The Evening Weeping Hour

-unedited

“Jesus Christ! What are you doing?!” the old man exclaimed, grabbing his hand.

“Oh, my goodness,” I tilted the mouth of the glass decanter upwards as coffee overflowed from the white mug. A puddle emerged as I set the glass down. While gripping the metal banding of the booth table for balance, I reached for the napkin dispenser.

“What were you doing? Catching some shut-eye?” he drawled.

“Sorry, sir. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, and I wasn’t paying attention.”

I wasn’t lying; I really wasn’t paying attention at all. My mind had walked out and took my serving etiquette with it. I’d gotten distracted, looking out of the window. Beyond the modest five-spaced parking lot was a group of three tall swaying yellow trees tucked behind the green dumpster. I thought it was incredible how they stood out in the middle of slender bare-branched trees that surrounded the entirety of the lot.

If I wasn’t working at Shake n’ Dine right now, I’d be in an art studio in Paris, painting a canvas of my view or, better yet, confining myself within a dark room and developing film. Anyone who saw my grades and the state of my organized bedroom with trophies, medals, and plaques on my dresser would presume I had my life figured out. They’d say, “Look at that girl. She knows what she wants to do with her life. She’s going to make something of herself.” In reality, I had no clue if I wanted to major in art or photography. My dreams were clear, but my mind was scrambled.

Either way, my nerves would be calm, and the anxiety of having to choose what I wanted to be after high school would vanish. All that would matter was that I was in my happy place, and no one could interrupt my dream.

I snatched a bunch of napkins and cleaned up my mess as the man gawked. When I finished, I grabbed the half-full glass and nervously asked, “I'm so sorry. Is there anything else I can get you? Maybe, a houseboat or a pumpkin pie on the house?”

“Oh, now you’re trying to bribe me?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows with a broad grimace.

“I’m not trying to do anything, sir. I just want to make up for the accident I caused.”

“You think free ice cream and some pumpkin pie is going to make up for the scalding coffee you nearly burned my hand with?! Where is your manager?! Get him now!”

I could tell he’d been asking this question his whole life. His bald spot centered near the middle of his snow white hair indicated the unnecessary stress he endured due to his behavior. He reminded me of a health inspector. He wore a brown argyle sweater, a khaki jacket with two fountain pens hooked onto the right pocket, and pilot aviator glasses to balance out the bushy white mustache.

Every being fluttered their eyes in our direction. I couldn’t see their faces, but I felt them judging me in the corner of my eye. They probably assumed I was in the wrong because society has made people believe that the customer was a good guy and was always right. Meanwhile, the server was Judas and needed punishment for their mistakes.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

“And just why not?!” He raised his voice, trying to drown out mine. If he wanted to play the game, I insisted I’d do the same.

“Because my manager and everyone else that works here is at home with their family, stuffing their face with turkey while I am stuck here dealing with your sh*t.” I raised my voice, disregarding the attention I was drawing.

“My sh*t?”

“Yes, your sh*t. Now, look, I apologized and made an offer.”

“A cheap one—”

“Well, d*mn it, I’m not Warren Buffet! I can’t give you two houses and a vacation in the Bahamas!” My Maryland accent snuck up on me mid-argument—the one I tried so desperately not to speak in but failed a variety of times. I promised myself that I’d adopt a whole new accent if I ever got accepted to a college up north. I wasn’t embarrassed by it; I just wanted to forget about everything and everyone connected to this out-of-the-way town. “Either you take your pick, or you hit the road and go on back to where you came from,” I whispered, leaning closer.

A vein popped out of his forehead, and his face turned pale. He gulped, “I’ll take a pumpkin pie to go.” I knew he wouldn’t pass up the offer. Shake n’ Dine was known for having the best in Overton.

