You say you don’t want to talk to me, so I will write. I hope you are well, first off. You, and Klara, and the dog (is he still alive?)
The last time I heard, you were off watching Stars of This Beauteous Sky at the cinemas. The day after, you had a root-canal, and that was the last anyone heard of you. Except for Klara. Dear Klara, who always bought enough of the wintergreen mouthwash. And scrubbed the bathroom tiles the way you never could.
The sad thing is, the last word I said to you (will it be the last, forever?) the last word I said to you was “apples”, and I can’t for the life of me remember why.
Today’s Thursday, and I have night shift on Thursday. Seems fitting. The word Thursday has a dark, stormy colour. (I have synesthesia, like that old janitor we knew once, remember? Who told us to memorize the classrooms by the colours of their digits. He freaked everyone out. Including me, because my numbers were coloured differently than his).
Why should anyone need a night shift as the Lynn Diner, you ask. Because that’s when the wolves come out, the druggies, and the centipedes that inhabit the wine cellar. I don’t like the job, they make me wear kitchen scrubs, but they pay me fifteen dollars for the night. I make the onion ring batter, and am usually on coke duty (fetching the cans from the haunted basement). You’d be surprised at the number of baddies that show up at 12:37 at night to order onion rings. About two. And they sleep on the red plastic wrapped benches, in need of a scientific name. Sometimes they leave behind a wad of chewing gum crumpled in a four by four napkin as a symbol of their appreciation.
Maybe, one day you should come and meet them.
Maybe, one day, if the dog’s alive. Maybe, one day, if you are.
And then we’ll fix the antenna on the television, and eat food in the designated “STAFF ONLY” area.
One day, if I see you again.
April 2nd, 1982