Vinnie's Diner

by Jennifer AlLee

  With a wink and a dip of his shoulder he turns and propels his portly body back through the door. My eyes drop to the plate and my stomach lurches. Not because the food looks gross, which it does, but because of what it is.

  A fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

  It can’t be.

  The edges of my vision start to fuzz out, and the diner begins to fade around me. Aunt Bobbie’s voice echoes in my ears, bouncing around inside my skull like a Ping Pong ball in a bingo cage.

  “It’s no wonder Elvis got so fat at the end. All his favorite foods were fried.”

  Elvis?

  Brakes squeal, the sound loud and sharp in my ears. My body starts to tip. I grab at the counter, but it’s not there anymore and I fall from the stool.

  A scream shatters the air as I land hard on my side. My head bounces against the ground with a dull thud, igniting a thousand sparks inside my brain.

  Pain shoots through every part of my body. The air around me is hot, thick with the smell of dirt and burned rubber. I try to move, but my left arm is pinned again and hurts so bad it feels like it’s on fire. A crushing weight pushes down on my chest

  I force one eye open and try to determine where I am but it’s like looking through a kaleidoscope smeared with bacon grease. Blurred colors and shapes melt and merge into each other. It’s no use. I squeeze my eyes tight and something warm and wet slides down the side of my cheek and into my ear.

  “Hold on! I’m calling 911! The ambulance is on its way!” A frantic man calls to me from somewhere far away.

  Who does that voice belong to? I know it’s not Vinnie.

  Where is he?

  Where is the diner?

  Where am I?

  6

  Vinnie’s Diner

  I’m having one of those weird dreams. The one where I’m falling, falling . . . I flail my arms, my hands clutching, trying to grab something so I can pull myself to a stop, only there’s nothing but air all around me. I just keep falling.

  Down . . .

  Down . . .

  And now, a new sensation. Something warm and rough, rubbing rhythmically against my cheek. Something like wet sandpaper . . .

  “Allie!”

  My body jerks as though I’ve been jabbed in the ribs with a light saber. My eyes pop open. A crowd is gathered in a half-circle at my feet. Standing in front of everyone else, waitress Norma Jeane and Elvis the fry cook look particularly concerned. Vinnie is kneeling beside me, holding my hand, rubbing it gently. Beside him sits Grimm, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging down. I assume he’s the one that licked me, but then I realize that another dog sits beside him and is closest to my face. It’s a big, fluffy collie, head cocked sideways, tongue lolling out so it’s almost smiling.

  Lassie.

  My heart soars and relief washes over me. I’m back in the diner!

  But then my heart does a one-eighty and plummets to my toes. I’m back in the diner. And instead of being licked back to consciousness by my own dog, I get Lassie.

  I struggle to push myself up into a sitting position. “What’s going on?”

  Vinnie puts his arm around my shoulders for support. “What do you mean?”

  His question is cautious, guarded. Like he knows the answer, but he needs to know that I know it, too, before he’ll confirm anything. I’m so not in the mood for these games.

  “I was just outside again.”

  “You were?”

  He’s not contradicting me. More like he’s checking. I stop. Think. Had I dreamt the whole thing? The pain, the sensations are all still fresh in my mind. I shake my head. No, it had been real.

  “Yes, I was out there. I could smell the dirt. I think I was back in the car and my arm hurt like it was broken.” I squeeze my forearm, but as far as I can tell, it’s fine. “I could barely breathe, and I heard some guy yelling about calling 911.” I glance toward the front door, but it’s heavily tinted, so I can’t see anything through it. There are two big windows on either side, but the shades are drawn, blocking off all view of what might be on the other side. I look back at Vinnie. “He said he was going to call an ambulance. Why would he do that? I need a tow truck and a lift to Vegas, not an ambulance.”

  Norma Jeane and Elvis exchange uneasy glances. Mark Twain smoothes down his enormous mustache with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. In the far corner, Judy Garland, whom I’m noticing for the first time, puts a bejeweled hand to her middle-aged throat and looks to the ceiling, eyes darting left and right.

