A Stroll in the Park, part 2
The bright light inside the diner burns Gregory's eyes as he walks in out of the cold rainy night. His rheumy eyes glance about the place, taking in every detail. The restaurant is laid out with eight booths on the left, and the bar/counter on the right, and giant glass windows separating the denizens from the harsh world outside. The florescent lights above buzz loudly like a new-born house fly looking for a meal and a fuck.
The place is damn near empty except for an unkempt man in the last booth, wearing an old grey fedora that matches both the color and tattered look of his jacket, a hooker sleeping soundly with her head resting against the window, the waitress and the cook. His face is old with age and substance abuse, looking as though someone had melted off-white wax onto a bristled comb, with the ends of the hairs poking out. His eyes were red and defeated. He sat quietly, staring off into nothing over a full cup of coffee.
The waitress and cook were watching Gregory with a complete lack of interest except for maybe some mild agitation. Gregory took a seat at the second stool from the door and placed his hat on the table. The waitress shuffled slowly over to him like a mindless automaton. "Get you something?" She asked through smoke stained orange lips. Her eyes were only half open, almost appearing to be weighted down by the intense amount of eyeshadow she was wearing. She was slender, and old.
"Just a cup of coffee for now, please," Gregory replied. The cook, after hearing this, went back to slowly cleaning a cutting board. He was tall, sweaty, fat, and an albino. He was wearing a stained "white" tank-top, a circular white paper hat, bluejeans, and a stained "white" apron. The waitress brought Gregory his coffee with haste so she could get back to doing nothing.
"So as I was saying," the cook said to the waitress. "The only reason people ever liked Abraham Lincoln was cause he freed da slaves. Now, da ting about dat is, he only did it so's he'd look good and so's people would want ta fight da sout'. Da sout' didn' secede because of no slavery. Dey seceded because dey was bein' misrepresented in congress. But to dis day, everyone tinks it was cause of slavery."
The waitress, showing the most expression seen as of yet in the diner, blandly replied. "Yeah, but that's no excuse as to why anyone would want to keep that flag. Regardless of what the secession of the south actually stood for, they still stood for slavery. Its a link to a horrible part of their history, and anyone who would want to keep that is a racist."
"Well, in dat case, why don't we change da American flag, huh? I mean, slavery dint exist in just da south, ya know. Dis country started wid slavery and went on fer a hundret years wid slavery. And, if dat ain't good enough, why not change da American flag fer da Native Americans?" The waitress had no reply for this. "Dis country is founded on corruption and oppression. It was formed out of it from damn England, and it is da only constant we have tru-out dis nation's entire history. Sure, dere were some good ideas at da beginning dat are still around today, and I'm quite thankful for dum. But da good certainly don't outweigh da bad."
"What the fuck is going on?" Gregory asked himself. He couldn't understand the idea that an intellectual debate was being held in a pit-stain like this place. He looked around at the two other people in the diner, neither of which had moved what-so-ever. The only movement in the diner was from the waitress and the cook. He felt as if he had stepped into a sort of time freeze (which was unheard of in this part of the world) where the diner staff were working outside of, and he was just an outside observer.
Gregory's skin crawled, as though a thousand tiny insects were crawling all over his body, and in walked a man. A man wearing a white trench coat, white hat, white suit, and white shoes. The band around his hat was red, the buttons on his coat were red, and his tie was red. He took off his hat slowly, and raised his face to meet everyone in the room. He had a wide, cheshire grin. "Excuse me, but is this Dehlia's Diner?" he slithered. His skin was tight and pale, his hair was jet black, and his eyebrows were arched inhumanly. He was beautiful.
"Uh...Yes. Yes it is." The waitress stumbled. "Do something for ya?" Gregory looked back around to see the time freeze had stopped for just long enough to wake up the hooker and draw the attentions of both her and the old man in the back to the new arrival. They now sat frozen again, eyes forward.
"Just a cup of coffee," he said as he took a long graceful step in. "Black."
He sat down on the fourth stool from the door, one down from Gregory. The waitress brought his coffee, all the while watching the man with awe. He nodded thoughtfully, and everyone's gaze quickly shot somewhere else, as though they had been caught staring. Their attention was still on him, however.
"I thought that I'd find you here," the man said to Gregory, but without looking at him.
"I've never been in this place before in my life. How did you know you'd find me here?" Gregory said as smoothly as he could.
"Do you really need to ask?"
So much for smooth, Gregory thought. "No, I guess not. What do you want?"
"No pleasantries? No how've you been? No good to see you? No whatcha been up to? After all of these years, Gregori, I would have thought we could have come to some sort of mutual understanding - mild friendship, even." The man's eyes were on Gregory, but his face was still pointing straight.
