The Embers - 1. The Embers

The Embers

I stood in the entryway of the restaurant, rather disgusted by what I was witnessing. A cook was in clear view in the kitchen window picking his nose. He was really digging in there, and had a haunted, almost vacant look on his scruffy face. I wanted to turn around and walk away, but I couldn’t. For some reason, this place had drawn me.

"Can I help you?" a woman's voice diverted my attention. She was in her late teens, possibly early twenties, and still had a rash of angry acne on her cheeks. Her impossibly blonde hair with telltale brown roots was tied back in a ponytail. Her white shirt had light pink stains on the sides and arms, and her black apron was crusty and smeared with something white and pasty.

"Just me for a booth, please."

"This way," she said, grabbing a plastic covered menu with red edges and gesturing for me to follow.

She had an exaggerated sway to her walk, and the back of her neck sprouted even more violent-looking red pimples, swollen and ready to burst.

The waitress stopped at a table in the middle of the almost completely empty restaurant, and gave me an incredibly false smile. "This okay?"

I looked around and saw what I wanted, or at least thought I needed. It seemed to beckon me. "Can I sit over by the window? In that booth over there?" I said, pointing to a tiny two seater under a large plate glass window. The glass was adorned with brightly plumed turkeys and festooned with pictures of cornucopias spilling out piles of fruit. That was the spot I needed.

"I guess," she answered, with her hips jutting left and then right, almost comically. She marched over to the tiny booth, and lay down the menu next to a paper bundle which surely must contain silverware. I tried to follow and thank her for her meager efforts, but I was too slow. She pranced away without even giving me another fake grin.

The booth was cracked and worn. Even the lining beneath the split vinyl was threadbare and gray instead of white. I sat down carefully, hoping not to rile my skin to itch. I settled in and looked out the window, opaque from a layer of dust on the outside.

I wasn’t sure what drove me here. It was out there. I was sure of it. I sighed and averted my eyes.

As I picked up the menu, I noticed sticky spots on the yellowing plastic sheath. It smelled faintly of maple syrup, beef gravy, and rancid butter as I cracked it open.

A snippet of a tune long forgotten suddenly played in my head, "Remember the Embers." It was a tag line from both television and radio ads when the family restaurant had been a chain of stores. It was kind of jazzy and catchy so it stayed with you. "Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers." This wasn’t even an Embers, never had been. The restaurants had long since gone bankrupt. So why did that song play in my head?

It’s because you don’t remember, something in my head whispered. The whisper had an amused lilt to it, like my subconscious knew something I didn’t. Maybe it did.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Huh?” I answered stupidly, looking up to see a waiter in the same kind of white shirt that the woman had. He was wearing a clean black apron. There was a nametag pinned on the upper left side of his sturdy-looking chest. It said “The Friendly Chef” and underneath it was “My name is Darrin.”

“What would you like to drink?” he asked again, smiling at me.

In response, I peered more closely at him. His face was open and cheerful, handsome and friendly. His hair was a golden brown cropped close to his head. The waiter’s chin had a dimple and so did his cheeks. His honey colored eyes looked kind and a little indulgent.

“Sorry,” I stammered and flipped to the back of the menu. “What do you have?”

The waiter leaned over me and I smelled the clean tang of soap and a hint of Old Spice. He reached out and touched the back of my menu, pointing at the soft drink offerings. “We also have hot spiced apple cider.”

“That sounds good,” I said turning and almost brushing his cheek with my lips. “I-I’ll have the cider and a glass of water.”

The waiter stood up and nodded to me. “I’ll get it for you. Remember, I’m Darrin if you need anything.”

I watched as he crossed the room. His tight rear end swaying ever so slightly and his shoulders, broad and well-muscled, did so too. My breath caught in my throat for a second until a pang shot through my belly.

“You’re here to figure out what happened, not flirt with a cute waiter,” I mumbled to myself as I opened the menu back up and looked. There it was. A French Dip sandwich with fries and cole slaw. That seemed familiar for some reason, just like the handsome waiter seemed vaguely like an acquaintance of sorts.

