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There’s a hold over a diner, a song by ‘Bob Crosby and the Bob Cats’. It’s a song, ‘Dear Hearts and Gentle People’, but it’s also a mascot, a welcoming symphony to the most open. It let in two gentlemen in plaid suits, one blue while the other preferred an oak brown. They sit two tables from the entrance, right beside the window. The man in the oak suit, he’s calmly furious, and his partner, an older gentleman, he’s along for the ride. What did they order?
The old man asked “Burger, steak burger without the mayo, with fries, and a non sweet ice tea
The young man asked “Same order, but I’ll endure the mayo. But remove the lettuce, please
These orders came in, and the two munch down both their food and a sudden conversation, sparked by the young man.
“Hey,” the now smoking man begin to ask, “You read the papers today?”
“The papers,” swallowed the older man, “N, no. I don’t believe so. Did you?”
“I did. Um, you interested in hearing about some things?”
“What ‘things’ are you about to mutter in my ear?”
A drag of a cigarette electrifies the young man. “What? Mutter, no-no muttering you asshole
“Then what you have to say Mr. I hate iceberg lettuce?”
“I,” the young man begins as he awkwardly complies a folded piece of paper, “have an, honest, opinion I’d like to share
“Spare me
“We have communist individuals among our writers over at a few newspaper housings
“Commies? Oh boy, who’s a commie?”
“You interested?” The young man has flattened out his, now, newspaper.
“If it gets you to eat, then sure, I’m interested
Good Another drag, one large bit into a fry. “So...so, so, so, I read a review this morning. It was titled ‘There’s a curse over at KRRS. They’re crap', and OH BOY did I get interested
“Did you now?”
“Are you awake?”
“I’m fucking eating!” Simon jolts with anger, but nests back into his seat as quick as he began his jolt.
“Well, understandable. But listen, I read a couple of reviews, the ones for…”
‘The Stabbing’
“...and well, I have to say I’m furious.”
“Well,” choked the older man, “Excuse me...ahem...read me some reviews. Please with cherries on top.”
“Top writer John ‘Swan song’ Terra is the first I picked up on. Top right corner. So he starts, and I quote, ‘There was a polarizing start, an interesting shine in the writers minds. However, as their magnum opus, or whatever they thought, began to conclude, I was a bit disappointed by the lack of an ending. What I was left with...,’ and this is where I got fucking dissapointed in myself, ahem, ‘What I was left with was a rushed ghost story, where I was told the only thing scary wasn’t the dead bodies or angry divorcy, but the fact that time was wasted on nothing more than an desprate attempt at making somone dream a bad dream.’”
“You agree?”
“We’re financially, eh. Things were rushed, no doubt about that.”
“So you’re angry because you agree-”
“No. There was an ending.”
“There was something, but he said it was rushed, which it was.”
“Next guy, a Sebastion Wright. He says...uh, he says ‘I got something out of “The Stabbing”, but it was just a guilty pleasure. Harrison can narrate, no doubt about it. But the rest, rubbish.’ Rubbish? He a brit? Give me a second.”
“To do what? Hunt his address down?”
“What? No, I’m looking at these others.”
“Others? What others?”
“Other reviews.”
“Who were the first two from?”
Silence.
“Buddy.”
Silence.
“Hey!”
“Yes?” A totally controlled young man looks over to an angered older one.
“Where did the first two people come from?”
“Where? Uh...Sebastian is from ‘ORCA READING’, and our pal John is in ‘Paying Homage To Reader.’”
“Homage? Those guys?”
“Uh...yeah.”
“Do you know where they’re from?”
“No,” said the young man, dragging again.
“Those guys are from KRRS. They’re a branch of ours.” The older man, holding this realization, begins to laugh to himself. “You work there.”
“I do? No, I work for KRRS Radio Production Team.”
“NO, you work there. The branch is our funds for the plays. They came in five years ago. That’s OUR guys numbnuts.”
“Who the hell reviews they’re own content?”
“You’re the most aggressive, ignorant person I know. If I threw a cotton ball at you, you’d shoot me dead I bet. I know this, the producers know this. I think Jesus himself knows this. Sebastian, or whoever, is just screwing with you.”
“Screwing?” The young man clenches the paper with his own realization, whatever it may be.
“No one knows who’s funding us. So why not? I’ve read a couple of ‘our’ reviews myself. No Sebastian comes to mind, but they write them.”
“Never heard of this till now.”
“You probably did. You’re just too dense to remember it.”
“Or maybe you’re just an ass.”
“Or maybe you’re too loud. Eat your cold food before it spoils, and then I’ll cripple you outside for wasting my money on you.”
The two men have a stare off.
“Eat.”
“Or?”
“Cripple.”
“Or?”
“Or. Or. Or. Eat the food you dink.”
“Never heard you use dink. Only the Daffy Duck's use it, from my knowledge.”
“Who?”
“Wee wee.”
“Never again am I taking you anywhere, understand?”
The young begins his journey into the rest of the half-bitten fry. “Sure.”
“Now,” the full old man continues, “Here’s the plan. Shut up about everything. You don’t know what’s going life, you don’t know how to take a joke. Now you’re a racist. No one will respect you, you’ll die a failure and if you keep up this life. Don’t be a screw up. Be a human. Now...did I give you a life lesson, or did you learn one?”
The saliva inside the mouth a paused man slow down to a crawl. All the food freezes in time, and so does the background. Every melts, the face of a talker is now a red chunk of ice. He’s cold, and given a seemingly cold question. However, there seems to be an answer among this force pushing in on the young man. It tightens, choking him. He cant breath...but now he can.
“You gave an answer I needed. Thank you.” The diner resumes. The music inhales, exhales, and watches to men exit some time later.
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