Puppets

The diner stretches in front of me. Receding lines of perspective angle towards the oversized windows up front. The neon-fringed jukebox in the corner plays a melancholy country song from the mid-seventies. Wafting aromas swirl and collide in the atmosphere. Bacon grease. Cigarettes. Mop and Glo. Grilled cheese.

I sit in the booth in the back, sipping my tea. It’s a good view; I can see people coming and going through a greasy glass door in a tarnished metal frame. The little bell hanging just above it tinkles flatly, announcing each arrival or departure. Inside, patrons and staff interact, performing lies which I carefully observe.

I’m not a regular. I do not know these people.

But I can see what’s going on.

My third eye is directly between the other two, not in the middle of the forehead as Eastern traditions speculate. Invisible, it hovers a half-inch in front of my face. When open, it shows me truths that I see in monochromatic images: projections that are superimposed over the world my physical eyes reveal in the visible light spectrum.

A couple in the booth by the door waits for their order. Dirty blonde in makeup slathered on thick as pancake batter, hair frizzed out like a nest. Stocky fellow with thinning hair and a walrus mustache wearing an outlet mall biker jacket. Both middle-aged but not carrying it with dignity. She laughs wildly every time he speaks, overdoing it as if his every comment is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. I don’t pay attention to the specific words they say to each other. That’s not what’s important.

His frustration grows. Veins stand out in his temples and color rushes to his cheeks. He’s not trying to be funny. Why can’t she understand that? His voice becomes shrill, defensive, but the sharper his tone gets, the more hysterically she laughs. So hard her eyes are pushed closed by the rhythmic rising of her cheeks. She points a finger. Get a load of this guy.

Floating just above the woman, my third eye reveals a glowing image, a doll-sized duplicate of her. Her puppet. It burns red, howling and snarling, flailing about savagely, pulling knives from thin air to hurl at the man’s head.

There’s a trucker on the stool at the bar, skeletal-skinny with yellowed teeth in sunglasses and a ball cap that bears the logo of a manufacturer of lawn equipment. A folded newspaper sits beside his empty coffee cup. He pretends not to be watching, but I see him covertly glance over at the developing drama between bites of BLT. He pretends to be glancing at the jukebox, cocking a brow as if just noticing the song. But I can tell.

The trucker’s puppet shifts from red to green and back again, pulsating with the occasional hint of blue or purple. It has a twisted grin, a tumescent bulge in its jeans, and a flickering tongue that licks its lips lasciviously. Tiny hands dive into its pants.

He catches me watching, then makes a show of studying his watch, brows narrowed, as if he’s grown frustrated waiting for something. It's all an act.

The trucker puppet furiously masturbates, renewing the attack each time the couple’s argument increases in volume.

A stony-faced waitress arrives with the coffee-pot and offers the trucker a refill. She wears a uniform, 50s style dress with a half apron. The dress probably began its life in a shade of peppermint green but has stained and faded to peasoupiness. The woman has dark bags that tug beneath her hardened eyes with the weight of anchors.

The waitress’s puppet glows green. It dances in circles, elated, oblivious to the world around it. Feet gliding, moving to music that only it can hear.

The trucker places his hand over his empty cup and shakes his head. The waitress shrugs, picking up her serving tray from the counter and shuffling back towards her station.

The trucker’s puppet gazes towards the retreating waitress, pauses for a second, then spins back towards the couple with a manic pelvic thrust.

Walrus-moustache practically screams at dirty-blonde. She’s not listening to him. Never listens to him. He’s sick of this shit. And what’s so damned funny?

But his anger is a performance.

Above Walrus-moustache his blue puppet is on its knees, in tears, pleading like a desperate child. Begging to be loved.

The waitress arrives with their food. For a moment, the man and woman settle into a forced calm, looking up with strained expressions. Semblances of smiles, insincere appreciation informed by an argument on pause. Indifferently, the waitress drops the plates in front of them. Fish sticks and fries for him. Tuna melt for her. She asks if they’ll need anything else but doesn’t give them time to answer. Just walks away.

Her glorious green puppet spins and sings and gives itself a big hug.

The interruption ended, Walrus-moustache turns on dirty-blonde and points an accusing finger, issuing a final condemnation of her and her entire gender. He storms out of the diner, blustering, with broad movements of his arms, huffing and spitting, as if to make himself as prominent as possible upon his exit.

His puppet remains behind, sprawled on an invisible floor, weeping. Slowly, it gathers itself up and stumbles out into the night, following its counterpart.

Dirty-blonde shrugs, giggles, and eats one of his abandoned fries.

Her puppet, having thrown its last knife at Walrus-moustache as the door swung shut behind him, sits in an unseen chair. The intensity of its red dims, dipping into cooler tones on its way towards blue.

All is quiet in the diner. I sip my tea.

I can see my own puppet floating above my head. It’s always there, mimicking my every action. Now it sips its tea as it observes its surroundings. It is gray. Uniform. Without hue.

My puppet used to dance uncontrollably and throw the occasional knife. It used to squirm with lust or do cartwheels or jump for joy or cry out for attention, putting on a secret show humiliatingly different than the picture I carefully presented to the world.

This all changed when my third eye first opened.

Now my puppet ponders the same questions that I do, with the same calm demeanor. It too muses on the fact that it is a perfect reflection of my exterior. Between us, there is no contradiction.

           I had to tame it, you see. It’s embarrassing when you can see your own puppet.