"I don't go by that name anymore, Sam. Please don't call me that. Now, tell me: what do you want with me this time?" Gregory tried the impatiently cool approach, but his heart was pounded wildly.
Sam turned to speak to Gregory, a smile coyly wrapped around his face. "Fine, lets get to business, then."
The place is damn near empty except for an unkempt man in the last booth, wearing an old grey fedora that matches both the color and tattered look of his jacket, a hooker sleeping soundly with her head resting against the window, the waitress and the cook. His face is old with age and substance abuse, looking as though someone had melted off-white wax onto a bristled comb, with the ends of the hairs poking out. His eyes were red and defeated. He sat quietly, staring off into nothing over a full cup of coffee.
The waitress and cook were watching Gregory with a complete lack of interest except for maybe some mild agitation. Gregory took a seat at the second stool from the door and placed his hat on the table. The waitress shuffled slowly over to him like a mindless automaton. "Get you something?" She asked through smoke stained orange lips. Her eyes were only half open, almost appearing to be weighted down by the intense amount of eyeshadow she was wearing. She was slender, and old.
"Just a cup of coffee for now, please," Gregory replied. The cook, after hearing this, went back to slowly cleaning a cutting board. He was tall, sweaty, fat, and an albino. He was wearing a stained "white" tank-top, a circular white paper hat, bluejeans, and a stained "white" apron. The waitress brought Gregory his coffee with haste so she could get back to doing nothing.
"So as I was saying," the cook said to the waitress. "The only reason people ever liked Abraham Lincoln was cause he freed da slaves. Now, da ting about dat is, he only did it so's he'd look good and so's people would want ta fight da sout'. Da sout' didn' secede because of no slavery. Dey seceded because dey was bein' misrepresented in congress. But to dis day, everyone tinks it was cause of slavery."
The waitress, showing the most expression seen as of yet in the diner, blandly replied. "Yeah, but that's no excuse as to why anyone would want to keep that flag. Regardless of what the secession of the south actually stood for, they still stood for slavery. Its a link to a horrible part of their history, and anyone who would want to keep that is a racist."
"Well, in dat case, why don't we change da American flag, huh? I mean, slavery dint exist in just da south, ya know. Dis country started wid slavery and went on fer a hundret years wid slavery. And, if dat ain't good enough, why not change da American flag fer da Native Americans?" The waitress had no reply for this. "Dis country is founded on corruption and oppression. It was formed out of it from damn England, and it is da only constant we have tru-out dis nation's entire history. Sure, dere were some good ideas at da beginning dat are still around today, and I'm quite thankful for dum. But da good certainly don't outweigh da bad."
"What the fuck is going on?" Gregory asked himself. He couldn't understand the idea that an intellectual debate was being held in a pit-stain like this place. He looked around at the two other people in the diner, neither of which had moved what-so-ever. The only movement in the diner was from the waitress and the cook. He felt as if he had stepped into a sort of time freeze (which was unheard of in this part of the world) where the diner staff were working outside of, and he was just an outside observer.
Gregory's skin crawled, as though a thousand tiny insects were crawling all over his body, and in walked a man. A man wearing a white trench coat, white hat, white suit, and white shoes. The band around his hat was red, the buttons on his coat were red, and his tie was red. He took off his hat slowly, and raised his face to meet everyone in the room. He had a wide, cheshire grin. "Excuse me, but is this Dehlia's Diner?" he slithered. His skin was tight and pale, his hair was jet black, and his eyebrows were arched inhumanly. He was beautiful.
"Uh...Yes. Yes it is." The waitress stumbled. "Do something for ya?" Gregory looked back around to see the time freeze had stopped for just long enough to wake up the hooker and draw the attentions of both her and the old man in the back to the new arrival. They now sat frozen again, eyes forward.
"Just a cup of coffee," he said as he took a long graceful step in. "Black."
He sat down on the fourth stool from the door, one down from Gregory. The waitress brought his coffee, all the while watching the man with awe. He nodded thoughtfully, and everyone's gaze quickly shot somewhere else, as though they had been caught staring. Their attention was still on him, however.
"I thought that I'd find you here," the man said to Gregory, but without looking at him.
"I've never been in this place before in my life. How did you know you'd find me here?" Gregory said as smoothly as he could.
"Do you really need to ask?"
So much for smooth, Gregory thought. "No, I guess not. What do you want?"
"No pleasantries? No how've you been? No good to see you? No whatcha been up to? After all of these years, Gregori, I would have thought we could have come to some sort of mutual understanding - mild friendship, even." The man's eyes were on Gregory, but his face was still pointing straight.
"I don't go by that name anymore, Sam. Please don't call me that. Now, tell me: what do you want with me this time?" Gregory tried the impatiently cool approach, but his heart was pounded wildly.
Sam turned to speak to Gregory, a smile coyly wrapped around his face. "Fine, lets get to business, then."