Gil's All Fright Diner

by A. Lee Martinez

  The wrinkled, old teacher cleared her throat.

  "May I ask what your doing?"

  Tammy closed her notebook. "Nuthin'."

  "May I see that please?"

  Sighing, Tammy handed over her sacred notebook. Mrs.

  Richards glanced through the pages. She had no idea of the importance of what she looked at. To such an unenlightened fool, the secrets of the universe were little more than the scrawlings of a stupid, teenage girl. It helped that Tammy made it a practice to dot all her "i"s and "j"s with little hearts and smiley faces. The hearts were those ripped from the breasts of all foolish enough to stand in her way. The smiley faces just made the notes prettier.

  "What did I tell you about this?"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am."

  "I told you I'd take this away if I saw it again."

  "I'm sorry. I'll put it away."

  "This is the last time." The old hag looked down her nose at Tammy. "This is study hall. I want to see some studying. Am I making myself clear, young lady?"

  Tammy struggled not to scowl and managed a not-quite-hidden frown. "Yes, Mrs. Richards."

  "Very good."

  Mrs. Richards returned to her desk in the front of the room.

  "Uck-fay oo-yay, oo-yay old-ay at-bay," Tammy grumbled.

  The slate blackboard shuddered, and a single long crack split down its middle.

  The class filled with murmuring students. Mrs. Richards shushed everyone with a hard glare and explained away the incident as the foundation settling.

  Chad, who sat three rows away from Tammy, passed a note through a chain of students.

  "Are we doing anything tonight?" it inquired.

  She sent back her reply. "Yes. And bring your mom's good silverware."

  He read it and grimaced.

  Tammy reached under her desk and pulled out her English book. She pretended to read it while she mused on the approaching fate of the world in general, and Mrs. Richards in particular.

  Rockwood didn't have a movie theater or an IHOP or a strip mall. But it did have two churches, a ramshackle bar, and last (but certainly not least) Wacky Willie's Deluxe Goofy Golf, a barren landscape of wilted ferns and plastic flamingos with peeling paint. Wacky Willie had added the "Deluxe" when finally ridding the thirteenth hole windmill of a stubborn family of bats after a great and terrible struggle that would forever be known as "The Fearsome Bat War of Rockwood County" to Willie, but was usually referred to as "That Time Willie Had To Get Rabies Shots" by everyone else. At night, the lights would go on and every June bug and mosquito (and once a swarm of locusts) in a hundred miles would flock to worship before their halogen altar with the inevitable unfortunate hair tangling incident. Insect graveyards littered the ground around the lights. Wacky Willie's Deluxe Goofy Golf was broken down and overpriced, but as it was the only activity available within fifty miles (other than church socials, heavy drinking, and junkyard rat shoots) it had become a thriving recreational hub of Rockwood. And any sort of hub in Rockwood was bound to have a rich and unusual history.

  There was the ghost of Herbert Smythe. A lifetime devotee of Wacky Willie's Goofy Golf, Herbert's heart had given out on the eighteenth hole as he prepared to shoot the final hole-in-one of a perfect game. Popular legend went that on quiet nights when the desert was still and no one was watching, Herbert would appear and play a round or two.

  There was also the time that Joey Hill lost his ball in the mouth of the plywood alligator of hole sixteen and nearly got his arm bitten off as the reptile seemingly came to life for one impossible minute. Hole sixteen still swallowed a couple of balls a night, and these snacks, never to be seen again, were always its to keep.

  There was that month when the purple people eater of hole four had spontaneously combusted and burned for one solid month before extinguishing just as spontaneously. The fire left the eater relatively unharmed, save for the word "Repent" scorched over its three eyes.

  These incidents were a mere sampling of the many inexplicable events at Wacky Willie's. Willie had pamphlets made for the tourists. He'd even sold one which, at an asking price of five bucks, was something of an inexplicable event in itself.

  Given its history, it was to be expected that Earl and Duke might be drawn to Wacky Willie's. This had little, if anything at all, to do with the law of Anomalous Phenomena Attraction and everything to do with the law of crushing boredom.

