Incident at a Diner

By Chris Miller

In Chris Miller's psychological thriller, we follow Sam as he grapples with the guilt of infidelity while navigating a tense encounter with unfamiliar, dangerous characters.

THE PLACE SMELLS of grease and misery, of fried food and apathy. Fitting, I guess. I shouldn’t be here. Not that there’s anything wrong with here, but why I’m here is no good. I was raised better than this. But am I turning around and leaving? Not a chance. I’m too far in to turn back now. I’ve had a taste, and I liked how it went down. How it lingered on my tongue.

I’m not turning back.

I scan the room. Pretty typical crowd for a dive like this. Blue-collar guys, mostly. A couple of elderly women with their equally elderly husbands. There’s one guy at the end of the bar shoveling eggs that I think started out as sunny side up but now are a pulverized ruin of yolk, the sun having crashed into all and obliterating it. He’s eating fast and sipping at his coffee. He winces as he sets the mug down. It’s hot, but he seems to like it. Asks for a refill. The briefcase next to him is black and looks like leather. He has a tie on, but it’s thrown over his shoulder to keep it out of his eggs and sausage and toast. This guy isn’t blue collar, but he fits right in just the same.

A couple of old men nearer to me at the bar are grumbling back and forth, laughing occasionally. They sip their coffee as their too-big bellies push against the bar inside their bib overalls. A few others litter the diner. I look down the row of booths to the right, mostly empty but for a couple leaning across their table talking—they don’t look happy—and two guys who don’t seem to fit at all. They’re big, but not like the men in the bib overalls. They’re wearing suits like the guy at the end of the bar, but these are much nicer. Their hair is slicked back and oily. They’re from out of town, no doubt. They seem jovial enough, though. Cracking jokes back and forth, though I can’t make out what is so funny.

Then I see her. She’s at the back, in the corner, and she’s already seen me. Her face is light and happy and mine matches hers as I move down the aisle between the booths. I ignore the arguing couple as I pass.

“This isn’t fair and you know it,” the man is saying.

“It’s not about fair, it’s what’s best for Kendall and Kerry,” the woman replies and then I can’t hear them anymore.

I’m halfway to her booth now, just past the arguing couple. I pass the two guys who don’t fit. They’re chuckling about something and one of them glances up at me. I nod a hello. He doesn’t nod back. He looks at the other guy.

“Waylon’s a fuck up,” he says, and now I know they’re from out of town. His voice tells me New Jersey or New York, but that’s just based on movies. I’ve never been to either. What the hell they’re doing in small town Texas is a mystery.

“Fuck ups still cause problems,” the other guy says as I keep moving. The first guy mumbles something, but I can’t make it out.

And then I’m only a few feet from the booth and her. My heart ticks up a notch. My internal heat, too. My mouth feels dry and I’m glad I can see the waitress making her way toward me as I slip into the booth and take in the smile still beaming at me beneath those eyes that I swear are sparkling.

“I’m so glad you came, Sam!” she quietly squeaks.

I open my mouth to respond when the waitress arrives with a weary smile and her pen poised over the ticket pad.

“Mornin’, hun!” she says and pushes a lock of hair over her ear. “What can I get you folks?”

“Coffee,” I say, and Millie orders the same with a side of scrambled eggs and sausage and hash browns. I tell the waitress to make that two and she’s off down the aisle. One of the Jersey guys barks something at her as she passes and holds up a mug that’s clearly empty. She smiles—still weary, but giving it her best—and nods in the affirmative.

I look into those sparkling eyes and I want to dive into them, get lost and drown in their depths. So beautiful. So sweet. So tender. She’s incredible in every way and she is here with me.

I shouldn’t be here.

I push away all the things telling me to leave. I don’t want to leave. This is new and exciting and I know the grass is always greener on the other side, but I don’t care. Even if the reason it’s greener is because it’s covered in shit, I don’t care. Not right now. I wonder if I ever will.

“I only have an hour or so,” I say, and I think she’s disappointed. I like that. But then she smiles again and it’s radiant.

“I’m glad for any time we can spend together,” she says and slides her hands out and clasps mine. “I’ve missed you.”

