“Why are you in such a hurry at this time of night?”
That’s how it all started. I was making my way out of the 24/7 diner that I had stepped into to use the restroom. I was rapidly approaching my 36th hour awake and running dangerously low on vodka shooters in my pocket. I hoped a splash of water to the face would give me the jolt I needed. However, looking at my tired face in the mirror only further reminded me of my predicament. In just 12 hours I’d have the distinct displeasure of saying goodbye to my kneecaps.
That loan shark’s muscle never let me get more than a block away from him and made no attempt to conceal his presence. No, he relished every second of this game. Anytime I glanced over my shoulder and locked eyes with him across the street, he’d put on a big show of tapping his watch and chuckling at how the reminder hastened my steps.
“I don’t have the time to talk about it, man,” I said to the old man warming his hands with his steaming cup of coffee.
“Oh, I think you can make some time,” the old man replied as he scratched his liver-spotted head, “and he doesn’t have you on that short of a leash, does he?”
“How’d you-,” I started to say as I noticed the old man looking directly at my stalker, who leaned against a wall across the street and lit a cigarette.
“Been there a few times myself I guess you could say, besides, you’re not very subtle,” the old man said with a light chuckle as he pointed to the spent scratcher lottery tickets that peaked out of my coat pocket.
“Then you know I can’t be wasting my time here,” I replied, now turning back toward the diner’s exit, “I’ve got better places to be.”
“Actually, I think you’re in the best place you could possibly be,” the old man said with that same chuckle again as he produced an enormous billfold. It looked ready to spring open and rain hundred-dollar bills all over the handful of other patrons in the diner.
I weighed my words for a moment before replying.
“What’s the catch?”
The old man gestured for me to sit across from him in the booth with a hand twisted from severe arthritis.
“No catch,” he answered after taking a sip of his coffee, “I just want to give you a chance to get out of your predicament the same way you got into it.”
“So, a bet?” I said as I settled into my seat opposite him.
“That’s right, but I’ll be picking what we bet on,” the old man said, looking me in the eyes for the first time since our conversation started. In his eyes, a glimmer of youthful vigor ran counter to every other detail of his frail, feeble constitution.
“You know I don’t have any money, so what am I giving you if I lose?” I inquired as suspicion narrowed my eyes.
“How about we play that by ear?” the old man said as a slightly too wide grin broke out across his face.
A shiver raced up my spine as an almost inaudible voice in the back of my mind told me to get out. I almost listened to that voice, but the billfold sitting on the table compelled me to stay.
“Ok, what are we betting on?”
“Whether he hits a double or a single,” the old man pointed with his thumb behind him to the TV mounted on a wall playing a Dodgers game rerun, “you win and you get the cash, I win and I get your shoes.”
The thought of heading back out into the cold, rainy night still in the same predicament, but now without shoes, sounded miserable. However, the money on the table captivated my attention once again.
“Fine, I’m game,” I said as I looked at the screen and sized up number 35 who now took their place in front of the pitcher, “he’ll hit a double.”
“A single,” the old man said with that off-putting grin as he leaned back against the cushion of the booth. Not turning around to watch the outcome of our bet, but instead keeping his gaze fixed on me.
I did my best to suppress the chills his stare conjured in me. I kept my eyes locked on the screen and watched as the pitcher let loose a fastball which number 35 expertly struck, sending the ball flying high into left field. 35 bolted. In no time at all he rounded first base and laid his eyes on second.
I swallowed hard as the camera cut to a different angle, showing the ball launching from the outfielder’s hand towards second base. Number 35 pumped his arms and legs harder and then dropped into a slide. His foot contacted the base fractions of a second before the ball landed in the glove of the defending player.
“Safe!” I cried out, the elation swelling in my chest.
With a thin-lipped smile, the old man pushed the billfold towards me. I snatched it greedily and thumbed through it quickly. There was at least 5,000 dollars in it. I shoved it into my coat pocket. The gears were already turning in my head about how I’d walk a couple of blocks to the casino and with a few hands of cards this cash would soon become at least 20,000 dollars.
Before I could turn to leave the booth, a heavy smack rang out from the tabletop and grabbed my attention. The old man had produced 10,000 in hundred-dollar bills complete with a band holding them together as if he had just reached into a bank vault.
