If a tree falls
in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
The chill, feral wind whipped down
the road, tossing bits of black gravel, decomposed weed shards, and particles
of dirt into the air, spinning the concoction into a cyclone and then
dissipating. The road was long, wide,
and straight, a harsh slash like a tarmac scar on the barren fields. There was no dividing line, it seemed as if
the road dared its travelers to find an end to it in either direction.
To the North was said to be Canada,
to the South there was simply more and more of the Dakota area. Eventually this would filter into the
Nebraska region, but no one would be able to tell the difference once they
eventually crossed that threshold. There
were no road signs to colorize the world of grey, offer any advice or guidance.
The vanishing point of the road to
the North seemed to waver, the distance rippling the fabric of time and
perception. Something was emerging,
barely visible, from the depths of the portal.
Something was deliberately approaching.
Gradually the object became clearer.
A chipped grey mustang, galloping down the endless expanse, came into
view. The engine roared and the vehicle
was moving at speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour. Time oozed away as the car streaked down the
road, a paradoxical journey that seemed to grow longer with every mile. The smudge of grey that was the car sharpened
and the ferocity of the beast became more apparent as it drew closer. Headlights gleaming faintly in the morning,
the mustang hurtled down the road.
Nothing adorned the car, it was like a sheet of steel: completely blank
and totally impenetrable.
Its driver took heed of a diminutive
diner adjacent to his course and his curiosity heightened as the place grew
larger. He applied the brakes and the
car rumbled in protest, tires shrieking for a moment. The sign hanging from the roof dictated: “THE
LOVE CAFÉ.” The mustang wheeled into the
naked parking lot and the driver’s side door opened with a pop, reminiscent of
the sound of a dislocating joint muffled by the wind.
The driver was a man, and he wore a
black winter coat and torn jeans. His
belt buckle was in the shape of a bronco tossing its mane. The man wore sunglasses and a black bandana
over his mouth. His hair was almost
gone, though the remaining hair he possessed was bristly and black. He buried his hands in his pockets and walked
into the café.
The door jingled as he entered, and
the ringing punctured the dead air.
Every table in the diner was set: forks, spoons, plates, napkins, menus,
salt, pepper, knives. There was nothing
on any of the plates, everything was prepared bare, like a dry run for an
execution. Not a soul was present. The man did not remove his sunglasses, but
pulled the bandana down beneath his grizzled chin. His mouth was immovable and his jaw was set
as if by deadbolt. He sat down at one of
the tables and admired the silverware.
The plates were dark and ruddy, the napkins non-disposable and stitched
with the words “feel the power of love.”
The place waited for someone to speak, but the man did not open his
mouth. He heard footfalls behind him.
-Hello. Welcome to the Love Café. I am Louis and I’ll be your server today, can
I start you folks off with something to drink?-
The waiter’s nametag said Stanley.
The man sitting looked up at Louis.
He did not say anything.
-I guess you’ll need a bit more
time. Would you like to look at the
menu?- The man with the bronco belt
buckle did not reply. Louis, a blue-eyed,
wiry man with a grey apron stared right back at him expectantly.
“Where is your family?”
-Dead.- Louis said. Nothing lives out here. -Only me.
Would you like some coffee?-
“Yes.”
Louis fetched the coffee. Setting it before the man, he folded his hands
in front of him as if he was about to ask a favor. The man looked at the tar in his cup with the faintest possible hint of outward revulsion and then at Louis. “I’m curious.
Why do you work here?”
-I need to occupy myself. Without tasks, I don’t mean anything.-
“Why do you need to mean something,
why can’t you just be?”
-It’s too easy.-
“Living is not easy.”
-Dying is.-
“Then why not die?”
-Because then I would not mean
anything.-
“So you need to do something
worthwhile?”
-Yes. I need to occupy myself. Being is not enough.-
“Everyone is. Few can do any more than that. Working a diner doesn’t qualify.”
-For what?-
“What do you do here?”
-I spread love.-
“How?”
-I work. I give people food. I run this café.-
“This coffee is shit.”
-I’m sorry, would you like me to get
you another?-
“No.”
They paused for a minute. His eyes were in shadow behind his glasses so
it was not possible to determined what the man was thinking. Louis shrugged. He seemed to be made of patience. The man looked up at the waiter and he said:
“Do you have any real food?”
-What is real food?-
“The edible kind.”
-So real means edible?-
“No.”
-Then what does real mean to you?-
There was another pause and the café
was quiet except for the faint hum of the radiator. Louis looked at the man with wide eyes,
glaring spotlights.
“Who are you?”
-I’m Louis.-
“Your nametag says Stanley.”
-I’m not Stanley anymore. My wife called me Stanley.-
“What happened to Stanley?”
-He’s dead. I’m Louis now. Can I take your order?-
“There’s no one here. Why are the tables set?”
-They’re coming. Just wait, they’re going to come they
promised me.-
“You’re sick. You need help.”
-Then help me.-
Louis produced a gun and pointed it
at the man’s stomach. He did not even blink. The man began to feel inklings of panic
welling up within. The cavity in his
chest began constricting, crushing his heart.
Louis sat down and kept the revolver leveled at the man’s belly. His eyes gleamed.
-What is wrong with me?-
“Put the gun down.”
-Why do I feel how I do? I can’t control the world, only myself. I couldn’t control the morning paper. I couldn’t control the broken window. I couldn’t control my boss. I couldn’t control who won my son’s tee-ball
game. I couldn’t control the truck that
hit my wife. I couldn’t control the
foreclosure. I couldn’t control
anything. But I set the tables
today. The people will come. I can’t tell you when or why because I can’t
control them, but I can control how their table will look, and the napkin
arrangement, and the number of plates in each booth. Control. Now I control you.-
“Get away from me.”
-I need to make you understand. I control this gun. I can make you live or die. It’s my choice. It’s so rare that you get to choose something
in this world. If I want you dead, then
you are. Isn’t that amazing? What’s your name?-
“My name is--”
Louis fired two shots into his stomach
and the man did not have the breath to scream.
Gushing from the wounds was thick blood, spilling, rushing, filling his
hands and dripping onto the floor. The
man grabbed a napkin and slapped it over his drenched torso and drowning the
words ‘feel the power of love.’ He
inhaled and exhaled wetly, rapidly.
Louis stared. Then he looked at
the gun and at the man.
-You are dead.-
“Not yet you son of a --”
Three more shots scorched the air, and
then all was silence except for the plinking of the man’s blood onto the dark
carpet. He slouched forward as if in
submission to his master, Louis. The
radiator hummed obliviously. Louis scrutinized
his revolver. One round remained. He wedged the end of the pistol under his
chin, aiming skyward, his cranium blocking the bullet’s passage to the overcast
sky. He observed his work. The café looked positively radiant. Blood trickled down the man’s bronco belt
buckle, streaking the face of the proud equine with scarlet. Stanley tickled his chin with the tip of the
revolver. Finally he leaned back,
sighed, and closed his luminous aqua eyes.
I’ve always wondered:
If a man dies in
the middle of nowhere and not a living soul cares about him, did he ever exist?
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