Her words are intoxicating, and I don’t care how toxic they are. Toxic to my soul. Toxic to my heart. Toxic to my—

My phone buzzes on the table and I can feel it through my arms. We both make a startled jump, then we smile at each other as though to apologize for being so silly. I pick up the phone and my smile vanishes.

What are you doing? the text message says, and my joy is instantly sucked dry. I don’t have to look at who sent the message. I know exactly who sent it, and this is a problem. It’s both why I’m here now and why I feel I shouldn’t be.

It’s from Cheryl, my wife.

“What is it, babe?” Millie asks, and I see her furrowed brow when I glance up for half a second and then look back at the text message. I haven’t opened it, it’s just there on the home screen notifications.

I click the screen off and lay the phone facedown on the table and smile at Millie.

“Nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand. I’m getting better at this, and I feel both pride and shame at this fact. But it’s the excited little boy in me doing something he knows he shouldn’t that seems to rule me now since this tryst started. “Did you get the package I sent you?”

She blushes and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Then her expression changes to something more seductive, something like the face she made at me that first time we met at the motel outside of town and we rutted like pigs in slop.

It makes me stir.

“I’m wearing them,” she says and winks at me, and I can feel my face matching the color of hers.

My shade deepens and the smile fades when the phone buzzes again. I don’t pick it up this time. Millie’s eyes glance at it and then back to me.

“Is it her?”

I consider lying, but decide there’s no point.

“Yeah.”

She leans back and pulls her hands into her lap, the concern on her face changing to something like shame. She’s human. I’m human. The shame reminds us of that.

“I’m a bad person, aren’t I?” she says to her lap.

“No,” I reply immediately. “I’m the bad guy. Not you. You’re just…”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence, don’t know where it was going. Like you have an idea and it’s a light at the far end of a tunnel, but you never get there no matter how long you run toward it. Finally, you just give up and try to find your way out.

“I should go,” she says and starts to grab her purse. I don’t want her to leave. I want her to stay, and I want to throw caution to the wind and take her to the motel and make us both feel like we’re someone else for a while.

“Wait,” I say and reach out and touch her arm. “Don’t go. It’s nothing. I’m going to tell her soon. It will all be over then. No more sneaking.”

She smiles, but her eyes never fully accommodate it. She’s thinking something. I might know what it is, too. I’m thinking that the sneaking is precisely why this feels so good and exciting. Will I think she’s so amazing once we’re in the open?

Her hand covers the one I’m grabbing her arm with, and that electric tingle is there, and I don’t care about the future or my wife or any of it because now is all that matters to me.

“Hey!” a man’s voice shouts, and I jerk as I look up the aisle. One of the Jersey Boys is looking at the couple who were arguing quietly. Millie turns to see what’s happening, then looks back at me, her face confused.

“You know we can hear yous over here, yeah?” one of the Jersey Boys says to the couple. I can barely see the woman from my angle and all I can see of the man is the side of his face. He puts a surrendering hand up, waves it a couple times.

“Excuse us,” the guy says. “We’re having a conversation.”

“No shit you’re having a conversation,” Jersey One—the one with his back to me—says. “We can hear every goddamned word. Christ! Keep it the fuck down, will ya?”

The guy with the woman tenses, and his shoulder muscles draw together.

“Hey, who do you think—”

The second Jersey Boy whips his fork around and points it at the guy.

“You know who the fuck we are, little man? Huh? You shut your cock-holder, you know what’s good for ya.”

Jerseys One and Two drop words like “if” sometimes, and I instantly feel freaked out. They seem like gangsters. Like real gangsters. They have the look down pat. Voices, too. What the hell are they doing in East Texas?

The lady with the guy at the other table is saying something I can’t hear to him, probably trying to get him to back down. He doesn’t want to. But I think she’s right. They aren’t the types you want to mess with.

The clatter of forks on plates resumes as the Jersey Boys begin to eat again, absolutely no concern on their faces whatsoever. I’m watching the other guy—the one with the lady—and I think he’s working up the nerve to say something else, but if he does, I don’t hear it because my attention is drawn to my phone again, which buzzes three times in quick succession.