  Vinnie just keeps looking at me with that same calm, understanding expression. Right now, he’s probably the only one in the diner who fully understands what’s going on. I mean, it’s his place, it’s named after him, so he must have some answers. I’m certain he could clear all this up, but instead he’s making me pull the information out of him bit by torturous bit. And knowing that makes me want to slap him silly.

  I squeeze Vinnie’s hand and stare into his eyes, hoping to get across how serious I am. “Why is that man outside calling an ambulance? I need you to tell me.”

  His eyelids droop and he does that slow nod of his: once, twice. “There’s something you need to see.”

  He stands up, then holds his hand out to me. I hesitate. For no good reason, fear, cold and irrational, wraps itself around me. What if I don’t like what he’s about to show me? But then an image of my aunt pops into my head and pushes the fear away. Not so far that I can’t feel it anymore, but far enough that it no longer paralyzes me. I’ve got to know what’s going on so I can get out of here and get to that contest. And as far as I know, Vinnie is the only one who can help me.

  I grab Vinnie’s hand and he pulls me to my feet. About twenty pairs of eyes follow our movements as we cross the room and stand in front of the window. He reaches for the cord, ready to pull up the blinds, when another hand shoots out and stops him.

  Norma Jeane looks straight past Vinnie and her doe-like eyes lock onto me. “Are you sure you want to know what’s out there, honey? There’s no going back once you know.”

  What she doesn’t understand is that I don’t want to go back. Not unless I can go all the way back to the beginning of this nightmare and prevent the accident, and that doesn’t seem to be an option. I need to push on and figure out what all this means. Maybe then I can get out of this place and get back to my carefully laid out plan.

  My fingers circle her wrist. She’s wearing a garish diamond bracelet now, and the stones cut into my palm as I pull her hand away from Vinnie. “I’m sure. I need to know. I need to do this.”

  Norma Jeane steps away. Behind me, I hear the click-clack of toenails on tile. I turn to see Lassie—the boy dog that always had to play a girl—trotting up to me. He stops at my feet and gives two loud, sharp barks. Crouching down, I bury my fingers in the silky fur behind his ears.

  “It’s okay, girl . . . uh, I mean, boy. Go save Timmy from the well. I’ll be fine.”

  The collie trots off to join Grimm who is begging table scraps from a group in the far corner. I stand, go back to Vinnie, and give one quick, decisive nod of my head.

  Vinnie tugs on the cord, pulling the blinds up with a whoosh. He takes a step back and motions me forward.

  There’s my car, just like I expected, lying on its side in the dirt between the northbound and southbound traffic lanes. A big black SUV is stopped a few feet in front of it on the northbound side of the road. A man wearing a baseball cap and khaki shorts is pacing back and forth, a cell phone pressed against his ear, the tail of his tropic print shirt flapping in his wake. He keeps looking at his watch. He must be late for something.

  As if he heard my thoughts, Vinnie says, “He already called for help. Now he’s trying to convince his fiancée that he’s not backing out on her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Vinnie points at the man. “He was on his way to Las Vegas to get married. Coming across your accident has thrown him off his schedule.”

  I want to ask Vinnie
how he knows all of this, but if I do, I might miss what’s going on outside. My eyes are pinned to the man. He started out right next to the car, but now he backs away. Then he moves in close again, but quickly does a hop-skip backwards. Finally, he gets even closer than before and squats down, looking through the empty windshield hole into the depths of the car. He seems really nervous.

  Still looking at the scene outside, I ask Vinnie, “So what’s he waiting for? If he’s late, why doesn’t he just get back in his car and drive to his wedding?”

  “He doesn’t want to leave you.”

  I’m about to point out the obvious, that if the anonymous groom-to-be is so concerned about my welfare, he should be in the diner with me, not walking a rut in the dirt outside. But right then, the man jerks himself up, stumbles backward with his hand covering his mouth, and hurries away from the car. A moment later, he’s doubled over, puking his guts out.

