“Can’t you see we’re closed?” he said slightly irritated. “Come back tomorrow.”
Before he could shut the door, Celine quickly blurted, “I’m just looking for a cup of coffee. I was hoping you’d have some left that I could take to go.”
“Sorry, fresh out.” The door slammed.
Celine stood there a moment and blinked. Before turning away, she noticed the man with the flashy blue outfit gesturing to the one who shut the door, and looking toward her. The other one seemed reluctant and glanced back to see if she left. She probably should have left, but found herself curious about this guy with the fashionable clothes. His dark hair, sideburns, and oversized glasses made Celine think of an Elvis impersonator, but she had never seen one in person before. Suddenly the door opened and Celine was facing the orange shirt guy again.
“One cup of coffee, huh?”
“If it’s not too much bother.”
Celine continued to stand in the doorway while the guy studied her.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Jimmy. Let the girl in.” The Elvis guy regarded him disapprovingly. “Where are your manners, boy?”
Jimmy stepped aside with a grand gesture while Celine tentatively entered the diner. She brushed her light brown hair away from her face, letting it fall past her shoulders onto her beige button down shirt with cream colored capri pants. The diner seemed smaller on the inside, with high-backed vinyl booths along one side by the windows and a couple of tables and a booth on the opposite side of the door. Ten red and chrome stools adorned a marble counter to the left of the booths by the windows. The counter enclosed coffee, pop, and shake machines, and a door leading to the kitchen. The place didn’t feel new to Celine, but it looked like it was in pretty good shape. She reached a stool that sat diagonally across the booth where the Elvis guy was sitting, and stopped. Jimmy went behind the counter to find the coffee materials. A man with a dark navy jacket and light brown hair stood by the counter further up from Celine, impatiently waiting for Jimmy to start the coffee. Celine only glanced at him a few times, but could tell he kept looking back at her curiously. The guy leaning on the back of the booth with a lime green sport jacket and white shirt gazed at her without looking away.
“Thanks,” Celine offered. “I’ve been driving quite awhile and could use some caffeine to wake me up.”
“You’re most certainly welcome. How do you like your coffee?” the
Elvis guy asked, pointing in Jimmy’s direction.
Turning towards Jimmy, she said, “Oh, black is fine, but not too strong.” She paused a moment, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Darlin’. We’re just talking ‘bout music.” The Elvis guy smiled slightly and gestured toward the seat across from him. “Why don’t you have a seat while you’re waiting?”
Celine hesitated. If it had been any of the other guys, she would have politely declined, but this Elvis-guy had a charm about him that put her at ease. The guy leaning on the back of the booth moved toward the counter. “Um . . . sure.” She slid into the seat before she could talk herself out of it. Sitting across from him, she saw the puffiness of his face and it occurred to her that this guy really made an effort to look like Elvis.
“So where are your headed? Do you have very far to go?” he asked.
“I’m just going back to Iowa after visiting some friends. I’m slowly getting there.”
“Iowa, huh? That’s a quaint place. We’ve been there at least a couple of times. Lots of cornfields, right Joe?” he said referring to the dark navy jacket guy.
Joe was sitting at the counter, trying to give Jimmy some direction. “There’s cornfields in other states besides Iowa. But yeah, we’ve been there a few times.”
“Really? Where are you from?” she asked the Elvis guy. “Memphis, Tennessee.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize you traveled so much. I bet you were popular there.”
“Well, traveling keeps us popular. These guys and I go way back, even though we’ve had breaks for some of those years.”
“Have you always liked Elvis?”
“What do you mean ‘liked’ Elvis?” Joe asked, turning around to look at her. “Can’t you see that is Elvis?”
Celine briefly regarded Joe before turning back to the man sitting in front of her. “You mean your name is ‘Elvis’?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh.” Celine didn’t quite know what to say next. It seemed too coincidental. Maybe he changed his name to make his act appear more authentic. She’s heard of other people that have that name, but they don’t look like Elvis too, or pretend to be him. Whatever they’re doing, it seemed to work for them.
Elvis found her reaction a bit unexpected. Apparently so did Joe. “Who did you think he was?”
“I don’t know. I mean I knew he was an Elvis impersonator, but I guess the name surprised me.”
At this remark, Joe furrowed his brow, obviously confused. Celine looked back at Elvis, who smiled briefly before slowly asking, “Why would someone want to impersonate Elvis?”
Now it was Celine’s turn to be confused. She dimly wondered how that coffee was coming along. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” When he didn’t respond right away, she continued, “I don’t know, he’s been dead for . . . awhile now. Maybe to keep the music alive.”
Suddenly, everyone heard a crash, like glass being knocked over. Celine couldn’t tell if anything broke, but thought she saw out of the corner of her eye Jimmy picking something up. She didn’t dare look. Elvis looked startled at first, but Celine couldn’t tell if it was from what she said or the crash.
He thought for a moment before asking, “How long ago did this happen exactly?”
Celine wondered where he was going with this. “What, is this some kind of trivia question or something?”
