So I guess you’ve been wondering what’s been going on with that damn café. After the conversation with Irby and the paranoia that followed, I laid low for a month or so, thinking that I had stumbled upon something terribly evil. Now I’m not as sure about the evil part. I suppose it does have a healthy dose of that, but there seemed to be a lot more going on there. So much so that it got me hankering to investigate.
During that time I hallucinated the café everywhere. It started with the slow curve after crossing the narrow bridge that leads into Walnut Grove. The sign on top of the store says “Boon Dox”. For years my mind has always seen at as “Boom Box”, a joke that always makes me smile, but has long worn off with the rest of my family. One day in late November I rounded the corner and instead of “Boon Dox” I saw “4 Corners Café”. Surprises like this are not good for a man my age or physical condition, but when I shook my head the sign had returned to its perplexing normalcy.
So what was it, a trick of the mind or a friendly reminder that I am helpless against the forces behind the café? I’ve never been able to figure out which. In the weeks that followed I saw that café’s sign everywhere: old abandoned gas stations, a boat repair shop on the side of the river, banks, department stores, In-Out Burgers. In my dreams. I saw it so much I was sure that I was doomed.
After much contemplation I felt I had no choice but to take a little visit to the 4Corners Café itself. So one Tuesday morning, I loaded myself into my aging Chevy truck and trekked up river. I left while Trish was taking a shower. I didn’t tell her where I was going. Somehow I felt it didn’t matter. When I eventually returned she wouldn’t say a word, probably not even noticing that her husband of thirty years had been gone most of the day.
Twenty minutes later I pulled the truck over across the highway from the café’s wonderfully enigmatic sign. The abandoned bird’s nest I had photographed in the spring was gone. A victim of a winter storm, I proposed. There were two old trucks sitting in its small parking look, a battered 70’s Datsun King Cab and an older Ford F100. I used to sell those trucks when they were brand new. Coincidence?
Got out of the truck. I looked up and down the empty road and started across. The crunch of pea gravel greeted me as I stepped onto the parking lot. I tried to clear my mind. I stepped onto the porch and opened the door. The bell above it tinkled a greeting. I counted eight people inside: six sitting at the booths, an elderly couple at the counter. I looked around for Betty Jo. She was nowhere about, nor was Irby. I breathed a sigh of relief at that; the old coot freaked me out. No one took note of my arrival. It was as if I was invisible. I moved to the counter and sat down. I nervously pulled out a menu stuck between the napkin dispenser and a catsup bottle. I opened it, glancing at the invitation to enjoy their delicious chicken fried steak, or BLT sandwich.
A hand placed a coffee cup in front of me.
That was when the fun began.
I first thought it was the young waitress I had encounter a few months back, but it was someone else. Brown hair in a pony tail, slender build, hazel eyes flicked with gold. She was not beautiful, but there was something compelling about her. In the back of my mind I asked myself if I had seen her before.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
I watched as she filled the cup.
“What can I get you hon?”
“Got any pumpkin pie?”
“Sure.”
She went to the display case and cut a healthy slice. “Whip cream?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’ll take it straight up.”
She placed the pie before me but didn’t leave. “Where have you been, buster?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Where have you been? Did Irby scare you off with his stories? We could give a crap what your write in that pathetic blog of yours. No one reads it anyway.”
I ignored the insult. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
I looked at her closely. In a moment it clicked. It was Betty Jo, a young vibrant Betty Jo.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Looking’ good, aren’t I?”
Silence.
“Oh, I saw you taking a healthy once over. Did you check out my new and improved ass?”
“But how…?”
“Fringe benefits. Comes with the job. Comes with the café.”
I said nothing. Words had left me.
“Eat your pie, hon. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”
I could think of nothing else but to do as she said.
Betty Jo left me to tend to her other customers. I watched as she delivered burgers, coffee, and cleared dirty dishes from a booth. On the juke box Zeppelin was playing “How Many More Times.” The music was weirdly out of place with the farmers and retirees that populated the café. It occurred to me that I’d never seen a young person in the café. In the times I had visited my fellow diners were always my age or older. I wondered what that was about.
The pie was delicious. I wanted another piece, but my diabetes said no. Eventually Betty Jo came back and refilled my cup.
“What the hell is this all about, Betty Jo? It’s driving me crazy.”
Betty Jo laughed. “Oh, the writer doesn’t understand, huh? That’s a hoot! You mean that creative little mind of yours can’t figure it out? Such a waste, just like the way you wasted your life selling cars and pretending you were happy.”
“Ouch.” I said.
“So you want to know, so I’ll tell you. See that hallway that goes to the back?”
I looked to my left and saw the hall that led back to the restrooms and storage area.
