Nighthawks

With a weary sigh, Edward locked up the gift shop and finally got out of the museum. After eight hours of “the restrooms are around the corner from the large Seurat painting,” “no, you don’t need to know who Seurat is, it’s so big you can’t miss it,” and “I’m sorry, the Starry Night mugs are all sold out. Yes, I know, it’s disappointing,” he was mentally exhausted. This job was supposed to be just a stepping stone until something better came along he could put that art history degree to; he’d spent 27 years in this place. 

The night shift security guard arriving was Edward’s cue that he could leave – good, because that Old Guitarist always seemed to be staring at him by that time of the evenings. Tipping his hat to the guard, Edward stepped out, down the chipped concrete steps of the museum into the dry, blustery New England autumn night. It was already fully dark out because of the darn daylight savings time change, and the wind funneled between the densely packed buildings in the business district of town, kicking up dead brown leaves on the sidewalk. The only spots of light were the yellow squares of windows where some dedicated workers still had not left – or were avoiding going home to nagging spouses or bratty children. Edward thought of his own empty apartment a short walk away. There should have been a single light on from the lamp on a timer, and it probably still smelled of the baked potato he made – and burned – earlier in the day. He never married, never had any children, never thought to until he realized he was lonely and by then it was too late. Funny that under the frozen eyes of the museum portraits and the streams of school field trips he was constantly surrounded by people and yet wanted nothing more than to go home and be lonely by himself; loneliness in a crowd always seemed worse. 

Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his tweed coat, Edward shuffled down the sidewalk on the street to his apartment. A pair of children – likely brother and sister – walked their dog before they disappeared up the steps to a deep red brick townhouse with wilted flowers in one of the windowsills. A group of women holding down their cloche hats from the wind carried quick dinners from the local deli, likely going to some church event. Edward realized that he was hungry too, in fact, as the food court in the museum was edible at best and he’d had his fill of greasy French fries that week. Not in the mood to cook anymore that evening, he remembered a diner around the corner from his block. Phillies, he thought it was called. Usually filled with teenagers flirting and studying – not simultaneously – after school but it seemed like a decent place; it was usually quite empty when he was coming back from work and peered through its glass wall. Turning on his heel, Edward cut across the grass toward the diner.

It was in fact called Phillies, he had remembered correctly, and it was in fact quite empty. Almost entirely empty actually, with just the man behind the counter in his white uniform and one man sitting with his back to the large window. The soft yellow light coming from inside was a stark contrast to the grey cement and red brick down the rest of the block, something comforting to it. Pushing the door to the diner open, bells jangled above Edward’s head. The counter clerk turned his head and gave him a warm, acknowledging nod; the man sitting on the stool kept staring into his drink without reaction. Edward sat down at the end of the counter, near the steel drink machines.

“What’ll it be?” the clerk asked him amicably, wiping down the glossy mahogany counter.

“Uh, what do you recommend?” Edward wondered. “I’m not really a regular here.”

The clerk laughed pleasantly. “Yes, well, I can see that. I know most folks coming through these doors.” He did seem like the kind of person who would remember your name and order. “Might I suggest a philly cheesesteak with a cup of black coffee?”  

“Sure,” he nodded and pulled out a napkin from the dispenser, creasing it absentmindedly. 

“Have a lot on your mind?” the clerk asked him.

“Contrarily, not enough,” Edward chuckled. “You ever feel like this is all you get out of life?” 

“Oh, sometimes, sure. I think everyone does, just part of being human.”

“You think it happens to some people more than just sometimes?”

“What’s on your mind?” he served Edward his order and leaned his elbows on the counter to listen. 

“Eh, nothing special. Maybe that’s just it: everyone tells you how special it should be. Marrying the love of your life, doing something you love for a living, kids coming home for Sunday dinners, at least having a dog. But really, you’re stuck at a dead-end job staring at Van Gogh mugs all day, or at least until they sell out – by the way, way too many people are obsessed with Starry Night. Then you go home to an empty apartment where there are no pets allowed, make the same dinner every night, re-read another book, go to sleep and do the whole thing over again tomorrow.” Edward paused with a sigh. “You ever think that dream comes true?”