“Well, you said it happened awhile ago; I was wondering how much you remember,” Elvis explained.
“Let’s see, that was back in 1977, and I was three. So that was maybe twenty-eight years ago. I’m really not that good with math, especially this time of night.”
Elvis just stared at her, wondering if he heard her right. He blinked a couple of times, glanced at his friends, then back to Celine.
“I look younger than I am,” Celine explained.
“Oh, I see.” He frowned, trying to think of what else he could to ask. “What about this one . . . how did Elvis die?”
“Oh, come on everyone knows that.” Seeing that he was waiting for her to continue, she answered, “Well, most people agree that he had a heart attack caused by too many prescription drugs.”
“Too many prescription drugs?” he sounded surprised. “How do you do that if a doctor prescribes them?”
“If you take too much of any drug, prescribed or not, it is harmful.”
“So, if that’s the case, why would the doctor let you take them in the first place?”
Celine found his response rather curious, but then there are people who have more faith in doctors than others. And maybe this Elvis wouldn’t want to focus so much on the real Elvis’s prescription drug problem considering the resemblance. “That’s what doctors do: figure out what’s wrong with you, then dole out medication to make you feel better. Sometimes it works, when taken correctly, but doctors don’t know everything. I think people these days take too much medicine. There are ways of taking care of yourself naturally without all of the chemicals.” She then noticed Elvis looking at her as if he’s never considered this before. Celine herself wondered why she was being so adamant with someone she barely knew. “Of course, people didn’t really talk about all of that in the ‘70s.”
Elvis thought about what she said for a moment before moving on to a different topic. “So, how do you know so much about ‘Elvis’ if he died when you were three?”
“Most people know a little something about him. He still has quite a following after all this time
. Just think of the thousands of people who visit Graceland every year.”
“Thousands?”
“Well, at least that His wife and daughter seem to do a pretty good job of managing everything. His estate actually makes more money than most living people do.”
Elvis fidgeted with one of the rings on his fingers and looked toward the counter where the coffee started brewing. His friends had remained silent, listening intently to the conversation ever since hearing about “the death.” Joe finally broke the silence by asking, “I thought Elvis and Pricilla were divorced.”
Celine glanced briefly at Joe. “Yeah, technically, but he was only married once.” She continued with her example, “And then there’s people like you who continue to perform his music.”
“Do young people like yourself really appreciate this music?” As Celine considered, he added, “I mean sometimes I wonder.”
“I think young people appreciate the history of how rock music took off and influenced the popular music of today. Elvis was a big part of that.” She paused trying to organize her thoughts. “Elvis was unique; there wasn’t anyone quite like him before and no one really like him since.” Celine looked around the diner again. “You know this reminds me of that picture that’s set in a diner—oh, what is called . . . Boulevard of Broken Dreams; have you seen it?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“It’s interesting. I think it’s a painting, but I don’t know who did it. It has Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Humphrey Bogart sitting in a diner or restaurant with a long counter. It could be a bar, but I always thought it looked more like a diner. Anyway, Elvis is standing behind the counter, with Monroe and Dean sitting on stools, while Bogart is standing off to the side. I think there’s a song about that too.”
“Elvis Presley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Humphrey Bogart. In a picture.”
Celine nodded.
Elvis contemplated this for a moment. “Why is it called Boulevard of
Broken Dreams?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe because they each had more of their dreams left than they were able to realize before leaving this world.
Or maybe they became so famous that their dreams didn’t turn out the way they wanted. But they were all legends.”
Elvis closed his eyes a moment. The sound of that last word seemed unbelievable to him. After such a long week on the road and wondering if it was all still worth it, here came this girl with these incredible stories. Where was she from? How much of it was true? “A legend, huh,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone.
“Coffee’s ready.” Joe found a paper cup and a lid and started pouring. Celine got up from the booth and walked over to the counter. “Thank you for taking the time to do this. I really appreciate it. Again, I’m sorry for interrupting anything.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Joe smiled briefly. “We always enjoy illuminating conversations.”
Celine didn’t quite know how to take the observation—was that good or bad? She turned toward Elvis and said, “Good luck with your touring.”
“Thank you. You take it easy out there, Darlin’.”
Celine smiled and moved toward the door. Then suddenly, she stopped. Glancing back at the guy in the light blue jumpsuit and yellow-tinted sunglasses she said, “You know, you do kinda look like him—more so than any other.”
With that, she disappeared through the door, back into the night.
THE SALVATION OF SANCHO
ROBERT S. GARBACZ
The Abyss. It is a place of dangers untold, of promises broken, of lives shattered. Sleet always falls on the dark streets in a grey twilight that lacks both the illumination of day and the pristine beauty of night. Sleet falls, and steam rises, a cold greenish-tinged steam that takes the bite out of the chill, turning what could be invigorating goosebumps for some into mere weakness and apathy. Monsters lurk about; hate-filled seers who are themselves rarely if ever seen—but who are the reason that many men and women never come home after short and simple errands.
