Onions for the Wicked (What Alan Didn't Do)

By Richard Davidson

(Original title: Creepy Day Moron)

George was left under the table at Ludwig’s, like so much bad luggage. He’d been zipping his mind into plastic bags for years, and now the company was going out of business. He hated everything, and nothing, in no particular order, but tonight he was drunk; far too busy counting wads of gum stuck to the aggressive particle-board underbelly of this Formica giant that watched over him so carefully; far too involved to notice the man studying him.

Alan looked thoughtlessly at the pathetic drunk, who had been abandoned by his useless, cancerous friends, and he almost felt a hairful of pity, instead motioning to the waitress that he would like coffee, and killing a fly.

No, there was no use indulging a wasteful emotion like that, when Alan had so many to choose from. He sat comfortlessly on a chrome and orange vinyl stool, careful not to let his forearms touch the greasy counter. He didn’t need to think. Nobody did, according to McClannahan, and damned if Alan didn’t think he had a point.

The waitress took her time, of course, just as Alan had expected. You learn to plan for these things, and Alan unfolded the New York Times, and read it with one eye, keeping the other alert to movement in the room, as was his usual practice. A tiny clock in Alan’s head ticked resolutely towards the exact countdown, and just as the alarm began to ring, there she was, with his coffee.

She was a swarthy girl, tall and robust, and could have probably beaten the hell out of any six men Alan knew. He’d never been so impressed in all his life.

“Ya need anything else?” she queried, alert to the fact he’d never seen a menu.

“No. Can you leave the pot?”

She looked hurt. How could he doubt for a second that she would keep his cup filled with fresh, steaming coffee, when it was obvious she was a professional? He immediately regretted his choice of words, and quickly said, “No, that’s OK, never mind; force of habit...” but the words sounded weak, and ineffectual, landing on a bleak moonscape and dying in the dry air.

She looked away, staring blindly out the window into the parking lot, and several invisible words dangled briefly, and then dribbled down her chin, and onto her blouse. She walked back to the kitchen, without saying a word.

Alan sipped at the ceramic mug. This coffee was far too strong, and older than Alan’s socks. It clung to the side of the cup, and he could actually feel it staining his teeth as it found it’s way to his eager belly. It was possibly the worst cup of coffee he’d ever tasted, but it was hot, and taste had never been Alan’s biggest concern. He would’ve smiled, but Alan didn’t do that.

“It’s cold down here,” came George’s complaint, on schedule, but it was far too early to make a move.

“Relax,” growled Alan, “you’ll be somewhere warm soon enough.”

George made some banging noises, as he fought to get his legs in a more comfortable position.

“Whaddya mean?” he muttered, falling asleep before Alan could answer.

The waitress was back, and she had some kid’s placemats, and some crayons in her hands.

“I thought we could color.”

Alan was amazed once again. Why in God’s name would this woman think for a second that a man like him would color with her? He almost laughed, but Alan didn’t do that, either. He was even more amazed when he took one of the placemats from her, and three crayons; red, blue and yellow.

That’s all anybody really needs, after all, the primary colors, and for a moment he thought she was a genius, and then he wondered what color a duck should be.

Just like that.

He knew any duck he colored would be some rabid obscenity, not fit for existence on this planet, but he didn’t want to let his ego get in the way of art. Besides, he knew he would never meet a woman like this again, which, in all probability was a good thing, but nevertheless, he would enjoy these strange, dreamlike moments in his life, as McClannahan had always said.

He liked this girl. She didn’t ask all the annoying questions, like where ya from, what happened to your eye, what’s in the suitcase chained to your wrist, who’s your momma, whatever happened to Baby Jane... She was more down to earth than that.

She was a breath of fresh air into the smoldering breadbox of Alan’s life, at least for a moment. She offered him an onion, but he politely declined. He hadn’t been thinking about kissing her or anything, he just didn’t like onions. He wasn’t sure if he should mention that, and then thought better of it.

George stirred once more, under the table, but that too was right on schedule. He wasn’t due to awaken for another hour and 17 minutes. Alan had counted on everything except the coloring, and the waitress had made her duck into a beautiful Mallard, using crayons Alan had never even imagined, not that he was prone to imagining things like that, either.

“Think you could color me another cup of coffee?” Alan was trying to be glib, but somehow sounded morbid. The waitress was used to this sort of thing by now, and had easily rejected all reasonable manner of thinking long ago. She simply got up and walked to the coffee burners, sweating the cold grime of yellowed laundry. She poured him another cup, twice as viscous and deadly as the first.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked politely.

“Hell, I don’t mind if you burn the place down, long as you tip me,” she said, smiling for the first time.

Alan would have smiled back, but Alan didn’t do that. Maybe some piece of his heart was smiling, but in all honesty, we’ll never know that for sure. Alan had nothing to smile about.

A very sweaty man dressed in white, and covered in grease walked deliberately up to the waitress.

“I’m calling it a night, OK?” it didn’t sound like a question.

