Wichita Cafe

After over thirty minutes of driving around, searching for something special, Mark saw the sign. Wichita Cafe, it read, absent of any visible irony. Mark cocked his head and glanced at the car's GPS, just in case he had accidentally driven through a wormhole during his quest.

Still in Santa Rosa, which is - I'm pretty sure - nowhere near Wichita.

He smiled as he pulled into the tiny, poorly-lit parking lot. "I think this counts, Sandra," he said to the empty Honda Civic.

"You should get out of the car every once in a while, try to soak up some local color," Sandra had told him the night before he set off for the cross-country trip to Phoenix. "I did a similar trip back in college with some friends. We hit half a dozen diners and met some really cool people along the way."

"Oh, and are you still in touch with all of them?" Mark's dry delivery caught her off guard. Sandra began to speak, but he cut her off with, "How is Big Bertha from Little Rock these days?" She answered him with an arched eyebrow as he took a sip of the fruity cider she had offered to him in lieu of any real alcohol.

However, Sandra's advice had tapped him on his shoulder earlier that night as Paula, the gothy front desk clerk at the Villager Inn, offered him the easiest and most convenient options for dinner during his stop in Santa Rosa.

"There's a Frizzy Frog, a Topper's, and a Pyro-Burger this way," she said pointing a black fingernail to the left. "You could also go to Bistro Bonaventure down this way, if they're still open this late," she said pointing to the right.

One never-quite-desperate search later, Mark had found his place: the Wichita Cafe, which was (according to the GPS) a good eight hours outside of Wichita, Kansas.

Mark walked inside and was immediately glad for his choice. Valentine's Day decorations hung from ceiling fans, which would have been more appropriate in February. A older woman in jeans stood behind a host station and discussed marinara with a nearby bald man.

"If it's right for spaghetti, it's right for cheese sticks."

"I don't agree," the bald man said as he noticed Mark, offering then a weak smile as a greeting. The woman turned her attention to their new guest. Mark felt a moment of judgment and was about to ask if they were still open, but she welcomed him with a simple question.

"Just one?"

He nodded and she led Mark to a booth along the front of the diner. In a nearby booth, he noticed a youngish couple sitting side-by-side, both facing toward him. Mark had never really thought about it before, but it made sense that the proper seating tactic when dining alone would be to face away from them. After all, he figured, it would be awkward to face the couple as he ate. Plus, as judgmental as the assessment made him feel, these weren't the "really cool" people from Sandra's storied trip. They seemed sad and quiet for their years; their clothes were drab, as were the expressions on their faces.

Trying to seem natural about it, Mark quickly sat with his back to the couple and asked for a Coke. The jeans woman told him his waitress would be out in a minute before returning to Marinara Talk with the bald man.

Mark took out his phone and enabled data usage so that he could find something to read from the internet. As he searched his bookmarks, the guy behind him exploding into a fit of coughing and Mark could hear his girlfriend pat him on the back.

It might be his sister. Probably not, but maybe.

A little while later the waitress appeared and set a menu down in front of Mark.

"Hiya, how are ya?" she asked. She wore a dress that looked more like what a cleaning woman would wear, though Mark struggled to pinpoint the distinction.

"I'm good," he said. His mind struggled for the good opener that would lead to a bit of conversation. That was, after all, the entire reason why he'd come here to the Wichita Cafe rather than Pyro-Burger or Topper's, whatever a Topper's was. However nothing arrived and he was left with only, "Could I get a Coke?"

"We have Pepsi. That okay?"

Mark nodded and the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. He saw that the menu was generic and was disappointed that it didn't have the name of the diner on the front. He'd have to remember to use his phone to get a picture of the sign out front. With that thought, another wet storm of phlegm erupted from the drab fellow facing his back. Trying his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds, Mark opened the menu and checked out the dinner entrees.