I was desperate to prevent the man from causing a scene and disturbing the peace of the other customers as he had done seconds ago. Even if that meant taking money out of my paycheck to satisfy the grouchy old wart. He had been working my last nerves ever since he walked through the door. First, he sat at a dirty table from the previous customers who ate like they had a tapeworm, leaving me with four empty plates and two full glasses of water. With the amount of fare they had eaten, I was surprised they didn’t stop to catch their breath. Once I cleared the table, he sat in the booth, snapped at me, and demanded I start him off with a cup of coffee like I was an animal. But the worst part was that he came in twenty minutes before closing.

I got off work early today because it was Thanksgiving. After this shift, I’d be glued to the television, reclined in the living room of my trailer, face down in a TV dinner. It was like any other day after work: close up at 10:00, walk half a mile to the nearest bus stop in the dark, and transform into a pigeon any time I heard the slightest noise behind me. In this day and age, with all the stories of young girls my age being stalked and kidnapped, one would take prudent measures to keep their employees safe.

My boss—who didn’t come in today at all—couldn’t care less if a bear mauled me to death on my way home as long as I did the three C’s: cover a shift, close up, clock out. I didn’t mind covering someone else’s shift because that meant more money for me. Life at home was hectic. Having an alcoholic father whose income could only afford lottery tickets didn’t look too good on a FAFSA form. So, I lied my way through the college application process while putting aside my money from the diner in case they didn’t believe my lie. Now, was what I was doing illegal? Yes. You know what else was illegal? Denying a child an education.

To be even more secure, my backup plan was to contact my travel-loving mother, who abandoned my father and me when I was four, to ‘find herself’ because taking care of a family was too much for her to handle. When I called, she had no idea who she was speaking to. I told her who I was, and she didn’t sound too delighted to hear from me, which wasn’t a surprise to me. It still hurt when her lively tone went dull. I explained my financial aid problems to her, and she agreed to take my father’s place on the application. I didn't know what she did for a living, but I had heard from her old friends in town who she still remained in contact with, that she was well off and doing good financially. After that, we never spoke again.

Ten minutes had gone by, and I had given the old wart a styrofoam box with a pumpkin pie inside. On his way out, he glared, and I stuck my tongue at him. When he left, the pressure in the atmosphere hissed like air coming out of a flat tire. I could hear the angels sing “Hallelujah!”

Three minutes had gone by, and I was making my last round of coffee refills near the previous two occupied red booths when my inner voice told me to stop and look at the clock. I listened and looked at the red wall clock above the entrance, and that’s when I saw it read 5:55 pm, the weeping hour. I called it this because every other day when I worked in the afternoon, maybe one or two customers would pick a booth, order their meal, and stare at the table, sobbing at that specific time. It would last until five past six. I never noticed until I started to pick up more shifts after my father got laid off from work a year ago.

It creeped me out, but it fascinated me because somehow, I believed their grief synched together into one big ball of energy and generated a release so profound. When the time was right, I swooped in and pretended I was a therapist. Listening to random strangers vent made me forget about my own problems. Each time I encountered them, I took a different approach to ensure they weren’t onto me. My grandmother—my father’s mother and the only matriarchal figure in my life— told me repeatedly not to snoop around in other people’s business. She was right. I should mind my business more often, but today wouldn’t be that day. After all, how could I ignore my calling?

Seated in the second to last booth was a brown-skinned woman who resembled a young Naomi Campbell, fresh off the runway, make-up done, and hair curled loosely at the ends. Her French-manicured tips plowed through the black teardrops on her cheeks, smearing her mascara. If it were Halloween, she’d make a lovely vampire.

She brought her hands to her cell phone and traced her fingertips around the edges. I doubted she needed any coffee; hence the invisible mug and two open sugar packets poured onto a napkin. Judging from her dining conduct, I envisioned her as someone who played with their food a lot during supper when they were younger.

When she spotted me staring at her, she sniffed, fluttered her eyelids, and grabbed her black jacket beside the windowsill where a small fern plant sat in each booth. The moment she stood up, I became attentive to what she was wearing: a white knit sweater, high-waisted jeans, and black ankle boots. It was effortless for someone who looked like a supermodel, but it was not my place to judge.

“Hi, are you on your way out?”

“Yes, I am,” she said in a high-pitched tone, crumbling up the napkin full of sugar.