There are few towns in The Abyss in the sense in which we think of them. Houses sometimes cluster together, yearning for warmth and safety, but rarely finding any. It is never day, so people are always afraid of those who go out at night—thieves and murderers and vile, leering drunkards. And ever, the thing most to be feared is The King, who fosters the darkness while wasting away among his pale piles of ill-lit hoarded gold.
In the very center of the Abyss, there sits a cozy pub with a fireplace in the left-hand wall. And it is within this pub that we find our tale—beginning at the end and slightly to the left, as it were, but beginning nonetheless. The pub could be said to be the Beginning, perhaps, or at least the beginning of Story, or maybe perhaps only the beginning of some stories. It is certainly the beginning of this one.
THE STORY CAME IN, as it were, to interrupt a delightful conversation on the Abyss itself, one of the very favorite topics of most of the Pub’s patrons. Chesterton was concluding a long oration on The Abyss as the Heart of Adventure and the Center of God’s Creation, to the great and obvious disappointment of Lewis (who had secretly hoped he’d go on eternally) and the equally great and obvious relief of Tolkien (who’d openly feared the same).
“Perhaps. In any case, the Abyss will be part of anything seen by fallen Man, at least until the Redemption is complete. And who knows what that will be like, or when it will come? Certainly no one on this ball of dirt,” Dostoevsky added from the dark corner of the room where he habitually stooped, generally in conversation with a few bedraggled locals.
“Hear, hear!” Wodehouse chimed in.
“But we can guess, can’t we,” Lewis rejoined. “Even Plato’s chained souls could play guessing-games in the dark. We can dream. What is it you said, Tollers? ‘West of the Moon, east of the Sun?’”
“At the moment, I rather more agree with Dostoevsky. But you’re right, of course, even if you are butchering a perfectly serviceable poem for ground-beef inspirational philosophy.”
But of course, talk can only last so long in the Abyss before it is interrupted. It is one of the Laws, and one that doesn’t bend easily. In this case, a soaked and mud-covered figure half-fell from the door and stumbled to the nearest table. The left side of his shirt was stained in blood above his heart, and his face was flecked with specks that appeared also to be dried blood.
“Am I dead?”
“How the hell would I know,” Chesterton replied. “Some of us are, some not. The Pub is a place of stories, not men—and stories tend to outlive their authors.”
“Well, can I have a pint of bitter?”
“And cheese!” Chesterton roared. “And beef while you’re at it! You look like one of those silly modern aesthetics. Is it not written: ‘a man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry?’”
The man was given relative silence while he ate, but the silence was strained, anticipatory—the publicans had a finely-honed nose for a story, and this man faintly reeked of mystery and adventure. When he showed no indication of beginning for himself, Chesterton leapt at the chance to introduce the “Epic Tragicomedy of The Man Who Does Not Know if He Lives,” gesturing with his unsheathed sword-cane while boasting that it would be a tale “suitable for every entertainment, yet containing therein no less than seventy-eight distinct morals.”
The man had nowhere to run to, and had had enough recent bad experience with blades to last him for eternity. He disclaimed (to no avail) that his story was far more tragic than they might be expecting. At last, he began to tell his story.
MY STORY BEGINS—and if you want to pelt me with beer bottles for this, I’m not sure I can blame you, but it is the simple truth—my story begins on a dark, cold and stormy night. I was sensibly huddled in front of a warm fire in my house. Predictably enough, the Preacher wasn’t. He was outside in the rain, his mind set firmly on some maniacal course of mercy by his ever-present moralistic zeal.
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As illogical as it was, it happened again—I joined him. He was off to the darkest regions of the Abyss, there to bring God’s light to those who are the most needy. And I, apparently having nothing better to do, was to tag along as the lukewarm and hesitant sidekick of his mad quest.
In point of fact, our friendship is the oddest of my life. I’m not made up of the same stuff as saints or zealots. I’d quite prefer to live a quiet and reasonably happy life, striving to bother fewer people than I help. The call of Christ is more than that, but I’m a patient man, and rather lazy. I sometimes work at loving my friends, which I’m bad enough at, but that’s about it. I’ll let the Good Lord teach me to clothe the poor and love my enemies in His good time.
But when you’re around the Preacher it’s hard to let well enough alone. He’s the only man I know who manages to simultaneously inspire and disturb just about everyone he meets. His intensity is magnetic, fascinating, and just about as scary as the Hell he so often preaches about. Sometimes, I used to wonder if he hasn’t somehow left his humanity behind in his ever-present quest to please God.
I think the worst moment was when his beloved wife died. He preached at her funeral, of course. When he was done, I think his were the only dry eyes in the house. It was a sermon of joy, of rejoicing not only in the cancer that finally took his wife away to her Eternal Comfort, but also in God’s Providence that gave every Man exactly what was needed. The Preacher had been given a wife to provide comfort and joy for twelve years, and now she had been taken away so that the Preacher could learn to rely only on God’s comfort. He ended the sermon confident that God would preserve his joy, presenting him a powerful testimony of His faithfulness to the world.
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 17