“Fuck,” I grumble and pick it up.

It’s Cheryl. Of course it is.

I glance up at Millie and my face is pained. Hers is, too. We’re bad people. The worst kind. Total asshol—

The phone buzzes in my hand againand I nearly jump out of my skin. Millie’s face is etched with concern when I glance up at her and make a pitiful attempt at a self-deprecating smile. She makes an equally pitiful attempt in return.

“I, uh…” she says, then loses whatever thread she had. She’s messing with her hands, clasping them, then interlocking her fingers, then spreading her palms flat on the table between us. Guilt warms my face and chest and I lift the phone so the notifications will show.

There are four more messages.

Sam, we need to talk.

Are you ignoring me?

Where are you?

Why won’t you answer me?

I sigh so harshly it makes me cough. I’m laying the phone down when Millie speaks.

“I care for you, Sam,” she says, and her eyes are pained. This isn’t going to go well. She’s feeling it, too. The guilt. The crushing weight of self-inflicted pain that seems worth every bit of it when we’re in bed. But now…

“We’re both adults,” she goes on and I can feel a different weight descending on me. “We’ve done some things most people would find unforgivable. I think even we find it unforgivable, if we’re totally honest. I know I do. We both know this is wrong. But, the thing is, when I’m with you I…I just don’t care.”

Her eyes are still pained, but they seem to light up here.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to say, here, just that I know this is putting you through hell. You don’t deserve that and neither does Cheryl. God, I feel like such a bitch sometimes. I wasn’t raised to do anything like this. But with you…” She reaches a hand out and touches mine, the one holding the phone. “…with you it all seems worth it to—”

My phone starts buzzing again and I drop it as we both jerk our hands away with quiet gasps. Our eyes fall on the screen, the one showing the Memoji of Cheryl in the background, announcing her call.

“Shit,” I mutter and Millie covers her mouth with both her hands.

I pick up the phone, look at it for a second as though it’s a venomous snake readying to strike, then glance up to Millie. She’s dropping her hands from her face and her eyes are wide and her mouth is opening.

I answer the phone as a bell chimes over the front door, announcing a new patron. It’s an old cowboy, big hat and even bigger dentures on display as he smiles and waves to the waitress as he comes in.

“What the hell is going on?” Cheryl’s voice barks in my ear, and I forget all about the cowboy.

“Cheryl, what are you—”

“No,” she says with authority, and I unconsciously obey. “I know you, Sam. I know you better than you know yourself. Something’s going on and you need to tell me what it is.”

I swallow and my throat clicks. I open my mouth to answer, but the waitress is here with our food and she’s noisily placing it in front of us, and the racket sounds enormous, and I start clearing my throat in hopes of covering the sound.

It doesn’t work.

“What is that sound?” she asks, and I’m thinking fuck-fuck-fuck!

“I, uh, it’s just—”

“Can I get you two anything else?” our waitress asks, and she’s loud and smiling too much and Cheryl hears it.

“Are you at a restaurant? Who are you with?”

“I’m not with anybody,” I lie terribly with a squeak in my voice and Millie is about to freak out.

“Goddammit, can I get a cup of coffee here?” one of the Jersey Boys says. The waitress turns red and Millie dismisses her with a smile. She saunters up the aisle to them and I absurdly look at her ass that might have been something to look at three kids ago.

I really am an asshole.

“I feel like such a fool,” Cheryl squawks in my ear, and I snap back to the moment. “Things have been rocky, but now—”

“Cheryl,” I say curtly and sigh. “Look, you’re freaking out over nothing. I’m just getting breakfast, nothing is going on, I’ll talk to you—”

“Don’t do this to me, Sam!” she screams in my ear and gooseflesh ripples my body as I quickly end the call and turn the phone off, sweeping the dust under the rug.

I’m an asshole and a wimp.

I sigh again and pinch my eyes shut. I can hear the faint grunts of the Jersey Boys talking about something and I hear that name Waylon again. I hear a southern accent asking what someone would recommend on the menu.