The waitress reemerged from the kitchen and set a glass of Pepsi in front of Mark. He instantly noticed that there was only three or four ice cubes, slivers really, floating near the top of the glass. Mark had heard about this phenomenon before, that of withholding ice in favor of more beverage, but had never seen it in practice. In that moment, he was glad that he'd found the Wichita Cafe.

"Do you know what you want?"

Mark asked the waitress about a few items on the entree list, but settled on her recommendation of pot roast with mashed potatoes. She walked over to the couple behind him and Mark pretended to read an article he had pulled up on his phone.

"Did you decide on something?" she asked them.

"No, we're still looking," the drab girl replied. Mark could hear the waitress walk back into the kitchen.

"Chili would be nice," the guy told his girlfriend. His tone was low, but borderline whiny all the same.

"I don't feel like chili," she said, scolding.

Sharing a meal? I hope that's because they're not very hungry. If not...well, it's not like I can just offer to buy dinner for strangers unprovoked, can I?

The waitress returned from the kitchen and the girl called for her.

"Miss? I was wondering something. See, we're heading south, but it's getting late and, well, do you know where we could get a cheap place for the night? All we need is a warm room with a bed."

Mark felt like he knew what was coming next.

"Well, the Villager Inn, just off I-40 is probably what you're looking for," the waitress told them.

Bad call, Flo. First of all, the Drab Twins obviously want a mo-tel and the Villager is a ho-tel. Big price difference. Also, Gothy Paula made it sound like I snagged the last available room.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." The guy exploded into another coughing fit.

"Sure thing, sweetie." The waitress then appeared next to Mark with his pot roast and mashed potatoes, no doubt likely covered in spittle and germs courtesy of the coughing dude.

Nice flight pattern, taking my food right by intensive care.

"Thanks! Could I get some extra napkins and a little more ice in my Coke?"

"It's Pepsi."

"Right."

Mark quietly ate his dinner and checked out a few more websites on his phone. The pot roast was chewy, but tasted fine. After a few minutes, the drab couple quietly left the diner. Despite their sullen demeanor, Mark felt bad for them and hoped they would find the warm bed they were looking for. He made a few attempts at small talk with the waitress, but she seemed uninterested in chatting so close to the end of an undoubtedly long shift at the Wichita.

When Mark returned to the Villager Inn, he saw the couple again as they stormed out of the front entrance. The girl's eyes were fiery from a recent argument, very likely with Gothy Paula. She turned her intense gaze toward Mark and he surprised himself.

"Hey, Wichita Cafe, right? I thought I heard that you were looking for a place to crash. I know it's not ideal, but I've got an extra bed in my room." The couple looked to each other and saw exhaustion mirrored on their faces. Mark hastily added, "No charge, of course. Just a little company would be nice."

Back in the hotel room, they sat on the queen-sized beds and chatted for a while. Mark offered them snacks from his travel bag, which the couple greedily accepted. The sullen pair perked up a bit with food in their stomachs, but Mark's concerns grew. Gaping holes appeared in their stories they told him, inconsistent in such aspects as where they were from and where they were going. Mark, hoping to not cause anger in point out such things, played it cool and didn't appear suspicious. They eventually took turns getting ready for bed. While the guy was in the bathroom, the girl made a sexual pass at Mark. It took effort, but Mark handled the situation perfectly and spared her of any residual embarrassment. As they lied down to sleep, the guy's coughing fits returned. Hours and hours passed before Mark could sleep, finally finding solace during the early hours of the morning. The next day, the couple sheepishly asked Mark if they could have another night in the room on his credit card, a gift. Mark quickly devised a lie, telling them that he was using his company's expense account to travel and could only put one single night on it. After he left the hotel, however, the couple managed to get back into the room and stayed another two full days. When Mark received the itemized bill two weeks later, it was clear that the couple had wrecked the place and had stolen several items from the room, including the TV and several pieces of furniture. Mark found himself truly angry for the first time in his life. He spent weeks trying to locate the couple, unrelenting obsession always tapping at his shoulder. The trail went cold from time to time, but then he'd suddenly find a trace again, getting close. And forever on this chase toward rightful justice, he was finding out things about them that he never wanted to know.

