Waiting for Anti-Godot

“Good Mornin’! Welcome to Chuppies! Can I get y’all anythin’ to start?” Mary’s Corpus Christi accent was a combination of sweet, Southern gravy with a mouthful of good ol’ fashioned Texas barbeque. It was an inviting and friendly sound that said: You are now safe in the house of flapjacks.

“4 coffees, black. And I’ll have the pancakes.” Death’s taste was very distinct. She was unyielding with her French toast’s proportion of golden-crispy outside to creamy-gooey inside. Death contemplated between the pancakes and French toast for a total of 8 minutes and 26 seconds before choosing the buttermilk pancakes. “It is real buttermilk, correct?”

“Made fresh every day.” Mary smiled with stellar, Chuppies pride.

Death accepted this comment, though it didn’t go without consideration. If the milk wasn’t freshly churned every morning it wasn’t goddamn buttermilk. Her therapist, Dr. Susan Choi, was working with Death over her ‘my-way-or-the-highway’ attitude. Dr. Choi found that Death was prone to unrealistic demands, which only further stressed her anxiety when left unsatisfied. But Death deeply cared for her decisions, they always needed to show prudence and calculation, which – in her mind – boiled down to perfection.

 “How about you, hun?” Mary’s crisp smile turned to War.

“I’ll I have the American breakfast, but with French toast, and syrup on the side, and instead of hash browns can I get fries, extra crispy?” War thrived in the arena of pandemonium; his mind was a gatling gun shooting 6000-thoughts per minute. This made breakfast an intense ordeal because it was the one meal in a person’s daily life where every option was mind-blowing. Interestingly, War’s rapid-fire nature proved favorable with the skill of improvisation. One he quietly fostered under the troop The Divine Comedians, which met every Wednesday and Saturday at a local theater in San Antonio. The group consisted of 5 atheists, 3 Baptists and no Italians.

“You got it.” Mary’s well-trained, short-hand notation kept pace with the capricious request of the young lord of mayhem. It was a skill garnered over years of waitressing in the quaint, little diner she jokingly called, ‘the office’. Though many wouldn’t consider this an overtly exciting life, Mary was perfectly content with the contents of it.  “That’ll be an extra $2.25 for the toast? How’d you like your eggs?”  

Thumbs up: “Scrambled, and can you add cheese to the eggs, sharp cheddar, but if you don’t have that, then pepper-jack. And if you don’t have that, then none is ok too?”

“That’s an extra dollar,” She smiled. “Is that fine?”

“One-hundred percent.” He stretched a juvenile grin from ear-to-ear like a jack-o-lantern.

“And how about for you?” Mary turned to Pestilence. He looked her up, and then down, with a very different kind of smile. He definitely liked a girl in uniform.

“You know,” he put down the menu and stared deep into her big, brown eyes. “I’m a fan of grits, Mary. Ever since I was a little boy.” Mary blushed like a Mississippi sunset. Pestilence was an asshole with a tongue worth 30 silver pieces. He had the innate ability to schmooze anyone with disarmingly charismatic, personal anecdotes – most of which were not his own. “How are your grits here, darling?”

“Best you’ll find on 281.” Her breath fluttered.

“I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart.” Pestilence’s character felt enchantingly out of place. He had the clean demeanor of a Civil War gentleman with a drawl he picked up after watching Django Unchained, praising DiCaprio’s performance as the true, respectable etiquette of better, bygone days. “I’ll get them grits.”

“Yes, of course.” Mary smiled like a doe-eyed teenager. It was seductively virgin.

Pestilence obsessed over instant gratification and the fleeting acts of uncontrollable passion. Ding. At this moment, Frances Welling, a rich stock trader who desperately pined over his affection messaged him a declaration of love in the form of a .jpeg and black lingerie. His smile was wickedly irresistible, like a flame to a moth.

Mary glanced back twice before fixing onto the last of the four. Famine sat with her face buried behind her cellphone. “And last but not least, what can I get for you?”

“Just the coffee.” It was hollow and empty. Famine was a social media addict. And she was never hungry. Her only cravings longed for control. And her primary stimulant was deprivation. Famine always starved for decadence at the expense of the cultivated. Of the four, Famine dealt it the worst kind of evil. The same evil practiced by freemium-based apps or Black Friday specials. The kind that drove consumers into a frenzy over the shit they didn’t need.

“You got it.” Mary closed her notepad. “I’ll get this in right now, and bring out the four coffees.” Her smile was cute and sensible.

“Mighty kind of you, Mary.” Pestilence smiled again, it was warm and seductive. Death rolled her eyes. War was too busy reviewing the menu. Famine didn’t care.

Pestilence turned to Death and shrugged. “What?”

“You don’t always have to do that.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Be a dick.” Famine spoke from behind her phone. Pestilence eye-balled her thin, sultry figure.  

“And what would you prefer I be, darling?”

Famine shook her head behind the soft glow of her phone’s blue light.

Ding-ding! All four heads turned to the door simultaneously. It was an old couple.

“Are you sure we in the right place? I don’t think this is the right place. I don’t remember the word ‘Chuppies’.” War was a fidgeter. His fingers unconsciously banged against the table like chop sticks on war drums. Idle stillness was the ultimate bane to his existence.