“First time here, darlin’!” the words float to me and I open my eyes and see the cowboy ordering something from the waitress. The couple that was arguing before are leaning in close and I can’t hear them, but it doesn’t look pleasant.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Millie says, and I blink a few times and take in her face. She really is pretty, but not abandon your marriage and throw your life away pretty. Only, there are moments where she seems to be just that attractive. Moments that lead to lines being crossed and carnal desires being satisfied.

I’m not a good person.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Mill,” I say. I want to say so much more, want to get out of this place and just vanish somewhere where Cheryl can’t call and interrupt us ever again and we can do all those things my wife won’t.

Millie smiles weakly and scoops a bite of food. I sip some coffee and it’s hot and scalds my lips. I take another sip. The food is better than the coffee, but that isn’t saying much. The eggs are runny and the sausage is overcooked, but it’s passable. Hash browns are okay. It’ll keep you fueled and going. We eat in silence for a couple of minutes and I think she tries to say something once or twice, but I can’t be sure and she never speaks.

Jersey One gets up from their booth and he’s on his cell phone. His olive face is fat and scrunched and his cheeks are flushed. His eyes are darting around as he walks down the aisle, and I feel uncomfortable suddenly as he comes near us. He isn’t looking at me or Millie; he’s staring beyond us to the restrooms.

“The fuck you talking about?” Jersey One says as he moves past us. “That pain in the ass is supposed to be handled.”

He doesn’t say anything and I’m suddenly mesmerized by the man, still flabbergasted at why he and his friend are here, of all places. Fish out of water doesn’t quite cut it. It’s more like finding a McDonald’s on the moon.

He vanishes into the restrooms and I can’t hear anything else from him.

“You from out of town, friend?” I hear a cheerful and friendly voice and instantly know it’s the cowboy. I glance up the aisle and see he’s talking to Jersey Two, who looks annoyed.

“What’s it to you?” he replies, turning to the cowboy and staring over the bridge of his nose.

The cowboy laughs. “Oh, hell, ain’t nothin’ to me, I’s just asking. ’Round here folks is friendly.”

Jersey Two mumbles something and turns back to his mostly gone meal and starts picking at the remains with his fork.

“Yeah,” he grunts, “well, we ain’t from ’round here.”

He’s mocking the cowboy’s accent but the cowboy doesn’t seem fazed by it at all. He’s still smiling and his teeth are big, white things. He’s not a young man, but now I’m not sure just how old he really is. He seems so nondescript other than his voice and clothes.

“Fuck you, Brandon!” suddenly explodes from the woman at the booth with the guy, and she stands up. He’s reaching for her arm, but she yanks it away from him before he can get a hand on her.

“You’re just the same as you always were!” she spits. “Take it up with my lawyer.”

“You can’t do this, Ang!” he says and starts to stand.

Millie is turning around to see the commotion I’m mesmerized by.

“Hey!” a fat man behind the counter barks at them. He’s wearing a stained apron over a white undershirt and there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Knock it off or take it outside, you hear me?”

Brandon looks like he’s been dipped in red paint. Everyone is staring at him and a hush has fallen over the room, leaving only the crackling sound of bacon and fat sizzling on the griddle.

Ang—is she an Angela or an Angel?—turns from him and storms out the door, the bell chiming loudly as she leaves. Jersey Two is staring up at Brandon, and I can’t make out the meaning of the look on his face. Maybe annoyed, maybe interested. Almost like he’s just waiting to see what this guy might do, if he’s going to make a scene. Maybe he wants there to be a scene.

“Shit, Millie, we should get out of here,” I say, and she nods.

Before we can stand, the restroom door makes a sucking sound and opens as Jersey One steps back into the aisle. He’s still on his phone and the color is drained from his fingers when I glance up at him. He’s right next to me. He isn’t paying any attention to us, but he’s stopped and staring straight down the aisle at Brandon’s back. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his temple.

“One of Waylon’s guys?” Jersey One says, and I finally think of Waylon Blackshear, the only Waylon I’ve ever heard of. I don’t know him, but I know of him. Owns a bar on this side of town where I normally would never be if not for Millie and my inability to stop cheating on my wife who doesn’t deserve any of this.