“Again,” he said. His eyes radiated a maniacal joy, and his smile stretched the edges of his mouth tight.
I swallowed roughly, now noticing how dry my mouth had become, “Ok, I won’t turn down free money, what’s the bet?”
“See her?” the old man nodded his head toward the waitress who had just grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, “I bet she’ll spill on that suit over there.”
I craned my head to look at the man sitting in a corner booth. He looked as if he had just stepped off Wall Street in his dark grey and precisely ironed 3-piece suit.
“What’s the wager?”
“You win, the cash,” the old man said while excitedly watching the waitress walk over to offer the suit a refill, “I win, I get that last scratcher you’ve been saving.”
Even bundled up in all my layers, I broke out into a cold sweat. My hand found its way to that scratcher I was saving as a Hail Mary to save me when I ran out of time. It was tucked deep in my pocket and well out of sight.
“How did you kno-“
“You in or not, Alex?”
The turning of gears in my head had now become a terrible crescendo of metal teeth grinding themselves into dust. Before I could ask that terrible question, the old man drew me back to the present with the tap of his finger on that stack of bills.
“Fine, she won’t spill,” I choked out, my mouth now a desert.
I turned and watched as the waitress arrived at the suit’s table. The pounding of my heart in my ears kept me from hearing their conversation, but I saw the man nod in affirmation to the waitress’s question. She tilted the lip of her pot down and the coffee began to crash into the man’s cup. A moment passed without incident, and I began to reach toward the stack of bills across for me.
“Wait,” the old man spat out with the tone of a parent reprimanding their greedy child.
A crash broke out from the corner booth as the pot slipped from the waitress’s hand, tumbling into the man’s cup, and ultimately drenching the man’s lap with scalding liquid. The expletives the man let loose on the waitress drowned out the thundering in my ears.
“Ah, that’s too bad, Alex” the old man offered his platitude with equal parts sarcasm.
The old man slid the stack of bills off the table while holding out his other hand palm up, expectantly. Dumbfounded, I fished for the scratcher and placed it into his hand. The old man placed the scratcher on the table in front of him and produced a large, ancient-looking coin from seemingly nowhere.
“How the hell do you know my name?” I demanded.
The old man said nothing and simply held out one finger, beckoning me to wait. He took the coin and began to rub away the paper on the face of the scratcher. After what felt like an eternity of him scratching away, he laid down the coin and presented the scratcher to me. My jaw went slack.
The ticket was a winner for 30,000 dollars, more than enough to cover my debt.
“Well, what do you know?” the old man smirked at me before sliding the scratcher off the table and out of sight.
Whatever this game was, I had grown tired of it. The alarm bells, no longer stifled by the cash he had been waving in my face, rang out louder than ever before. I turned to leave the booth.
“We’re not done here, Alex,” the old man said, that chilling smile finally slipping from his face.
“The hell we aren’t,” I shot back.
I rose to my feet and pointed myself toward the exit, but my breath caught in my chest before I could take the first step. Without a sound, the 8 or so other people in the diner - staff and patrons - had risen to their feet. Even the suit with all his coffee-stained clothes. All staring at me. Unblinking. Not even breathing from what I could see. The thundering returned to my ears.
“Our game isn’t over, Alex,” the old man said behind me.
I ignored him and hazarded a step forward. In response, they all grabbed the sharpest item near them. A fork there. A kitchen knife here. Still staring, none of them having blinked once. I knew without a doubt that I’d be leaving the diner with many new holes if I tried my luck.
“Have a seat,” the old man grabbed my attention, “please.”
I slowly returned to my seat, not daring to turn away from the crowd staring me down. When I was once again seated in the booth, it was like time started again. They all replaced their makeshift weapons from where they got them and returned to their quiet conversations or reading the newspaper.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, unconsciously pressing myself back into my seat, trying to be as far away from the old man as I could.
“I told you, I’m giving you a way out,” he replied.
I said nothing and looked him up and down. Something was wrong, but the specifics remained out of reach. Was it a mole on his cheek where there wasn’t one previously? A few wrinkles out of place?
The old man continued, “Speaking of which, how about a chance to deal with your stalker out there?”