“We haven’t been sure the past 27 times! Of course, I’m not sure! You lost the goddamn address!” Death closed her eyes. In the darkest recess of her mind only one image appeared to the Mistress of Murder — it was Dr. Choi telling her to breathe and find her happy place to ease the stress and pain of her crazy companions.

“I remembered Texas.”  War lowered his head and withdrew into his chair. “It was just a question.”

There was indeed a question to be asked, and that question was this: Why was such an important task left to War, the most reckless of the horsemen? It was a question that circumvented the comprehension of each immortal sitting in the number 12 booth at the Chuppies diner off highway 281. Their Arrival was supposed to be epochal. Biblical. And their union with Him was meant to be the Beginning of the End. Now, they were stuck in an endless tour of pancakes across Texas, left to wander the earth far longer than intended.  The enduring personifications of such powerful forces manifested wonky behaviors in their quite, apocalyptic personalities.

“Do you even know what he looks like?” Famine lowered her phone. “Remind me again, what do we know of the-” she stopped and glanced around for unintended ears, “A-N-T-I-C-.”

“Anticipation? Anticodine? Antiseptic!?” War sputtered out.

Death’s long, bony finger silenced War. “Imagine Lucifer, but Latino-skinned.”

“Don’t you mean LatinX-skinned.” Famine said.

“Christ, Famine! Does it matter? We are the Horsemen of THE END. Do you think I’m bothered by social semantics!?” 

 Famine turned to Death, eyes thin like slits: “So, you’re racist now?”

“WHAT—!?”

“Lucifer did like the Latinah… X – chicks.” Pestilence proudly corrected himself. “Didn’t he get super tanked in Guanajuato and buy a brothel, back in ‘79?”

War spoke out: “I keep imagining the spawn of Satan growing up in some back-water Mexican whorehouse. That’s gotta mess with your morals a little bit. They’re very religious people.”

“Whores?” Pestilence reminisced.

“Mexicans.” Death despised his one-tracked mind.

“I’m pretty sure that’s racist.”

Goddamn-it, Famine! We are the Heralds of Hell! the Bringers of Beelzebub! Racism is—”

“—still racist.” Famine shook her head at Death. “I always considered us non-prejudicial, arbiters of fate.”

Mary materialized with four cups of coffee on a tray next to them. “Hell-o.”

“WAH-ahht da’ crap!” War was startled. It wasn’t normal for someone to sneak up on the Children of Chaos. “You’re really light on your toes, huh?” He read her nametag again. “Mah-ry.”

She quickly placed one cup in front of each person. The relative awkwardness of this moment was on par with watching a strangulation, without the sex. “There’s sugar and creamer on the table?”

“We’re… not… racist.” War stated. “If you were wondering.”

“I’m sorry, darling. What he meant to say is, we’re not SA-TAN-ists…” Pestilence retorted. Death stringently massaged her temple into submission. “Nor are we racists.”

“Of course not,” She bowed awkwardly, “the thought never crossed my mind!” She receded into the tacky décor of the highway diner. The four curiously watched as she delicately walked backward with a bland smile slapped across her face. Mary disappeared into the kitchen. The four met again at the center of the table, Death gave Famine a death glare.

“What? I’m not racist.”

“Christ, Famine! You are not a goddamn social justice warrior.”

Famine’s new found fame as a social justice warrior was exciting. It was a reward that paid in thousands of thumbs-ups and several divorce settlements; all of which she ended once the papers were signed. “Whatever.”

“Let the girl do what she does.” Pestilence smiled toward Famine. His moral compass was more decorative than practical, falling into an outlier camp that utilized profane flattery as its main form of material acquisition. “You’re a powerful, young woman, sweetheart?”

“You’re disgusting.” Her face was still buried in her phone.

Pestilence smiled like a boning knife. His gonads riled to the brink of exploding. He needed her: her body, her desire. Her affection. “Highway diner-bathrooms are surprisingly clean.” The three others turned to him revolted. “Comparatively speaking of course.” Their looks stayed unchanged. “I mean, when considering other places along highways.”

Famine was slightly turned on.

Death muttered, “Highway bathrooms are disease-ridden, cesspools of bacteria and—”

Pestilence foamed at the lips.

 “—Selfie idea.” Famine stood up. Pestilence followed the idea. Famine turned and stopped him. “The coffee is a buck seventy-five.”

Pestilence reached into his pocket and whipped out a dollar and change and slammed it on the table. Death had referred Dr. Choi to Famine and Pestilence. She was worried how extreme narcissism would react to hyper-dependency over a prolonged, period of time. Unfortunately, neither saw a problem with their less-than-virtuous behaviors.

Ding-ding! Death’s eyes turned to the door. She prayed to God – aware of the contradiction – this would be the moment to end her trite existence on earth.

Famine grabbed Pestilence by the girdle. Her smile lured him into the bathroom.  

The door showed no one of importance. Death turned back: “And can you two please stop-!”

They were gone. Death turned to War. He sat like a child, drumming on the table.

“They just went to—” He pointed to the bathroom.

“GAHHHHWD-DAMN IT!” Death shrieked like a banshee. The whole diner turned to the booth alarmed by the sound. “Sorry,” she apologized half-heartedly. “I just hate waiting.”