I shouldn’t be here.

Waylon is a strange guy. In the news a lot, at odds with police, but never shut down. I don’t know what he does, but most folks don’t want to know. He’s not the kind of guy you talk to when you see him. In fact, you don’t see him at all.

“Take a load off, partner,” the cowboy says to Brandon with a big smile. “Let her cool off, it’ll be alright.”

Millie is nudging me to go, but Jersey One is still blocking our exit from the booth. Brandon is shaking his head and I can see him trembling from here. He’s wound up like a spring and he buries his face in his hands for a moment.

“Sit the fuck down, kid,” Jersey Two says to Brandon with that same annoyed look he’d given the cowboy a few minutes ago. “You don’t wanna make a scene.”

Brandon drops his arms to his sides and clenches his fists a few times. Then he nods and collapses back into his booth and lays his head on his forearms.

“Say, feller,” the cowboy says and Jersey Two’s head swivels around, annoyance projected masterfully, “that’s a nice suit ya got there, can I ask—”

“Listen, hick,” Jersey Two says with unhurried aggravation, “I ain’t here to have a fucking conversation, get me? Why don’t yous talk to your new pal here and leave me the fuck alone.”

He gestures to Brandon who’s still got his face down. Jersey One is still listening to whoever is on the phone and he’s breathing faster now. Another glance up at him and I can see hHis face is red and his brow is furrowed and he’s got the beginnings of a snarl forming over his mouth. I look away quickly and see the cowboy is still unfazed and smiling at Jersey Two. Jersey Two is still glowering at him with an aggravated aura.

I grab my phone to check the time and remember I turned it off. I hold the switch down to turn it on and the Apple symbol appears. Millie leans close.

“We should go,” she whispers, glancing sidelong at Jersey One. “This was a mistake. This was all a mistake.”

My phone comes on and nine new messages start machine-gun vibrating. They’re all from Cheryl. Of course they are.

I ignore the messages calling me a pig and a terrible husband and see it’s almost eight o’clock. I drop the phone as Jersey One says something.

“Listen to me, goddammit, this ain’t our mess. You get me? We was sent down here to this god-forsaken hellhole to strike a deal with that redneck son of a bitch, and he ain’t interested. When he ain’t interested, we create some incentive. He still don’t wanna make a deal, so fuck him. Boss says make it happen one way or another, so that’s what we’re doing. We’ll be on our way in a few minutes and this whole thing will get put to bed.”

He turns and sees me looking and I jerk my head away so fast bones pop. I can feel him staring for too many seconds, and Millie is looking up at him with wide eyes. I turn back slowly and see his eyes zeroed in on me with the phone placed against his chest.

“Mind ya fuckin’ business, you know what’s good for ya,” he says and I gulp and nod and he puts the phone back to his ear and starts to walk up the aisle.

“Come on,” I say and Millie and I slip out of the booth. I dig some money from my pocket and throw it down amongst the mostly untouched food and cooling coffee. I grab the back of her arm and start to move, but Jersey One is blocking us and still not sitting down. Excuse me might be customary, but right now I don’t want to say anything to this guy. I don’t want to be anywhere near him or this place. The Jersey Boys don’t belong here, and I’ve got a really bad feeling and I don’t need any of this in my life.

“We’ll call when it’s done,” Jersey One says and hangs up the phone and slips back into the booth with his companion.

The path is finally clear and we start to move.

“But they’re my babies,” I hear Brandon mumble, and I think he’s crying. I feel for him. He’s me in a week and I feel some shame at that, but he’s not our problem, and we move past when the cowboy turns his head in the direction of the Jersey Boys.

“Big plans, fella?” he says, and Jerseys One and Two turn to him as Millie tugs on my arm.

I turn to her, still trying to leave, and she says, “I forgot my purse.”

I sigh and we move back down the aisle to our abandoned booth and she starts grabbing up her things.

“Fuck off, hillbilly,” I hear, and I think it’s Jersey One.

“Order up!” someone says behind the counter and there’s a clatter of plates.