“Actually, I think many dreams come true. I don’t think there’s only one single dream. You know, I’m just here behind a diner counter, but I was lucky enough to be married to my high school sweetheart for 48 years before she passed away; I don’t care much for my son-in-law but he makes my daughter happy and they gave me a beautiful granddaughter out of it; and hey, at least I get all the strawberry milkshakes my heart desires here.” His smile was sincere, the smile of a man not bitter of what life had dealt him but happy to reminisce on the happy memories he had. 

Edward dove into the philly cheesesteak as the clerk refilled the other man’s drink. As Edward sipped on the coffee, the diner bells rang and a red-headed woman entered.

“Josephine,” the clerk recognized her. “This isn’t your regular day – it’s only Thursday.”

“Ay, the chop-suey place was closed tonight for some reason,” the woman – Josephine – shook off her coat, revealing a bright red dress that immediately livened the drab evening in Edward’s eyes. Her heels clicked on the varnished floor as she took a stool near his. “I’ll take my regular then.”

“You come here often?” Edward asked her, then cringed – sounded more like a pick-up line than the genuine question he was going for.

Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed – actually, she likely noticed but thought he seemed too gentlemanly to mean it that way – and she grinned a dazzling smile at him. “Yes, but you seem to be a fresh face around here. Where are you coming from?”

“Grabbing dinner on the way from the museum.”

“Oh, any interesting exhibits?”

“Just about all of them if you haven’t seen them for the past six months since they changed the showings,” he explained. “I work there; I wasn’t actually there for a visit.”

“Seems like a nice place to work,” she said and Edward laughed. “I’m serious!” she insisted. “Sure beats spending all day on a typewriter transcribing your boss’s meeting notes,” she rolled her eyes and sipped the coffee the clerk immediately knew to make for her. 

“Oh really?” Edward challenged her, matching her sparkling tone. “I bet you’d get tired of Starry Night within two weeks.”

“Hmm,” she leaned in closer. “Highly doubtful – that’s my favorite painting. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it. Would you ever get tired of looking at the night sky?”

“The night sky is real though,” he pointed out.

“So is Starry Night. It’s real paint on real canvas hanging in a real museum.”

“Fine, but at least the night sky changes; it’s different every night.”

“So is Starry Night. It’s different when you’re different.”

Edward leaned back in his stool. “Nothing is ever different with me.”

“I bet I can find something different,” Josephine's eyes glitter. “Me. I’m Josephine. There, now you met a different person today, so something changed.”

Edward studied her in the soft yellow diner light and extended his hand. “I’m Edward.”

“Well, Edward,” she placed her hand gently in his. “Tell me, do you believe in dreams coming true?”      

“I’m starting to.”

                    ***

“I don’t understand this painting,” Jack says, tilting his head as if that will give him a new perspective. 

“What’s there not to understand?” Emily sighs. “Hopper’s paintings are meant to symbolize modern loneliness, capturing human solitary interactions with other people and the environment.”

“Thank you, Encyclopedia Emily,” Jack rolls his eyes. “I understand the history but I don’t understand the painting. If he’s all about loneliness, why do those two people look like they’re on a date?”

“Maybe it’s a married couple enjoying a quiet night out together, or maybe it’s a first date and they had so much in common that they ended up talking all night long, long after everyone else already went home,” Maggie wonders aloud. “Or maybe it’s simply about two lonely people who met each other in the most unlikely of places and took a chance on trying to be, not lonely anymore.”

“Oh Maggie, you’re such a hopeless romantic,” Emily huffs.

“Children,” their teacher's voice shrills through the exhibit. “Time to finish this gallery. Next up is Starry Night.”

As the class filed out of the room, Edward and Josephine clinked their coffee cups together.

She, by the way, did not get tired of Starry Night after two weeks, nor after the 43 years they were married.