddenly in a knife throwing exhibition in the circus.

Those watching yelled for someone to help the poor man, but neither did they rush to be the one to do so.

As each knife stuck into the wall around the cook, he would let out a shriek to accompany the thud of the blade. The trucker renewed his attempts to free them all from this torture, but the door refused to give. Panic crept into everyone’s throat. Everyone except the man in the corner booth. And of course the boy at the end of the counter.

One knife remained dangling in the air. It flew toward the cook, then stopped inches from his eye. The cook squeezed the offending eye closed. The knife reversed course as if it needed to build up speed again. It then flew toward the same eye, stopping an inch away. The maneuver was reenacted several times, all to the glee of the braying boy.

Shouts erupted for the madness to stop. They had to raise their voices above the cacophony of pots and pans, and any other dishes not already dispelled, crashing to the floor.

The knife made one final approach and once again stopped short, only this time instead of freezing in the air, the knife too clattered to the floor. Once more silence filled the diner.

The trucker fell back onto the seat of his pants as the door suddenly gave and opened, flying back against the wall. Cool evening air funneled into the diner, exchanging with the smoke filled gloom.

The cook fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The waitress rushed to his side and helped prop him up. The little kids cried from their booth.

The boy’s laughter ceased as well. He looked around the room, dumbfounded, taking a second to look into the face of everyone that would meet his gaze. The only person who didn’t was the man in the corner booth. The man only picked up his cup of coffee and took a healthy sip. 

Then the boy fell to the floor, as if someone had swept his legs out from under him. He was dragged along the floor, past all the debris of broken dishes, till he was swept outside to the quiet main street of town.

The man in the hoodie finished his coffee and stood. He walked over to the register and peeled off a twenty from his money clip. He turned the knob of the toothpick dispenser until a single splinter rolled out. This he placed into his mouth before removing his hood. He looked around the diner and gave a slight nod to the cook and waitress. A thank you for their service. The man then walked outside. The door closed automatically behind him.

Out in the street the boy climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. The man in the hoodie stood across from him, mimicking a standoff seen more often in the days of the old west.

Everyone in the diner crammed their faces against the glass windows to watch.

“You think that was funny in there?” The man pulled the toothpick from his mouth and exclaimed the pointed end. He then replaced the toothpick and stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie.

The boy eyed the man, but didn’t respond. Instead he looked at his elbow which had started to bleed from the shards of a broken water glass.

“I asked you a question,” the man said.

“Yeah, I thought it was funny,” the boy responded. “What do you care?”

“You could have hurt somebody in there.” The man glanced back at the faces lined up in the diner window.

“Lay off me, man. It was only a joke.” 

The boy turned to leave. He hadn’t even taken a step before he was forced to turn back around. 

“Let go of me,” the boy cried.

“Where are your parents?” The man waited for a response he knew wasn’t coming. “You traveling all alone?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’ve been where you are,” the man said. His voice was steady, smooth. “I’ve been on my own most of my life too. Traveling town to town. No friends. No family.”

“Look, mister. I don’t need no lectures from some stranger.” The boy had balled his hands into fists. The man stood silent, studying the young boy.

“You got some power,” the man said. “You need to learn to harness it though. You can’t let your emotions get the better of you.”

“What do you know?”

“I know a little.”

The boy turned to leave, but this time spun around on his own. He thrust his hands out. A beer bottle that had been laying in the gutter flew at the man. The bottle took a dramatic turn in the air and flew way off course, breaking apart on the far side of the road. The man took the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it away.

A rusting sign wobbled on the side of the dilapidated gas station across from the diner. The sign teetered back and forth until the rusted nails came loose and bounced on the asphalt. The sign whistled through the air as it flew toward the unguarded man in the street. The man waved a hand toward the sign with indifference, sending it on a different path slicing well away from him.

“Are you done yet?” the man said.

The boy didn’t reply. He let out a harrumph and looked around for anything else he could use as a projectile.

“Come on, kid,” the man said. “Give it a rest. I’m older. Wiser. More powerful. Don’t do this. Let’s come to an agreement so we can both go back inside. I’ll buy you a burger or something. Whatever you want. I just want to talk with you. What do you–”

A hubcap flew at the man. He easily deflected it away. More missiles were launched his way, none of them coming remotely close to doing any damage to the man. He practically patted his mouth, yawning at the boy’s feeble attempts to beat him. Once the man had enough, could sense the boy’s concentration weakening, he pivoted and made his point crystal clear.

An abandoned pickup truck parked at the foreclosed gas station rose in the air. With great speed the truck cut through the air, straight at the boy, threatening to land on top of him. The boy dropped to the ground and pulled his legs to his chest. A pitiful plea came from the boy.

“Please, don’t,” the boy’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry, ok? I said I’m sorry!”

The boy peeked from his fetal position. The pickup truck hovered a couple feet above him. As fast as the truck flew at him, the vehicle reversed course and came to rest in the overgrown parking space it had sat in for what could have been nearly a decade.

The man walked over to the boy cowering in the middle of main street. He offered his hand. The boy looked from the hand to the man’s face. He took the man’s hand and the man hoisted the boy to his feet. Even helped dust him off.

“Now,” the man said, looking the boy in the eyes. “You’re going to go back in there and apologize to everyone.”

The boy went to protest, but the man held up his finger for the boy to continue listening.

“Then you’re going to offer to help clean up the mess you made. And you’re not going to use your mind to do it. I want to see you with a broom and dustpan. Got it?”

The boy nodded.

“Good.” The man started back toward the diner. Everyone inside saw him coming and ran back to their seats.

“How did you know?”

The boy’s question stopped the man in his tracks. He turned to face the boy.

“How did you know I had the power…”

The boy trailed off, unsure how to phrase his question.

“There are more of us out there than you realize.” The man took a step back toward the boy, close enough to rest his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Not everyone uses their power to effect positive change in the world.” The man drew a deep breath. “We’re losing this war,” he said, “but there’s reason to have hope.”

“And what reason is that?”

“Cleaning first,” the man said. “Then we’ll talk. Come on, let’s go in. The coffee’s decent here.”

The man winked at the boy and turned toward the diner. The boy stood where he was. His hands had balled into fists at his sides again. He looked down at the crescent moons his nails left in his palms.

“You coming?” the man called over his shoulder.

The boy released his fists and followed the man inside.

Mark Mitchell graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in Screenwriting and currently lives in the greater Los Angeles area. His short fiction has appeared in A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder. Follow him on instagram @markmitchell.writer.