  “Oh, that’s pretty,” I mumble to myself.

  Vinnie doesn’t seem to notice the man’s gastric distress. Instead, he’s got all his attention focused on the road and what lies beyond. “Here they come.”

  At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. But then I hear them, too. They start out low, then increase in intensity, until they slice through the air, thin and sharp as Errol Flynn’s fencing foils. Sirens, and lots of them.

  Two fire trucks, a police car, and an ambulance screech to a stop by the SUV. They move slowly down the road to a spot that’s not so steep, then they drive down into the dirt and surround my car, kicking up a cloud of dust. Talk about overkill. It reminds me of the time I saw a fire truck speed up to a Walmart store. Turned out there was no fire then, either, just a little old lady who had slipped on a busted bag of elbow macaroni in aisle three.

  The emergency workers spring from their vehicles, making me think of circus clowns pouring out of a Volkswagen. These fellows are going to feel pretty silly when they find out I’m safe and sound inside the diner, sipping on Vanilla Cokes and chatting with celebrity look-alikes.

  Within seconds, uniformed people are everywhere. The frazzled motorist sits on the bumper of the police car, his head hanging between his knees, while one of the policemen squats in front of him, waiting to take his statement. A herd of firemen surround the car, peering through the broken out windshield and making lots of hand motions. Two EMTs, a man and a woman, pull a gurney out of the ambulance.

  The sight of the gurney is the last straw. This has really gotten out of hand. “I’d better go out there and tell them to save the stretcher for someone who needs it.”

  I step around Norma Jeane, who looks terrified, go to the front door, and push it open.

  Vinnie is right behind me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, stopping me before I can cross over the threshold. “You don’t want to do that.” His voice is low and serious.

  A blast of hot air hits me, scalding my cheeks and stealing the moisture from my lips, but I somehow feel cold at the same time. Frozen. I can’t move, can’t blink, can barely even breathe. All I can do is stand in the doorway and watch.

  The firemen put some kind of pads or blankets down around the edge of the windshield frame, covering the remains of the broken glass. One of them, wearing heavy overalls and gloves, crawls into the car until only the soles of his boots are peeping out. My ears are assaulted by a garble of voices as the rescue workers shout questions and orders to each other. Then, above them all, I hear one voice, strong and loud, as though it’s right beside my head.

  “She’s still alive.”

  Excuse me? Yes, she’s still alive, and she’s standing right here. Shocked out of my statue-like state, I lift my hand in a half-hearted attempt to flag them down, but no one looks my way. In fact, no one has given the diner so much as a passing glance since this fiasco started.

  A movement catches my eye. Something black that’s flapping by the side of the fire truck. Squinting, I try to see what it is, but the heat’s coming in waves now, distorting the picture. Even though I can’t fully make it out, it seems familiar, like I’ve seen it before.

  I turn to Vinnie, open my mouth to ask him about it, but he just motions back to the open door with a jerk of his head.

  The fireman is backing out of the car now. He’s struggling with something, making his movements slow and awkward. His head emerges, but his arms are still stretched out in front of him. He’s pulling something out of my car. He stops, takes a breath, and then continues his slow, steady backward crawl. As soon as he’s clear of the vehicle, the other firemen move in to help him, blocking my view, but not before I see what he’s dragging out.

  It’s a body.

  It’s me.

  7

  Vinnie’s Diner

  The rescue workers are a source of nonstop movement, like dancers in an intricately choreographed jazz routine. One wipes blood off the young woman’s face, then steps to the side. Another swoops in, covers her mouth and nose with an oxygen mask, then steps to the side. The first cuts back in and puts some kind of brace around her neck. Then both close in together for the grand finale, and the firemen step closer to get a look. I wish they’d all get out of the way so I can see her.

  Wait, not her. Not her face, her neck . . . but my face, my neck.

  They’re working on me.

  One of them calls out, “She’s stable.”

  I’m stable. Stable is good.

  The voice again, “She’s non-responsive.”