I glanced out the window and saw the man illuminated by a streetlight, still smoking his cigarette. Just as relaxed as ever as if he hadn’t seen the events that had just taken place in the diner.
“Alright then, what do you suggest?” I said, trying my best to suppress the fear that gripped my throat.
In response to my question, the old man produced a die. As ancient-looking as the coin, but of a strange material. It was yellowed and cracked with age. The dimples indicating the number of each side varied erratically in size. If I had to guess, I’d say it was made of bone.
“Even or odd,” the old man began to gently shake the die in his twisted hand, “you win and you won’t have to worry about your fan out there anymore, I win and I get your ring finger.”
“My wha-,” I began to say but was cut off as a large, calloused hand grabbed my right hand and slammed it onto the tabletop.
The cook, a mountain of a man, had appeared at my side without a sound. With his left hand, he kept my hand pinned to the table and in his right hand he held a butcher’s cleaver. No matter how much I attempted to wrest my hand free nor how many expletives I threw his way, he was unfazed. His eyes looked at something a million miles away while also being locked onto my ring finger.
The old man grabbed my attention by shaking his fist, closed around the die, in my face, “Even or odd?”
My hand trembled under the cook’s grip as I stared at the wicked blade that was posed to liberate my finger from my hand.
“Odd!” I gasped out.
“Odd it is!” the old man beamed as he let the die fall onto the table.
The die bounced from corner to edge to face across the surface for a moment that stretched into eternity. Finally, it came to a rest. 3 inky black dots faced up towards the ceiling.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I spat out as the cook released my grip, marched back to the kitchen, and returned to cooking as if he had never left his post.
“Well done, Alex, and as I promised,” the old man gestured outside to my stalker.
I rubbed my now sore wrist as I watched the man underneath the streetlight retrieve another cigarette from the pack. At first, nothing happened at all. He just continued to surveil me and the old man. Then another figure wearing a dark hoodie materialized from a nearby alley. He walked with the furtive energy of a junky looking for the next hit. He asked my stalker something who in turn waved for him to get lost.
The hooded man started to walk again but stopped directly in front of my stalker, where he slipped something long and shiny out of his pocket. In a flash, he drove that thing into my stalker’s neck. Dark rivers of blood spurted from his neck and created grim brushstrokes across the cement in front of him. He dropped like a load of bricks and moved no more.
“What the fu-,” the words caught in my throat as I turned back to the old man sitting across from me.
However, it wasn’t the old man anymore. In his place was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. Dark curls framed her angelic face and emerald eyes filled with longing ignited a long-since-forgotten fire in my heart. Those eyes were what caught my attention all those years ago when I first met Grace.
I hadn’t seen those eyes in years, not since our divorce was finalized and she seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. Yet here she was. Sitting in the spot that sadistic old man was in just a moment ago. Before the cognitive dissonance could set in, she spoke.
“Hello, handsome,” Grace said with a smile that deepened the dimples on her face, one of her many features that made my heart skip a beat. My cognizance of the impossibility of the situation washed away like a sandcastle caught by the tide.
“Hi, Grac- umm how um,” I stumbled over my words as my mouth dried out, “how are you here?”
“What do you mean, baby? You asked me to meet you here.”
“No, no I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did dummy. You said you wanted to talk things out and I’m so glad you reached out, Alex.”
“You are?”
“Yes, baby. Honestly, you’ve been on my mind… I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, beautiful. More than you know.”
“You can have her back, Alex.”
That same sadistic twinkle manifested itself in Grace’s eyes. Twisting them. Perverting them. She still wore the same smile, but that twinkle changed it into something cruel. Something that mocked me. Not just in this moment but mocking everything I’ve ever been or done.
“What are you?” The façade had been dropped. The warmth I had felt in her presence crumbled away to an icy anger. Anger at the thing wearing Grace’s face to toy with me.
“It doesn’t matter what I am,” she sneered, “What matters is what I can do for you.”
I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to look at this mockery of Grace anymore. The cracks in the disguise were so obvious once the act was dropped. That thing pretending to be Grace spoke again, grabbing my attention.
“10 years, Alex.”
“10 years of what?”
“Your life.”
I straightened in my seat. The absurdity of the proposition was trivial in comparison to the conviction with which she said it. She continued.