“OK,” she responded obligatorily.

Alan had never heard that word before, but he was sure there must be such a thing. It didn’t matter, anyway, and the cook turned out the kitchen light, pulled a ratty hooded sweatshirt over his head, and walked down the back hall, jingling car keys. McClannahan would’ve liked this place.

At quarter past twelve, a cop walked in, right on schedule. Alan sat quietly, drinking his coffee and smoking, as the waitress got up to talk to him. He was a very old cop, who had seen better days. He looked down at George’s legs, protruding from one of the booths.

“That guy tip you?” he asked, concerned.

“His friends took good care of me,” she answered, and his severe look lightened just a bit.

“Well, he ain’t drivin’...” the cop’s voice wandered off somewhere by itself.

“How’s your coffee tonight?” he eyed the bubbling tar on the burner.

“Fresh and hot, like always,” she told him, actually believing what she was saying, through some small miracle we may never understand.

“Well, fill ‘er up,” he said, handing her an ancient thermos.

Suddenly, Alan was very curious. Did this mean she would actually brew a fresh pot? He could think of nothing else, until she reached into a shelf that was obscured from his view, and produced another steaming pot of mud. So she had four burners, not the two Alan could readily see. Now it was starting to make sense. Perhaps she brewed coffee before she went home at night, and let it steep all day. Alan had the strangest feeling she just kept using the same coffee over and over again, using some magical force to keep her from running out. After all, he couldn’t see an urn, or brewing device of any kind.

Alan would have been surprised to know, the cop was thinking pretty much the same thing. He’d been coming here for years, and never seen anybody brew coffee, and yet, there was always coffee in the pots. Of course, he never stayed long, and Ludwig’s didn’t get very much business any more, ever since they opened a mall, where you could get coffee for $5.00 a cup, served in Styrofoam. This cop didn’t much care for that mall, but what could he do? He’d be retiring soon, and getting the hell out of this awful town, once and for all.

He and his wife had traveled by map for many years, sending away for postcards from all the places they’d pretend to go. They drew lines to all the places they wished to see, and stuck tiny flags in the ones they had postcards of. The internet had ruined their game for awhile, because it was much to easy to get souvenirs from all over the world, but they simply made the rule “no internet,” and the game was fun again. She cheated quite a bit, but he honestly had no idea. He was a smart cop, but a fairly stupid husband. That happens sometimes. Chalk it up to feminine wile.

The waitress filled the thermos, and traded it for a rumpled dollar bill. Under the table, George was opening his eyes, seeing the world pulse in and out of focus like an Andy Warhol movie. He didn’t know why his socks were wet, but he knew he was still Lutheran, and had never been to France. It would soon be time for George to awaken, and face his destiny, but first the cop would walk slowly out the door, looking carefully at Alan, but saying nothing, and out into the strangling night air.

Alan laid a ten on the counter.

“It’s been very nice meeting you,” he said to the tall, robust waitress with all sincerity. He would have smiled, but Alan didn’t do that. He walked over to where George was still laying under the table.

“Time to get up, sport,” he prodded him lightly with his shoe.

“Wha-” “wha-” George sputtered violently for a moment, squinting his eyes as he banged his head on the table, causing a bottle of ketchup to fall into the sugar caddie.

“Who are you?” he asked Alan, rubbing his head.

“Your friends asked me to make sure you were all right, and see that you got home OK,” Alan glowed with generosity.

George was very confused. If his friends had cared about him getting home OK, which was highly unlikely, wouldn’t one of them have stayed? Surely they wouldn’t ask a stranger to watch over him...

“Do you know James?” George asked, with swirling vapidity in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, hey I don’t wanna talk about James, man, let’s get outta here.”

Alan extended his hand to George, who hit his head on the table again as he got to his feet, causing the ketchup bottle to smash graciously into the floor, imploding from the bottom up, leaving only a jagged neck. The waitress sat quietly eating an onion on a little chair behind the register. She had a pencil behind her ear, and it was obvious to all but those rare, lucky bastards who’ve never worked in restaurants that she was balancing the night’s books.

She followed the two men out the door, which she locked, and turning her back to the night, she extinguished the outdoor lights. She lit a joint she’d been saving all day, and using a cylindrical key, she opened the juke box, and clicked a small silver lever 75 times. She closed it back up, stood up, and began punching buttons as “Jesus is Just All Right With Me,” by the Doobie Brothers filled the sad air of the diner. She would always remember the strange man with the briefcase chained to his wrist.

Months later, CNN and all the networks would crowd this hellish diner, asking questions about what kind of men George and Alan were, and how she felt about what they did, but for now, there was ketchup to mop up, as Alan’s car flowed, quiet as a rattlesnake through the Nevada desert. Brainwashing George would probably take about four or five hours, as he seemed to be remarkably open to suggestion, and somewhat dense. That would give Alan time to kill something for dinner, build a nice fire, and maybe even drink the wine he’d been saving. There would be baseball on the radio tonight, and tomorrow the training would begin.

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