Maybe this would work out. It’s possible this foray would illuminate the blackout hole I had in my memory. Perhaps going through all the steps would shine light and reveal what happened to make my life so painful and empty. It couldn’t hurt, I had reasoned. Regardless, I couldn’t take much more of it.

From the constant aching exhaustion to the fleeting but pervasive thoughts of suicide, I had to resolve this now. Otherwise it would drive me mad. I knew I was already on the verge. I couldn’t keep anything straight. I couldn’t remember what I needed to resolve; what had happened. Every night the itch would come back and it was so bad it hurt.

"Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers."

I looked out at the back parking lot into the darkness which clothed the area around small pools of light from the pole lamps.

“What can I get for you tonight?” the waiter asked setting down my steaming cup of cider and a half-full plastic glass of water.

“I’ll have the French Dip, fries, and cole slaw.”

“You are as regular as clockwork. Always the same order,” Darrin said jolting me. “It’s always good to see you Mr. Stevens.”

I watched agape as the waiter walked off scribbling on his pad, his meaty thighs and full buttocks jiggling slightly.

“How does he know me?” I whispered. “I must have been here before, but when?”

I couldn’t answer myself without looking even crazier than I must look now. I needed to write things down or I’d never remember. I reached into my computer bag and grabbed a steno pad and a pen. The first ballpoint didn’t work, but the second one wrote just fine.

I tried to remember exactly what I needed to write down. It was on the tip of my tongue until I saw Darrin. The waiter approached with a water pitcher in hand, and filled up my glass.

“How is your fall? Did you get your spring bulbs planted?” he asked. I didn’t know how to respond at first.

“So you know me?”

“Of course, Mr. Stevens. You come in every week, same Bat time, same Bat table, and order the same Bat meal,” Darrin said with a chuckle. He turned and walked off and I quickly scribbled down:

Come to The Friendly Chef every week.

Know the waiter, Darrin.

Always have French Dip.

I stopped writing. What else did I know? I couldn’t think at first. What is the pattern?

I don’t like roast beef so why do I always order it? Because it’s Dominic’s favorite, that’s why.

Dominic.

The name made tears come to my eyes. How could I forget the love of my life? How could Dom slip my mind when my world was anchored by him?

Was. Suddenly my actions began to make sense. I could probably begin putting together the pieces, if only I kept the string of references going. Dom had been my partner, not just in life but in crime as well.

Crime. We were lovers who did very bad things together. Maybe they weren’t as bad as some criminals, but definitely crimes - usually involving money.

Lovers. Me and Dom were lovers, and something else was about love. What was it? Something about loss or hearts or alone or…

“Lonely hearts.” I said out loud.

“You say that every week,” Darrin said putting my plate in front of me. “Almost exactly the same time I arrive with your food. You’re like one of those thingies you see on a piano. Like a metropole or something.”

“A metronome,” I answer absently. "Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers."

“Huh?” Darrin asked, screwing up his face and looking at me vacantly. His handsome face is suddenly quite stupid looking.

“Sorry. It’s a jingle I got stuck in my head,” I said. “Used to be a restaurant chain around here.”

“Never heard of it,” Darrin said. “Enjoy.”

Off he walked. I ate a fry as I watched his handsome backside disappear behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.

I looked down at my list and it had expanded. “Lonely hearts” was a scam we’d run that had been particularly successful partly because Dom and I had help.

Help. Sven had helped us run it. He would coordinate our dates. We’d put ads on Craigslist for companionship. Lonely guys would call and Sven set them up. We’d meet. We’d slip them a Mickey of some sort and take their credit cards and cash. It had worked well. Very lucrative.

Dom was a gorgeous fine-featured Latino man with a handsome face and dimples. His smile lit up a room. He was the bait for the older ones; the richer ones.