  The pickup pulled into the gravel parking lot.

  "This is stupid," Earl grunted.

  Duke got out and walked toward the slanted wooden hut where customers rented their balls and clubs.

  Earl stuck his head out the window and shouted. "Why can't we just go get a beer?"

  The werewolf kept walking.

  "Christ Almighty." Grumbling, the vampire climbed out of the truck and ran after him. "They got a bar, Duke."

  "I'm trying not to drink, Earl."

  "Oh, c'mon, one beer ain't gonna do nuthin'. And even if it does, so you sleep with Loretta. You could probably use a good lay anyway."

  They stepped up to the admission shack. Wacky Willie himself sat in the thin, unvarnished box. His hair and beard were long and stringy. A thick mustache hid his mouth. His skin, what little of it that was visible under his woolly face, was pockmarked and flaking. His mustache writhed about in a decidedly non-wacky way as he smacked his lips at his two new customers.

  "Two please," Duke requested.

  "Twelve bucks."

  "Twelve bucks?" Earl grumbled.

  Willie nodded. His eyes bounced up and down a few moments longer than his head. "Got a discount plan. Fifty bucks for ten games in advance."

  "We just need two."

  Methodically, Willie set two clubs, two colored golf balls, and a scorecard before them.

  "Got a pencil?" Earl asked.

  Willie shrugged.

  "How are we supposed to keep score?"

  Willie offered another, less enthusiastic shrug.

  Earl muttered something along the lines of "overpriced shit-hole."

  "You boys care for a pamphlet? Only five dollars." Somewhere, deep in Willie's eyes, a spark of life shone.

  "I'll give you a quarter," Duke bartered.

  "Two dollars," Willie returned.

  "Fifty cents."

  "Deal." He handed over a pamphlet and pocketed his change.

  Duke passed the pamphlet to Earl as they proceeded to the first hole. It was a busy night. Three families were already on the course. The werewolf set his yellow ball on the tee while Earl had a seat on a wobbly, splinter-ridden bench and leafed through the brochure.

  "Says here nineteen people have been struck by lightning while playing hole seven."

  "That a fact?"

  Duke tapped his ball. It bounced across the torn, uneven felt, between the mummy's legs, and round a sharp corner to fall in the cup.

  "Lucky shot," Earl remarked as he set his own tee.

  He slapped the ball with his putter. The green sphere shot in the air, ricocheted off the mummy's knee, and landed in a potted fern.

  Duke chuckled.

  "That doesn't count. I was just warming up."

  Earl set the ball back down and gave it a light tap. It rolled a few inches down the green before swinging back and settling to rest by Earl's feet.

  "Do over."

  "Excuse me."

  The ghost of Herbert Smythe, who Earl had been stubbornly pretending not to see, stepped forward.

  "If you want to make this hole, give the ball a light tap and bounce it right here. Even if you don't make it, you'll set yourself up for an easy par two."

  "You should listen to the man," Duke agreed.

  Though they couldn't touch ghosts, werewolves could detect spirits. Duke could feel a subtle chill in the air and perceive an unnatural hazy outline where Herbert stood. The spirit's voice was a soft whisper carried by the breeze.

  On Earl's next stroke, the ball got trapped in a pocket of ripped felt.

  "This can be a
tricky one," Herbert consoled. "You fellas don't mind if I play through, do you?"

  Duke and Earl granted their permission, and Herbert efficiently scored a hole in one. "It's all physics and geometry. 'Course, I've had a lot of practice." He balanced his ectoplas-mic golf ball on the tip of his phantom club. "Y'all have a pleasant evening."

  By the fourth hole, it became obvious that the scorecard was completely unnecessary. Duke conquered each green with a single stroke of his rusty putter whereas Earl had yet to sink a single putt before the six stroke limit forced him to move on. His mood steadily worsened even as he protested that miniature golf wasn't even a real sport and that if there were only a bowling alley in town he'd show Duke a thing or two. Duke nodded as if he agreed, but he'd seen Earl bowl.

  Earl flipped through the pamphlet as Duke started on hole five.

  "Hey! Hey, guys!"