“I win, I get 10 years of your life,” hunger burned in her eyes now, “you win, and she’ll be yours again, the real Grace.”
“Deal,” the words rushed out of me. I knew intrinsically, no matter how bizarre it sounded, that this thing could take those years from me if I lost. It didn’t matter. I’d offer up 50 years just as easily for her.
“Call it,” she said as she produced that ancient coin once more.
“Heads.”
She flipped the coin, and I watched as it turned in the air for what felt like an eternity. Finally, it started its return to the earth. She snatched it out of the air with frightening speed in one hand and slammed the coin onto the top of her other hand, keeping it covered. The hunger in her eyes had become an inferno. Then she revealed the coin.
“Ah sorry, Alex.”
I had barely registered the sight of the tail side of the coin when a razor-sharp pain exploded in my chest. It was as if a dozen icepicks had appeared in my chest, skewering my heart from every angle. I broke out into a cold sweat and my vision swam. Before I knew it, my face collided with the tabletop.
“Grace…,” I choked out between rasping breaths.
A few more excruciating moments later I had regained the strength to lift my head. What I saw baffled me. There was no more diner. No, I was now behind the wheel of a car heading down a dark, twisting road lined by trees. I sat in stunned silence for a few moments. I knew this car. It was mine from 5 years ago. An old beat-up Lincoln. I was so stunned; I didn’t notice the turn coming up. I grabbed hold of the wheel and yanked it to the left, narrowly avoiding flying off into the trees.
“You ok, Daddy?” a small voice called from behind me.
The hairs on my neck stood up and I slowly raised my eyes to my rearview mirror. There he was sitting in his car seat wearing his Elmo pajamas. Luke. He had Grace’s eyes and my hair. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and the most beautiful thing I had ever lost.
Tears welled up in my eyes, “Yeah buddy, Daddy is ok, did I wake you?”
“Yeah, Daddy can we stop for ice cream? Let’s get some for Mommy.”
Those words cut into my heart and pulled up that awful memory. I knew this road, Route 45, like the back of my hand and I knew what would happen at one of the turns a half mile away.
“Sure buddy, of course, we’ll get her favorite.”
“I want cookie dough!” he beamed with a gap tooth smile.
I assured him we’d get cookie dough as my foot searched for the brake pedal. When I found it, I slammed it into the floorboard. Nothing. I desperately pressed the brake over and over to no avail. The car had no intention of stopping.
“You can’t change what happened, Daddy.”
I turned my eyes to the rearview window again. Luke was still there, but his pupils overflowed with that same hungry fire. I stared slack-jawed at him. He continued.
“But I can get you the one that took me away from you, what would that be worth to you?”
“Anything,” tears now freely flowed down my face.
He held up that same coin again, looking enormous in his tiny hand, “I win, and I get your soul.”
“Anything,” I repeated with a cold resolve.
“Your call,” he said as he flipped the coin.
“Heads.”
The coin fell back down, and he caught it between his hands. I glanced ahead, that turn was coming up fast.
“It’s been fun, Alex.”
I turned around to look directly into the backseat and saw Luke presenting the coin to me. Heads side up. Before I could say anything more, the interior of the car lit up from the headlights of the car approaching us. Speeding toward us in our lane. The car that took my son away from me. The car that fled from the scene as I held his limp body. The car that ended my marriage and life as I knew it. The light continued to build until it blinded me, and I had to close my eyes.
When I opened them again, I was no longer in the car. Or the diner. I was on my back in the drunk tank of a police station. Staring at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. My head screamed in agony, but I brought myself to my feet and called one of the officers over to ask what happened. He said a patrolling officer found me slumped outside a dilapidated diner and assumed I was drunk, so he brought me here to sleep it off.
I of course asked to be let out, but since it was the weekend, I was out of luck and would be waiting till Monday. That’s alright though. At least I’ve got company. My only other cellmate and I got to talking. He told me he’d been picked up for drunk driving earlier in the night.
I guess he still has a lot of booze in his system since he’s quite loose-lipped. He told me about a time he got away from a crash he caused on Route 45 about 5 years back. He was so proud of how he ditched his car afterward and no one ever came looking for him.
No, I’m not mad about being stuck here for the weekend. I’m exactly where I need to be.