“She that door at the very back?”
I nodded.
“Beyond that door…
…is death.”
During that time I hallucinated the café everywhere. It started with the slow curve after crossing the narrow bridge that leads into Walnut Grove. The sign on top of the store says “Boon Dox”. For years my mind has always seen at as “Boom Box”, a joke that always makes me smile, but has long worn off with the rest of my family. One day in late November I rounded the corner and instead of “Boon Dox” I saw “4 Corners Café”. Surprises like this are not good for a man my age or physical condition, but when I shook my head the sign had returned to its perplexing normalcy.
So what was it, a trick of the mind or a friendly reminder that I am helpless against the forces behind the café? I’ve never been able to figure out which. In the weeks that followed I saw that café’s sign everywhere: old abandoned gas stations, a boat repair shop on the side of the river, banks, department stores, In-Out Burgers. In my dreams. I saw it so much I was sure that I was doomed.
After much contemplation I felt I had no choice but to take a little visit to the 4Corners Café itself. So one Tuesday morning, I loaded myself into my aging Chevy truck and trekked up river. I left while Trish was taking a shower. I didn’t tell her where I was going. Somehow I felt it didn’t matter. When I eventually returned she wouldn’t say a word, probably not even noticing that her husband of thirty years had been gone most of the day.
Twenty minutes later I pulled the truck over across the highway from the café’s wonderfully enigmatic sign. The abandoned bird’s nest I had photographed in the spring was gone. A victim of a winter storm, I proposed. There were two old trucks sitting in its small parking look, a battered 70’s Datsun King Cab and an older Ford F100. I used to sell those trucks when they were brand new. Coincidence?
Got out of the truck. I looked up and down the empty road and started across. The crunch of pea gravel greeted me as I stepped onto the parking lot. I tried to clear my mind. I stepped onto the porch and opened the door. The bell above it tinkled a greeting. I counted eight people inside: six sitting at the booths, an elderly couple at the counter. I looked around for Betty Jo. She was nowhere about, nor was Irby. I breathed a sigh of relief at that; the old coot freaked me out. No one took note of my arrival. It was as if I was invisible. I moved to the counter and sat down. I nervously pulled out a menu stuck between the napkin dispenser and a catsup bottle. I opened it, glancing at the invitation to enjoy their delicious chicken fried steak, or BLT sandwich.
A hand placed a coffee cup in front of me.
That was when the fun began.
I first thought it was the young waitress I had encounter a few months back, but it was someone else. Brown hair in a pony tail, slender build, hazel eyes flicked with gold. She was not beautiful, but there was something compelling about her. In the back of my mind I asked myself if I had seen her before.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
I watched as she filled the cup.
“What can I get you hon?”
“Got any pumpkin pie?”
“Sure.”
She went to the display case and cut a healthy slice. “Whip cream?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’ll take it straight up.”
She placed the pie before me but didn’t leave. “Where have you been, buster?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Where have you been? Did Irby scare you off with his stories? We could give a crap what your write in that pathetic blog of yours. No one reads it anyway.”
I ignored the insult. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
I looked at her closely. In a moment it clicked. It was Betty Jo, a young vibrant Betty Jo.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Looking’ good, aren’t I?”
Silence.
“Oh, I saw you taking a healthy once over. Did you check out my new and improved ass?”
“But how…?”
“Fringe benefits. Comes with the job. Comes with the café.”
I said nothing. Words had left me.
“Eat your pie, hon. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”
I could think of nothing else but to do as she said.
Betty Jo left me to tend to her other customers. I watched as she delivered burgers, coffee, and cleared dirty dishes from a booth. On the juke box Zeppelin was playing “How Many More Times.” The music was weirdly out of place with the farmers and retirees that populated the café. It occurred to me that I’d never seen a young person in the café. In the times I had visited my fellow diners were always my age or older. I wondered what that was about.
The pie was delicious. I wanted another piece, but my diabetes said no. Eventually Betty Jo came back and refilled my cup.
“What the hell is this all about, Betty Jo? It’s driving me crazy.”
Betty Jo laughed. “Oh, the writer doesn’t understand, huh? That’s a hoot! You mean that creative little mind of yours can’t figure it out? Such a waste, just like the way you wasted your life selling cars and pretending you were happy.”
“Ouch.” I said.
“So you want to know, so I’ll tell you. See that hallway that goes to the back?”
I looked to my left and saw the hall that led back to the restrooms and storage area.
“She that door at the very back?”
I nodded.
“Beyond that door…
…is death.”
Dear David-
ReplyDeleteThis post creeped me out, yet left me hungering for more. Is David Teves another way of spelling "Stephen King"? I can't wait for the next installment...
Bill McKenzie