Nighthawks

It was 1:54 in the morning. The first 1:54 of the new year. The warm, social buzz that was once present had been replaced by a thick, salty haze of steam and butter. The haze was paired with a symphony of flickering ceiling lights. Marisa didn’t see the appeal of such a gaudy celebration. To her, work ethic was a necessity, not a privilege. The idea of a single day with the sole purpose of forgiving the lousy output of a person, for the exchange of a possible shot at redemption struck a chord with Marisa’s principles.

State tuition in Florida wasn’t cheap. Marisa didn’t just pour coffee; she tutored, babysat, walked dogs, wrote essays- anything resulting in a decent settlement, and with at least a shred of dignity, Marisa could get behind. Many, especially college students, would consider working the night shift on a holiday something of a divine kick in the ass. Marisa didn’t mind; $17 an hour to facilitate a swarm of drunk, hungry idiots was kind of like running a circus. Throw the lion a couple of eggs and a chicken-fried steak, and he won’t bother you.

It was 1:55 now though, and the lions were gone, making the ambiance much more tolerable. Marisa was the only one working. Todd, Angie, and Blake were sent off after the New Year’s freaks settled down and went home.

Marisa’s manager, Lucky, was this stout little 80-something man with frequent mood swings and a closeted bout of alcoholism. Lucky had just “left to get ice”, a not-so-secret code meaning he was going home to fix himself a drink. Almost every time he “left for ice”, he would wound up so wasted that he would sleep through the rest of his shift. Once, Lucky managed to drunkenly cruise his way to the diner, where he promptly urinated on the jukebox and passed out. The diner lost a family of 5 loyal customers that day.

Marisa always kept herself busy in the diner. She certainly didn’t respect the establishment, but she was naturally a worker bee. The place was a cemetery of late-night grub past, with grim-looking bowls of polenta so tastefully adorned with cigarette butts. Marisa skipped the eulogy and got straight to the fun part.

2:01 rolled by, and Marisa had about autopsied each dish with a vigorous scrubbing. The diner supplied dishwashers with loofahs, a tactic suggested by Marisa, proving to be both effective and endlessly controversial. Since the dishwashing sink was front-and-center, spectators always seemed to find some qualm with the way their plates were polished. This killed Marisa.

These pimply, shadowed “Aqualungs” hobbled to the bar area, gorging themselves on pig fat and carbohydrates, welling up their shirt collars with sweat, and they have the sheer audacity to pick at the only hygienic practice in the whole restaurant? “Zat a loofah? Ain’t never seen n’un scrub dishes with a loofah ‘fore” they spit through the gap in their teeth. “Y’ain’t showerin’ with that, are ya hon’?”

Any frequenter would cite Marisa for her considerable patience and excellent customer service- a callus formed from years of receiving meaningless berating as a waiter, busser- hell, as a daughter.

Marisa’s father was mostly a wisecrack, but he had a temperance that Marisa had an unlikely admiration for. She grew up fairly disciplined, but even through adolescence she had a strong sense of understanding what went behind it. She was a rule follower with an innate self-awareness. She was no sheep, she knew when she was being taken advantage of. She spoke softly and carried a big spatula.

By 2:47, Marisa had pretty much flipped the diner. Swept, mopped, spit-shined, it was all done. Marisa snatched a carton of orange juice and settled down in the corner booth, the one with the clearest view of the diner’s scenic empty parking lot.

Many people found Marisa to be quite dull, a label she attributed to her romantic fascination with loneliness. There were people she liked, sure. There were people she loved, mostly her close friends and family. But something about picturing herself as one of the only people on Earth, as a result of a catastrophic nuclear event resonated with Marisa on a spiritual level. She wasn’t depressed, or a nihilist or anything. She just found a sort of recreational pleasure in it; living in a world that had no possibility of stunting her imagination, it was a dream of hers. As far as she was concerned, however, the night shift would have to cut it.