  Tammy and Chad stood by the admission shack. She stood on her tiptoes, waving both arms over her head while Chad forked over twelve bucks to Wacky Willie.

  "Shit." Earl gritted his teeth. "Just what I need."

  Tammy left her boyfriend's side and bounded toward them with a girlish skip. She wore a pleated skirt, a white cotton blouse, and simple black shoes with knee high stockings. At the arc of each skip, the skirt would rise to expose a few inches of her taut thighs. Neither Earl nor Duke could recall what Chad was wearing.

  "Hi." Her smile beamed brighter than the course lights.

  Earl glanced up from his pamphlet just long enough to nod at her. Duke cleared his throat and spat in a clay pot. "Hey."

  She scooted beside Earl. "Remember me?"

  "Uh . . . yeah. It's Tanya, right?"

  "Tammy, silly." She lightly bopped his shoulder.

  Earl sidled away from her.

  "So what are you guys doin'?"

  "Playin' golf."

  She bent over to adjust her stockings. Earl found himself transfixed by her fingers fiddling with that little band of elastic.

  "Who's winning?"

  Duke's ball rattled in the cup, announcing another hole-in-one.

  "We aren't keeping score," Earl replied with a frown.

  "Cool."

  Chad appeared and handed her a club and ball.

  "I got you blue, babe. Just like you like."

  "Yeah. Thanks. So, hey I've got an idea. Why don't we join you?"

  "We're kind'a in the middle of the game," Earl said.

  "So what? I thought you weren't keeping score."

  He looked into her eyes and tried to change her mind with a little mesmerism. "You don't want to play with us."

  "Sure, we do."

  Earl focused his will sharp as a knife. "No, you don't."

  "Oh, c'mon. It'll be fun. I promise."

  The vampire relented. His powers of hypnotism never were reliable. He didn't practice enough, and whenever he tried, it always gave him a headache.

  Tammy brought the full, terrifying force of her dimples and batting eyelashes down upon him. Against such powers, he was helpless.

  "Yeah. Sure."

  She hopped up and down again, bouncing in all the right ways. "Great."

  "Uhmm, can I talk to you a minute, baby?" Chad asked.

  Her smile instantly became a scowl that just as quickly turned back into a smile. "Okay."

  The teenagers walked away and began a hushed argument.

  "Just great," Earl groaned.

  "Quit complaining."

  "That's easy for you to say."

  "Yeah. It's gotta be terrible having a hot seventeen-year-old girl crawling all over you. Boy, am I glad I'm not you."

  "It ain't as much fun as it sounds."

  "Oh, I'm sure it isn't. As a matter of fact, if I remember right, aren't teenage nymphos part of Dante's sixth circle of Hell?"

  Duke chuckled.

  "Shut the fuck up."

  Earl didn't expect the werewolf to understand. In theory, having an overpowering sexual aura might seem like a perk. In reality, it was just another hassle. He'd learned that the hard way. Not long after becoming undead, he'd discovered the talent. Most people weren't sensitive enough to pick up on it, but when somebody did, especially female somebodies, it was an easy score. He'd catch someone who couldn't take her eyes off him and know he didn't have to do a damn thing to get laid except introduce himself. Sometimes not even that. It was great. For about a month.

  Then the drawbacks surfaced. He could never be certain a woman was genuinely interested in him or the vampire in him. Which really wouldn't have made much difference except that not all the women drawn to him were as easy-on-the-eyes as Tammy. And jealous boyfriends and husbands abounded. Earl had been shot, stabbed, dragged nine miles over rough road, and one especially sour husband had even employed a chain saw with admirable skill. None of which had seriously hurt Earl, but few chicks were worth getting run through by a Black & Decker Three-Speed Lumber Master.

  Tammy might have been one of them.

  She ended the argument with Chad by simply ignoring him. She strode away even as he waved his arms in protest. Chad sneered, but it was clear he didn't have a vote in the matter.

  "Who's turn is it?" she asked.

  "Ladies first," Earl said.

  "That's so sweet. Thanks."

  She bent over the tee and wiggled her bottom at him. Or maybe just in his general direction, he tried to convince himself.