But they'd win in the end. Even if theirs was no sort of life to be lived, they'd win. Of course they would.

Mark was still lost in this elaborate story as the couple walked around him outside the Villager Inn. The girl either didn't recognize him from the diner or simply didn't care. Mark didn't turn back to watch them get in their car and drive away, though he did briefly wonder where "next" would be for them.

Soon after, he was in his room looking at the picture he had taken of the Wichita Cafe's sign. It looked smaller on his cellphone, as did the cafe itself. He decided he'd wait and send the picture to Sandra when he got to Phoenix, maybe with a few others he'd take along the way.

Noon Checkout

Jacob didn't need to look at the grey clock radio next to the unmade bed to know that it was past 11:45, and he definitely didn't need a call to remind him that checkout time at the illustrious Hotel de Marseau was at noon.

He stood in the center of the messy hotel room, looking from the tower of dirty clothes on the floor in front of the bathroom to the overflowing ashtray sitting on the balcony railing outside. In a panicked rush the night before, he'd throw out most of the takeout boxes and empty liquor bottles, hoping the shallow improvement would help clear his mind. No such luck.

On the stationary desk in the corner next to the balcony sat all of his recording equipment, everything pieced together and set up, waiting for inspiration. Resting on the wall next to it laid the large black guitar case that Jacob had not disturbed for the entirety of his week at the Marseau. It was perhaps the only thing in the whole room not tainted by Jack Daniels, cigarette ashes, or nacho chip residue. The shiny, fastened hinges reflected the late morning sun, mocking him. The deadline had almost arrived.

A few deep breaths later, Jacob made up his mind. He would lay down one song - just one. He could tell the backers that there was a misunderstanding. One week was not nearly enough time to record an entire album of material. But one week of freedom from the outside world would buy them one perfect gem, something beautiful and true courtesy of Jacob Lyngate. He could explain the outrageous minibar bill later.

The pressure demanded a peek. 11:53. "Shit."

He flung the guitar case open and pulled out Sheila, a slim body Gibson that Jacob had bought with his share of the first advance from his band's old label, Deep Sea Records. He connected to the recording bay and pulled the desk's chair out, sat down with Sheila on his lap, facing as much toward the balcony as the cord would allow. He took another deep breath and hit the record button.

Jacob began strumming a four chord progression he'd come up with around the time he quit his first band, Limited Appeal. He'd never written a melody for the song, but one slowly began to form. Jacob hummed a little, knowing that he could edit out a clunky intro on ProTools later. A lyric occurred to him and a second jumped out to catch the first. It was all coming together. He felt a wave of secure satisfaction wash over him for the first time since he'd laid eyes on his oasis at the Marseau. He leaned into the mic to sing.

And "More Than a Feeling" by Boston rang out.

Jacob stopped playing the guitar and sighed. His cellphone's muffled ringtone was coming from somewhere deep inside the origami folds of the bed's expensive comforter. He sifted through and found it.

MACK GILLIS & ASSOC., the display told him.

Jacob bit his lip and looked outside past the balcony once more. He could see the edge of a pond about half a mile away. The ringtone continued its demand for a response. He craved a cigarette, though it was too early for one.

12:01. Too late.

He swiped the screen to ignore the call. He knew that he had to give them at least one. Maybe he wouldn't lay it down in a posh mid-town hotel room. Maybe he'd book some time with one of the engineers he'd met on the way up, or maybe he'd set it down on a four-track cassette deck in his old bedroom back in Ohio, but he needed one ready for them the next time they spoke.

He placed Sheila back in her case, fastened the hinges, and started to unhook the recording equipment. His cellphone rang again and he took a break from packing to throw it off the balcony.