Her daydreaming was interrupted at 2:50 by the grating twinkle of the door’s chimes. A lean and freakishly tall man stood slouched at the entrance. He was a dopey, byronic-looking character, less Aqualung, more Taxi Driver. He also had one of those ageless faces- the stubble said thirty, but the clear skin and baby pout said sixteen.

Marisa, the budding Atheist, resorted back to her Catholic upbringing and said a silent prayer. Please, please leave. Please think it’s empty. Please go home, and get drunk by yourself.

“Happy new year”, the patron awkwardly croaked, as Marisa re-renounced her faith. “Hi, I’m so sorry, I was on break, what can I get for y-” The man swatted away Marisa’s hospitality. “Don’t ya even fuckin’ think about it. Sit down, I just want someone to talk to.”

Marisa scooched herself back in. The man sat painfully slow as if he was hanging on a thread of molasses. The two locked expressions- neutral to neutral. “Happy new year” he repeated. Marisa remained motionless. She wasn’t really sure how this could possibly result in a conversation.

“My name is…” he hesitated. “Chevy. Like Chevy Chase, like the comedian”. He swung his grin left and right, checking to see if the ghosts next to him were as amused as he was. Marisa sure wasn’t.

“Can I get you a coffee?” she said. Chevy’s expression sunk. Marisa didn’t feel like playing along. She could see right through him; he was just another night-crawling goonie who watched so much TV that he seriously believed his edginess and shower celibacy were attractive features. To give him credit, he was, Marisa thought, almost handsome.

“Just… listen…” he droned. It was becoming evident that he was more than a bit tipsy. “I fucked up. But this year, is my year. No more… Jodie Saget… that bitch”. Chevy marched into a sea of mumbles.

Marisa didn’t want to waste her empathy on this guy. He was pathetic, huddling his snot-smeared shabby clothes. His head surrendered to its own weight as he sluggishly bowed to Marisa. She stared at his unruly state of repose, with an almost sickeningly sweet sense of pride. Marisa had never felt so big.

Suddenly, Chevy whipped his head back up to meet Marisa’s level. “I know you don’t believe in me”, he growled. Chevy had become startlingly concise. “I know you don’t believe in my mission. But I believe in me”. Chevy leaned in and reared his stinking breath in front of Marisa, piercing her sinus like his tone pierced her brain. Whispering, he said, “I’m gonna be a billionaire, and there ain’t shit you can do ‘bout it”. He shot Marisa with a final glimpse before exiting in a plume of smoke.

Chevy limbered outside through the foggy glass door, just as he had entered—drunk, weary, and filthy. But what Marisa saw was not a rambling man, but an angel. She had never witnessed such brooding confidence. In her momentary state of shock, she truly believed that she had encountered the most adversarially-challenged human in existence. She saw the power of redemption, of being at your lowest and still being able to prove something bigger than yourself. She had never felt so small.

2:57 marked the ten-minute anniversary of Marisa’s pondering session. Her eyes began to sore; she must have forgotten to blink. She checked her watch; 2:58. Rudy was supposed to be coming in at 3. Rudy is a very straitlaced fellow, and Marisa found it troubling that he was not already there ten minutes prior.

Marisa had never cried once in her life. As 2:59 approached, Marisa began to cry for the very first time in her life. She wasn’t really sure why, and not knowing only made her sobs even more bellowing. For the very first time in her life, Marisa felt uncertainty. Maybe it was the lions, the ice, or the loofah. Maybe it was about her stable job, her promising future, or her loving and supportive family. She wasn’t quite sure.

Marisa brushed her coarse apron against her damp cheeks. Glassy-eyed, she hoisted herself up and began her way out the door, purse and juice in hand. She cocked back the carton of juice, only to be greeted by an avalanche of pulp.

She stood eagerly by the front door. Glassy-eyed, pulp-mouthed, and more uncertain than ever, she peeked at her watch. It was 3:00. The first 3:00 of the new year. Marisa felt that maybe this could be a fresh start.