Daydoves

Little spirals of lint and puffs of dander were caught in the harsh-angled light of the setting sun. A stainless steel coffee machine burbled. Patches of soda syrup caught the bottoms of shoes as the guests left the diner. The tile floor was a moon-grey clay, with wounds of particle board showing through. The diner was busy for 7 PM. The dinner guests should have been leaving, and the truckers would show up one by one, whenever.

Monguez Bacitracin was the manager that night, and he didn’t like the vibes in the air. There was typically a rhythm to a Friday night like this. The families would come because kids under five ate for free, and then they’d file out by about 6:00 or 6:30. Something weird was happening tonight. Not so much families, as couples, trios, even odd quartets inhabited the booths and tables here tonight. Monguez excused himself out behind the restaurant and had a cigarette. It was a Camel Wide. He smoked it and looked at the big green dumpster that was for some reason fenced in behind a miniature wall. A seagull was perched on the corner of the wall. “Fuck your crenellations,” it seemed to say, ” I’m getting into this garbage. I fucking love garbage.” Monguez took a drag, and watched the seagull stamp around on that cinderblock wall. We don’t have enough workers tonight, he thought. This is gonna be one of those nights.

Just then, Marigold Bricker walked into the front door of the diner. She was not the manager, but the waitress that everyone new went to with their questions. She’d been punching that time card for about fifteen years. She took one glance over the dining area and curled her lips. It was all tourists. Tonight was gonna suck. She swung her backpack off into the conference room/break room/extra bun storage area in the back, expertly tied her smock, and waded out into the minefield.

TABLE ONE –

Empty.

TABLE TWO –

Kolber Plantoon, a 45 year old failed actor, still living on the inheritance he got from his mother.
Ziggy Compartment, a 21 year old man, convinced that his extroverted nature will garner success.

Kolber: “That’s why Brando was so good. He took the high artform of acting and brought it low. Brought it down to where everyone was really living. He didn’t do the mid-atlantic accent, he didn’t project to the back row of the theater. He actually spoke like people do in real life,”

Ziggy: ” Oh my gosh, that’s so cool. Do you think, like, he ever-“

Kolber: “Not interested, nope, hey, I’m not-“

Ziggy: “No, I know! But just wait! I know you don’t like hypotheticals, but do you think. Okay. Hmm. What do you think Marlon Brando would think about Skibbidi toilet? Do you like me yet?”

TABLE THREE –

Augle Guarrementae, the consummate beancounter, a born beauraeucrat.
After Ploogsman, a punk rock prostitute

After: I heard Monguez was thinking about selling this whole place. I think he owns like a third of it, and he’s gonna sell it off.

Augle: He probably couldn’t do that unless he owned a controlling share.

After: Well, whatever, I don’t know, fuck.

She pinches her cigarette out into the ashtray like time pinches us all into corpses.

Augle: I like Microsoft Excel. It’s a great program. You can write macros and input data and then it all works out. Plus, it feels really nice when a man enters my body, sexually.

After says: Yeah, I think you are a quirky man and that’s why I’m giving you attention.

TABLE FOUR-

Empty.

TABLE FIVE –

Hoof McDermott came swaggling along. His cowboy hat looked like that of a saint, and his bloodsoaked jeans were those of demons. He picked catttails from rivers and stuck ’em in his lips like you or I breathe. “What’s up with the diner t’night, miss?” he grumbled. And then the whole place went crazy.

TABLE SIX –

Empty.

TABLE SEVEN –

Finch Appledouble, the most dedicated custodian you will ever meet, stood with arms akimbo at the scene in the diner. He recalled a lifetime, seventy years of experience that didn’t mete out to a big toilet bowl full of fucking diarrhea. He curled his white mustache and frowned, never having thought about just quitting his job. You gotta work. How else is you s’posed to earn your keep?

???

TABLE EIGHT –

Pongo If: It’d be nice if this was Armageddon. Then you would feel like there was some significance to the sourful deadliness that happens every day. But it’s not. The end of the world has already started, but it will happen so slowly. Perhaps we’d be free of the re·spon·si·bil·i·ty of the thing if we just got to watch it.
Uncle Mondo: Yeah, I don’t care. Would you like to eat some biscuits and gravy?

Something wicked this way comes. I’m thinking we should all just chill for a minute. Let’s bring it down a bit. Relax,