I was bait for the younger, more affluent, professional types. With my blond hair and blue eyes, standing 6’2” and rock hard everything; I was their wet dream. I’d lure them into a drink and then rob them blind. It was the perfect scam because we could move to the next town after pulling a few tricks. Then we ended up here. Home.

Dom got caught.

I took a bite of my sandwich and scowled. I really did hate this sandwich with its heavy, salty flavor and chewy, tough texture. It had reminded me of Dom though. I ordered this because it was the only way to remember.

Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers.

“How’s everything, Mr. Stevens?” Darrin was back.

“Fine,” I said. I wanted to ask. I didn’t know if I should. Then I did. “Say, what else do I always do when I come here, Darrin?”

“Everything you’ve done so far, except the song ditty. I’ve never heard that before.” Darrin paused and tapped his lips with his finger. “Except last time. Last time you said something about having a slice of pie. You didn’t. But you said you should have.”

I quickly wrote pie down on my list. I paused, and then added "Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers” as well. Somehow I had managed to piece together a kind of string of reminders that would bring me a step closer to my objective. Given my torment over the last month, I wasn’t surprised by it. I couldn’t keep my thoughts together. Only now, looking over the list, was any of it making sense. Of course the restaurant jingle and having pie made no sense right now. But, maybe it would eventually.

“Are you going to have pie?” Darrin asked. “We have a nice chocolate cream or sweet potato. I like the pecan myself; unfortunately we’re all out.”

“Let me think on it,” I said picking up the nasty sandwich and taking another bite. I set it back down and ate the cole slaw slowly, trying the process what these clues meant.

Obviously they lead to something. I looked out the window at the back parking lot. There weren’t any cars there. There was a closed dumpster and another smaller steel container with printing on the front of it. The writing said, “Warning-Non-Edible Grease.”

My eyes shifted back to the dumpster. I kept looking out there, thinking something was going to happen. I was sure of it and I didn’t know how.

“Do you want the check then?” Darrin asked picking up the plate.

“Yeah…No, I’ll have pie. Give me the sweet potato with whipped cream,” I answered.

“Be right back.” Darrin walked back toward the kitchen and I suddenly felt the urge to leave. The urge was very strong as was the fear. I wanted to exit and get away from this place. It was the right place, and the right time was coming up.

Didn’t matter.

Panic was beginning to build within me. I felt like a balloon was expanding in my chest. It was pressing against all my organs. If I didn’t leave right now, it would explode, and me with it.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. The balloon didn’t disappear. It did stop expanding though. I opened my eyes as Darrin set down my pie.

“Would you like coffee? I always forget to ask that,” Darrin said.

“No thanks.” My panic is easing. Instead a sense of resignation has replaced it. I’m now going to finally find out the truth. I glance outside again.

A large gray van has pulled into the parking lot. A tall man got out of the driver’s seat and is talking. Of course, I can’t hear what’s being said this far away and through the glass. He appears to be rather angry and his shape seems familiar.

The tall man is joined by a smaller, much smaller, man and he’s trying to calm down the tall man. I can tell the tall man is only getting angrier because he’s more animated with his arms going up and shaking them vigorously. He’s leaning closer to the smaller man and yelling down at him. The air is filled with puffs of white mist.

Now another man has exited the van. He is moving quickly toward the other two men. The tall and short men are looking at the other one, who has extended his arm and is pointing at them. The tall and short men are shaking their heads and backing away.

“Oh my God!” I pray as a realization comes to me. The tall man has turned toward me. His face is bathed in the gentle light of the parking lot lamp. He says something else, and the short man turns toward me as well.

It is me and Dom. Sven isn’t pointing at us. There are two puffs of smoke and first Dom and then I go down. Sven stands over us and two more puffs of smoke come out of the gun. I watch transfixed as he jumps into the van and drives off.

I’m sitting in this shitty diner watching our murders.

I killed Dom. In my own stupid way, I got my partner, in crime and in life, killed.