“Well, did you need anything? Any desserts to go? Maybe something rich to soak up those tears.”

“You mean these?” she pointed to her black-stained lower eyelids, chuckling. “It’s nothing.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I couldn’t help but wonder what’s got you down in the dumps on a holiday like this?” I figured I might as well make the most of the last few minutes of work I had before I closed the diner. Call me insensitive, but this moment was the perfect distraction from my static life of waiting tables and watching life go by through a trailer window.

I set down the coffee pot that I’d been gripping for the past two minutes on the cold, glossy white table. It took her a few seconds to respond to my question, but she opened up the can of worms, and they all spilled out. Her name was Valerie. She told me she and her twin sister, Lisa, were like two peas in a pod, best friends, she put it. They told each other everything. Not once did they not disclose information of their private life to one another until an hour ago. Wherever one went, the other followed. Valerie explained to me that she had received a phone call from her mother about her sister making a life changing decision. Apparently, her sister Lisa had bought a farm without her knowledge, which I thought was strange, to say the least.

From what I heard, they each shared an apartment, and everything was fine until it wasn’t, which begged the question—what kind of woman in her early thirties would leave her sister to go milk cows and grow corn? Was it her own decision, or was she forced to give in by a man she had relations with? I mean, I’ve always dreamt of escaping the trailer park lifestyle and having a farmhouse of my own with horses and a strawberry patch. On the other hand, I could never make up my mind.

Valerie looked at me like I had ten heads when I blurted this out aloud. She clarified that her sister didn’t buy a farm. It was only an idiom that she and her family used when someone passed away, even if they weren't in the military. Lisa’s long battle with cancer had come to an end. When I heard this, I felt like the biggest idiot. I thought that must’ve been difficult for her to handle. It was sadness with a twist of confusion. One day, they were discussing their plans once Lisa got discharged from the hospital, and then the next day, they weren’t talking at all. If my sister died, I wouldn’t know how to deal with the agony of her departure.

Valerie’s story crushed my heart, but nothing prepared me for the hailstorm that would strike my back for the rest of the evening. This time, I wished I’d taken my grandmother’s advice, but the tears became paperweight, weighing me down to avoid my duties. Unfortunately, after Valerie left, my kindness was taken for weakness by a fourteen-year-old girl who thought sugar was the devil.

“What is that?” the flustered teenager asked, pointing at the to-go cake box I filled with a tiny carrot cake I had got in the back of the storage room where the freezer was. I was going to devour the dessert at home but decided that I’d give it to someone else in favor of the holidays. I drew a smile below the logo of Shake n’ Dine on the box, trusting this minor act of compassion would bring joy to the weeping girl—whose mother left her to sob while she went to the bathroom. I overheard their conversation when I wiped off the table where Valerie lounged previously. Apparently, the mother refused to let her daughter spend time with her boyfriend on Thanksgiving. This upset the girl and made her burst into a hysterical cry.

“It’s a carrot cake. I figured you needed some cheering up since you’re sad,” I said, plastering a smile on my face.

The blonde-haired girl scrunched her face, forming wrinkles on her forehead. Jesus, what was it with irate people taking their rage out on the forehead, I thought. That’s not going to do her any good in the future, I thought. Her face was shaped like a pumpkin, and her freckled cheeks burned bright red like tomatoes. She had on a blue sweatshirt, a white scrunchie on her wrist, and chipped black-painted nails.

She shook her head, “What is wrong with the people in your generation trying to solve everything with sugar? All it does is make you gain weight and rot your teeth.”

“My generation? I’m literally the same age as you, but…marginally a little older.” I became offended by her tone and ashamed of my age as I felt the urge to retract my head back into its shell as a turtle did when feeling threatened.

“What are you like, 30?” Jesus. I know I didn’t like that bad. Growing up, everyone said I was the spitting image of a young Brooke Shields when she starred in Blue Lagoon. I had crystal blue eyes, dirty-blonde hair, and thick eyebrows that gave Frida Kahlo a run for her money. My face was a no-wrinkle zone. I was heaven sent, a goddess. How did I look thirty?