  Well, that doesn’t sound nearly as good as stable.

  “The dog probably saved her life.”

  Grimm? If my body was still in the car, does that mean Grimm’s body is in there, too? And if he is, why aren’t they getting him out?

  Instinctively, I take a step backward, out of the doorway. I don’t want to be the woman on the gurney, and I don’t want to have anything to do with the people outside. Outside, I’m a battered, bloody, nonresponsive mess, and my apparently heroic dog is still trapped in the wreck. Things are much better inside. Inside the diner, Grimm is chowing down on pieces of leftover steak being fed to him gingerly by a man who looks an awful lot like Harpo Marx, and I’m safe, clean, and pretty darn responsive.

  “Are you okay?”

  I turn my head slowly, piercing Vinnie with my best are-you-kidding glare.

  “Peachy.” The word shoots out of me in two bullet-like syllables, bang bang, aimed right between his eyes. I wait for his reaction. A wince, a frown, a grimace. Anything to indicate that I’ve wounded him. But he doesn’t even blink. I’m getting the idea that Vinnie’s a pretty unflappable guy.

  He nods his head, pulls the door shut, and moves to the window. He gives the cord a hard, quick jerk, and the blinds fall shut with a snap.

  A great sigh moves through the building. It’s as if everyone around me had been holding their breath, waiting to see what I would do. Which is ironic, because all these people are dead, aren’t they? They shouldn’t even be standing here, let alone breathing. I look from one face to the other, and the truth of my situation sinks in, saturating my consciousness like sticky syrup into a pancake. I can’t deny it anymore. I can’t make up any more excuses. These people aren’t impersonators. With the exception of Vinnie, every single one of them is a deceased personality. So what are they? Figments of my imagination? Ghosts?

  Hysterical laughter begins to bubble up inside me. I see dead people.

  And if they’re dead, then what does that make me?

  “You’re not dead, you know.”

  Vinnie’s words bring an abrupt halt to my near mental meltdown, but they don’t surprise me like they would have twenty minutes ago. Of course he knows what I’m thinking. Why wouldn’t he? He seems to know everything, even though he only shares what he wants to. Vinnie is the Head Honcho of Crazy Town.

  I stalk across the room and let myself fall onto the shiny red vinyl cushion of the booth by the far wall. Vinnie follows me and sits on the opposite side of the table. “You’re not dead,” he repeats.
>
  “I know. I’m just nonresponsive.”

  “Only as far as they can tell.” He smiles, looking almost mischievous. “You seem to be responding pretty well to me.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, and a niggling little pain starts in my forehead. Pressing my thumbs against it, I push it away with sheer force of will. He can’t charm me into submission. I’m going to make some sense out of all this if it kills me.

  “No more games, Vinnie. I want the truth.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can.” He draws his finger across the table as if he’s drawing a line that can’t be crossed. “There are some things, though, that you have to figure out for yourself. Trust me, it’s a lot better that way.”

  “Better for who?”

  “You, of course. This whole thing is about you.”

  It’s all about me, but I can’t get a straight answer to a question. I have to figure everything out. If I have to figure out one more thing, I just might hurt somebody. I open my mouth to say as much, but the door swings open and music starts playing. Weird, I don’t remember any tunes playing when I opened the door before.

  Everyone in the diner turns to wave or shout hello to the man who walks in. It’s the guy who said he’d get my things out of the car. A little spark of hope ignites in me but is quickly blown out. He didn’t get my purse like I wanted him to. Instead, he’s carrying what looks like a miniature treasure chest. The dark wood is trimmed with metal studded strips of leather. Near the top it has an ornately carved piece of brass above a thick latch which is secured with a fat iron padlock. It looks like something straight out of a pirate movie.

  There’s absolutely nothing fair about this. If I have to be losing my mind, why oh why can’t it be Johnny Depp strolling in with this chest?

  Oh yeah. Because he’s not dead. Silly me.

  The boringly nondescript man walks up to the booth and sets the chest on the table with a dull thud.