I found out he had been caught. He was going to work with the police and I got mad at him. My yelling at Dom had exposed the truth. Sven heard us, and simply got rid of our inconvenient presence. It didn’t explain why I was still here and why I was wandering the earth about to eat sweet potato pie with a dollop of artificial whipped cream on it. But that appeared to be what was happening.

But it didn’t explain why I was in so much pain every night at this time. Why did my skin itch so badly it got hot and felt like it was peeling away? Was this my penance for getting my love killed?

“You haven’t touched your pie yet,” Darrin said putting down my check. It was an old fashioned green one that said Guest Check on the top and he had to add it by hand. I don’t know why it struck me right then, but it did.

“I don’t know if I want it,” I said, pushing the plate away. The notebook caught my eye and I was about to pick it up, put it in my bag and leave when I saw something else in the parking lot. The van has returned. But why?

I absent-mindedly take a bite of the pie and it’s good. I watch as Sven gets out of the van with a gas can and walks over to the two dead bodies, mine and Dom’s. He sets the can on the parking lot asphalt, and picks up Dom, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He goes over to the dumpster and picks up the lid. Sven heaves Dom into the dumpster, and then turns around and goes back to me.

“Oh God, no. I know what happens next. It’s why my flesh burns every night.”

“What did you say Mr. Stevens?” Darrin asks as he hurries toward me.

“I’m not dead. Oh, fucking hell. That’s why I’m stuck here,” I say, and look at the handsome waiter with pleading eyes.

“I’m not following,” Darrin said. He looked out the window. Then back at me with a puzzled look. “What did you see?”

I watch as Sven drags me across the parking lot. I can feel as the skin rips as it hits rocks and bumps and shreds the flesh. The nerve endings are on fire. It’s not bad yet. It’s not nearly as bad as it gets in a moment.

Sven is a big guy and so am I. He has to lift me and roll my body up the side of the dumpster to get me inside. He gets me almost to the lip of the dumpster, and then I slip out from under and fall to the ground. I feel two teeth shatter and my cheek bone cracks with a loud snap.

Picking me up in his arms, Sven does a power lift, and gets me poised almost to the lip of the dumpster. I can feel his warm arms on me, his muscles constricting. I am now moving, writhing against him though I’m not totally conscious. I can see that. He smacks me, and then with a final push, I roll in and disappear.

Sven then limps back to grab the gas can. He lugs it over to the dumpster, and lifts it up taking off the cap. He pours the liquid back and forth over Dom and me, and my mouth and nose are filled with gasoline, and I’m choking. It tastes so bad and now I know what it is, the tang which revisits me.

Our murderer pulls something out of his pocket and I see it flash. It’s a lighter and he lights something in his mouth, his cigarette. Sven smokes it for a minute and I know he can hear me choking and crying out. Now I remember doing so.

He takes one last puff, and then tosses the cigarette into the dumpster. There isn’t any reaction at first. A second later there is a whoosh sound and the entire container fills with fire.

Fire is burning my flesh. Fire is disposing of my dead partner, both in life and crime, and killing me. I can feel it as it eats me. I can hear my skin crackle as it burns. I can even smell me as the flames consume me.

Then, it’s over.

Darrin, the cute waiter, is staring at me, no through me. “Where the hell did he go?” he asks.

He looks around the now empty dining room, and is pulling on his hair.

“Finally,” I hear a familiar voice, a voice I love call from the other side of the room. “I thought you’d never make it. I’ve been waiting for you.”

It’s Dom. I begin to cry.

“What happened to me? Why was I stuck here? What kept me from you?” I cry out as he enters my embrace.

“Doesn’t matter, because now you’re here, and we can go,” Dom says into my shirt. “You finally made it.”

“I wonder,” I say kissing the top of my Dom’s head. "Re-Mem-Ber the EM-Bers."

“Maybe,” Dom said looking up. “I kept coming for you, but you always left. I was afraid maybe you…”

I was heartbroken he thought I was mad at him. I pulled him tighter and we could both feel what the other was thinking. Without hesitation, I answered his unspoken plea.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I am too my love.”