“You boys ain’t too friendly, are ya?” I hear the cowboy say, and I urge Millie to hurry up.

“Goddammit,” Jersey Two says, and he turns in the booth, throwing an arm over the back of the seat, “would you just fuck off, already? What, yous hard of hearing? Or are you just too stupid to know when to shut your fucking trap?”

“Okay,” Millie says, and I look at her and see she’s got her bag and is ready to go.

Good.

I place a hand at the small of her back and start leading her up the aisle. Brandon is openly crying now and the Jersey Boys and the cowboy are in some absurd standoff, the cowboy’s teeth still showing bright and large behind his friendly smile, and the guys who shouldn’t be here at all are red in the face looking ready to pounce. My phone is vibrating again in my pocket and I can tell by its cadence that it’s a phone call this time. My heart is starting to hammer in my chest. I’m an asshole and I shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be with Millie, and why am I so nervous?

“I can hear ya just fine,” the cowboy is saying as he scoots to the edge of the booth with some effort. “Ain’t stupid, neither.”

“Yeah?” Jersey One says. “If you’re so smart, then mind your business and piss off.”

We’re nearly to the back of Brandon’s booth and he starts pounding his fist on the table.

“Why, why, why?” he’s saying in time with his fist.

“That’s just what I’m doing, fellas,” the still-smiling cowboy says as his hand comes up from under his table. “Waylon says for you boys to get a message to your boss.”

I pull up short when I hear that name again and now it’s starting to make sense what these Jersey Boys are doing here and a thousand pieces start falling into place at once, especially when I see the wide, angry eyes in their fat sockets.

“Millie, get down,” I gasp, and we both fall to the floor.

“He says to tell your boss to fuck off.”

I see the gun in the cowboy’s hand, and Brandon is hammering his fist so hard the plates and silverware on his table are bouncing and dancing, and I think my chest is going to explode.

Jersey One has a hand reaching into his jacket when his throat explodes and blood starts spraying all over Jersey Two. He’s clawing at himself and gurgling, and Jersey Two is in too much shock to do much of anything but blink.

That stops when the side of his head comes apart in a meaty pulp and he slumps over in the booth. Millie is screaming now and the phone in my pocket is still buzzing. Jersey One is slapping at his throat, trying to contain the spurting crimson but failing miserably. The cowboy turns back to him, the small revolver in his hand smoking.

“We got a certain way of doin’ business down here,” he says to the dying, terrified man, “and we don’t need no yankee interference.”

The final shot takes the back of Jersey One’s head off and a lot of it lands on me. All over me. I’m shaking and dripping with another man’s blood and brains. I can hear a faint scream from Millie, but my ears are ringing, and Brandon isn’t slamming his fist anymore. He’s staring at the whole thing in shocked awe.

I turn back and the cowboy is tucking his gun in his waistband as casually as he might put away his wallet. He’s also smiling at me.

“Sorry ’bout that, partner,” he says and winks at me. “Dirty job, sometimes.”

Then he’s leaving, and Millie and I are shaking and the other patrons are getting off the floor and the employees are peeking over the counter and from the window to the kitchen. The bell chimes as the cowboy exits, and all I can think is that any hope I had of keeping Cheryl from knowing what I’m doing is gone. I’m going to be interviewed by the cops and TV vans are going to show up and everyone who’s ever known me is going to wonder what the hell I was doing at this diner and who the hell this woman with me is.

I look at the dripping cavity at the back of Jersey One’s head again and I begin to laugh. I’m an asshole. A cheating asshole. But in this moment I realize that I just got everything I wanted and cut through all the bullshit. I don’t have to explain things to Cheryl. I don’t have to lie and sneak anymore. All of that is over. The cowboy with the big teeth just dashed all the red tape of ending a marriage for me.

I laugh all the harder for a few moments as my bones begin to tremble and Millie’s screams get louder. Brandon is joining her now. I settle again on the open wound of Jersey One’s skull and feel tears sting my eyes and my howling laughter turns to howls of horror. Then I remember what I’m covered in and look down at myself.

My screams are louder than all the others.