  Calling forth the willpower only available to someone who had passed through the veil of death, Earl looked away.

  An unpleasant mutter rose from Chad's throat.

  The next fourteen holes stretched half-an-hour into twenty years. Earl read his pamphlet and stared into the lights and studied his golf ball until he knew every dimple by heart. He looked anywhere and everywhere Tammy wasn't in a vain effort to discourage her. Somehow, she managed to still fall into his line of vision. It was uncanny how she seemed to be wherever he casually glanced. She gracefully glided to and fro, here and there, bending over this and kneeling beside that and adjusting her stockings and smoothing her skirt to terrifying effect. Admittedly, Earl wasn't putting forth all his efforts in resisting, but the girl knew her body and how to use it. He caught himself staring more than once.

  So did Duke. The werewolf's crooked smile never left his face.

  Chad made a futile attempt at sticking by his girlfriend's side, but he was constantly outmaneuvered, always one step behind.

  The last ball rattled in the last hole, a three-foot-high volcano.

  "That was fun," Tammy said. "We'd like to play again, but Chad and me got things to do."

  Earl breathed a sigh of relief.

  She reached out and touched him for the second time of the evening. It wasn't much. Just a light hand on the small of his back. Enough to send a shudder down his spine to his nether regions.

  "See you later," she said.

  "Later," Chad agreed through clenched teeth.

  The teenage couple returned their equipment to Wacky Willie. Earl and Duke were about to do the same when the ghost of Herbert Smythe appeared by their side.

  "Excuse me, but I couldn't help notice you scored a perfect game there, friend."

  Duke rolled his golf ball round and round his palm. "Wasn't that hard."

  "It's all luck anyway," Earl added.

  Herbert ignored him. "Anyway, as you have already probably guessed, I've been condemned to play this course until I score a perfect game. I've mastered all the holes, except number nine, and I was hoping . . ."

  "Sure."

  "Really. Thanks, I really appreciate this."

  "No problem."

  Tammy watched the werewolf give the ghost golf tips as the vampire pretended to read his pamphlet while casting regular glances up and down her figure.

  Tammy had always assumed that a vampire would be harder to seduce than a regular man. Certainly, a few degrees harder than teenage boys. He wasn't. Earl offered some token resistance, but that was all it was. He was hers whenever she wanted.
r />   She was tremendously disappointed.

  Yet she found herself intrigued as well, not by the vampire, but by the werewolf. Duke withstood her flirting assault better than anyone ever had. She caught him watching her from the corners of his eyes several times, but only when she was really looking for it and only, she suspected, because he didn't really care if she caught him.

  She wanted him. He was fat and rough, with callused hands and greasy hair, but she wanted him. She'd never wanted anyone before. She gave Chad a jump now and then to keep him in line, but that was a means to an end. She'd let Roger Simpkins get to third base one time, but that was only because he was Denise Calhoun's boyfriend. She'd found Earl interesting until realizing that being an immortal stalker of the night didn't make him any less of a stooge. She'd carried a brief crush on Boris Karloff before discovering he was a puss in real life. But never before had she felt what she felt for the werewolf in the leather jacket.

  But by night's end, he would either be dead or driven away. For the briefest of moments, she considered changing her plans, but no amount of wanton teenage lust could sway her from her sacred mission. Which was a terrible pity since she seriously entertained the notion of losing her virginity to him. Chad hardly counted. He was more of a chore than a sexual encounter and a short chore at that.

  "You ready to go, babe?" Chad asked.

  She nodded.

  They climbed onto Chad's motorcycle and peeled out of the parking lot.

  Once, Make Out Barn had been a haven of teenage activity. Wholly living up to its name, the worn old building played host to regular sessions of heavy petting and awkward groping. There were even one or two acts of genuine sex on the premises, though not nearly as many as locker-room boasts might lead one to believe. The barn was a place for certain people, namely those of surging hormones and acne-induced angst, preferably in groups of two, to get away from the endless hell that teenagers tend to perceive their lives to be until they grow up and realize that real hell generally strikes around middle age, when one discovers that life is either far too short or far too long.