Cookie's Diner

Escaping the chaos of midday interstate traffic, Maggie left the freeway at the next opportunity, coincidentally leading to a small town she had seen the name of many times in her travels through but never visited, though she had often been curious. A brief grumble from her stomach insistently reminded her she was late for her own lunch, so she began scoping the signs sparsely placed along the edge of the road, obviously for the sake of hungry tourists passing through. The first place she spotted was a small diner, not much larger than a convenience store, its sign almost missable, with its red letters sun-faded to near invisibility on the peeling white background.

Windows lined the front and side of the building, streaks of cleaner residue highlighted in the direct sunlight. She pulled into what she hoped was a parking spot, unable to be certain since the lines had long since worn away. Her tires hit the curb with a slight thump bringing her car to a halt. She turned it off and gathered her purse, partially dumped into the front seat when she avoided a frantic businessman weaving in and out of lanes like his backside was on fire. As she walked stiffly towards the door, she noticed that the air smelled of something smoky, like barbeque brisket that had been roasting slowly throughout the day. Another rumble from her stomach urged her to dismiss further observation.

The interior of the diner was much what one would expect, being the stereotypical, quintessential diner from every movie Hollywood ever made. The place was empty except for her, a cook chopping away at some unseen ingredient, and the waitress who was busy wiping down some unseen surface. The single room featured a handful of tables along the windowed walls with a long counter in the center, the floor along it was studded with worn and discolored but comfortable-looking red-topped, single legged brass stools. A separate kitchen was visible through a small order window in the wall behind the counter, topped with a metal wheel for giving orders to the cook. It must have rained earlier that morning as a stampede of relatively fresh dirty footprints were clearly visible up and down the white and black checkered linoleum floor; it must have been quite busy for breakfast. Taking only a brief time to gaze over the 50s memorabilia that was hung unceremoniously on the yellowing walls, she took a seat on the nearest stool.

“What can I getcha?” the waitress asked, breaking her concentration on the menu posted up behind the counter.

“I really don’t know. Something smells awfully good! What is it?”

“Oh, you must mean our house special. That’s something Cookie over there came up with. It’s our single best seller and a regular favorite.”

“I’ll have that! It already has my mouth watering. I’d love to try it.”

“You got it, sugar.”

The waitress wrote up the order and with a quick motion, perfected by years of practice, ripped the order from the tablet and stuck it in the order line. She watched the waitress, being mindful not to stare. The waitress, Sherri as her crooked nametag declared, was obviously middle-aged, early 40s she guessed. She was fairly short, and pretty enough, but skinny to the point of appearing malnourished. Her brown and grey-streaked hair was coming loose from the bun it had been placed in earlier that morning, probably thrown loose by the flurry of breakfast activity she presumably had to endure. Her skin was pale, not sickly but obviously without enough sun. She wore makeup thick enough to cover up the dark circles under her eyes and scattered blemishes across her cheeks.

Through the kitchen steam stood a large, burly man. Cookie, she presumed. Towering over the grill, she wondered how he could possibly be comfortable working hunched over all day. He was so tall, in fact, that she could only see him from the neck to his waist through the small order window. Tattoos peaked out from the collar and sleeves of his cook’s gown. She was most impressed by the large black beard, braided and beaded, dangling precariously over the grill, threatening to make contact but never doing so. Occasionally he would have to bend over to get something or other and she would catch a glimpse of his pockmarked face and bushy black eyebrows.

“You never know what gems you’ll find when you travel,” she mused to herself. She wouldn’t have been on this trip at all had it not been for the job offer in the next city over. The commute was longer than she was accustomed to, but the salary would more than make up for it, she figured. Had they not tossed in that surprise $20,000 signing bonus she may have passed the opportunity entirely. Yet here she was, on a new path, one which just a week prior she would have laughed at the idea of.

“I really should make note of this spot and give it a review,” she mumbled quietly. The smells in the small restaurant were intoxicating, spurring her stomach to loudly protest the delay.

She took out her smartphone, and after a few minutes of shifting around in her seat trying to get signal, she heard the familiar clank of a plate being set down in front of her. She tossed the phone into her purse and checked out the feast laid before her. Every inch of the plate was covered with some form of delicious-looking food of some manner or another. Thick slices of barbequed meat was piled high, taking a full half of the real estate. Mashed potatoes, at least enough to fill a softball, sat like a mountain, or rather a volcano with molten gravy running down all sides. Even the mixed vegetables, seasoned and perfectly grilled tickled her fancy - she typically hated veggies.

“Eat up!” Sherri warmly encouraged.

“Oh, my God, I can’t wait. Thank you!” she managed to get out before stuffing the first bite into her salivating mouth.

“Any time, hon. Let me know if you need anything.”

She ate with a fervor she had not done in a long time. Every bite exploded with flavor which she tried to savor before moving on to the next delicious morsel. Ten minutes, if a second, saw her plate completely cleared. As she sat with content, she took another look around. This was a pretty nice place. “I’ll have to remember this next time through,” she noted. She gave herself a brief spin on the stool, enjoying the feeling of being completely full for a change. But when the stool stopped spinning, the restaurant did not. She was quickly becoming dizzy and disoriented. As she tried to gather herself she noticed the waitress and cook were both staring at her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling so well. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

She fell to the floor as balance lost to gravity. There, on the greasy tiles under the counter, she spied a small black notebook. In a stupor, she reached for it and opened it. Inside were handwritten names with dates, several pages worth, each annotated with what appeared to be weights and words like “stringy”, and “fatty.” In her rapidly degrading mental condition, she couldn’t fathom what on Earth such a notebook would be for, or how it wound up under the counter.

In a sudden, violent wave of vertigo, she began to lose consciousness, the world fading to black nothingness. With misfocused eyes she looked up and saw Sherri and Cookie approach her. She was vaguely aware of the jostling sensations as a she was stuffed into a large sack, then an uncomfortable tightness as it was hoisted off the ground, followed by several pinches and prods. She tried to cry out, but the ability had escaped her. As the final glimmer of consciousness passed her mind, she heard the last words she would ever hear.

“This one feels tender. I think we’re gonna have a great special tomorrow.”