“I’m eighteen,” I replied in repulse.

Her teeth gritted in disgust as she inhaled sharply, “Yikes.”

“Yikes? Eighteen is considered old to you?”

“No, it’s not old.”

“Then, what is it?” I became annoyed.

Her mouth twisted before they parted to speak. “I don’t know. Your age says, ‘vaping is so cool,’ but your face says—”

“You know what, let me stop you right there before I lose my temper.” I went to pick up the box when she swatted my hand. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief at her abrupt change of thought.

“I guess a little cake wouldn’t hurt.” She tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ear, revealing a big beauty mark similar to the size of an M&M. Suddenly, she looked familiar to me. I had seen her somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. By the look of her eyes squinting in interest, she was pondering the same thing.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

“I was going to ask you the same question.” I chuckled, placing the decanter on the table as I plopped down on the leather seat. “By any chance, do you go to Overton High School?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’m a freshman.” She tilted her head, focused her eyes on me, and tried to put a name to my face. They widened with suspicion and grew small as her mouth gaped as if she cracked the code to a mathematical equation.

“Oh, you are?” She nodded. “That’s great. I go there, too. I’m a senior.”

“I know,” she bluntly replied as if this wasn’t new information to her.

“What do you mean, you know? Have you been stalking me?” I crossed my arms.

“No.”

“Then, how do you—”

“People at school talk about you. You’re the girl who always cries in the library.” Oh, God. She was onto me. Had everyone found out about my secret hideout near the window in the corner? I had hoped she didn't tell anyone that I was crying about a children’s novel. Harold and the Purple Crayon was my comfort book, I read it all the time during my childhood.

While my deadbeat father used to drunkenly swear into the telephone at my mother for leaving him with me in the living room, I would be in my bedroom, imagining myself as Harold, and whatever I held in my hand was the purple crayon. In my head, I drew a ticket and a plane to travel to Paris, in which a canvas sat on an easel in my studio apartment. Slowly, I drew a new life away from this small town, abandoning my ten-year-old self. Yet, the dream was dry like a weed, it was tough to pull out and it became another distraction.

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re the only student in our school who wears stupid bright bows in your hair like you’re Junie B. Jones.”

“They’re called headbands.”

“They’re outdated.”

I never got a chance to come back from my excruciating downfall where I got upstaged by a freshman who had more lines in her face than a piece of loose leaf. Her mother called, “Emily, it’s time to go.” The girl left with the cake, trailing behind her mother to the exit. The bell on the door rang, snapping me out of my trance as I stood on my feet. Since Emily and her mother were the last two customers of the day, I locked the doors and sauntered behind the long sit-down counter with cracked cushioned stools.

Hung across the stainless steel wall was a neon pink LED sign of the diner’s name. Below was the exact counter as the sit-down with the same coat of paint. On the wall beside the sign were two shelves on each side. The left was glassware, and the right was bowls and plates.

Set on the long flat-topped fixture were two coffee machines, a large container of soda dispensers, and a high stack of Styrofoam cups wrapped in plastic. Alongside the cups was the remote to the mini television by the Snoopy-themed calendar. I pushed the green power button, and static followed by the jingle of State Farm filled the room.

The urge to smoke burned in my mind as I reached into my waist apron and felt the box. I was aware that eighteen was not the appropriate age to smoke, but I only did so when I was stressed, which was all the time. Today was most definitely a stressor. A cigarette was well deserved.

I hadn’t noticed I was sweating bullets until I felt my wet nose. The heat hadn’t bothered me that much earlier this evening. There was no use in turning down the thermostat. I’d be out of here in no time because I only needed to mop the floor and clean the machines. Once the commercial was over, I walked up to the back counter and switched on the electrical table fan next to the television. It began to start up as the blades rotated. Then, the speed picked up.

As I opened the carton, the winning lottery numbers of Mega Millions were being announced. My mouth turned upside down at the disappointment that met my sight: a folded piece of paper. I removed it and tossed the box on the front counter behind me. Unfolding it, I realized it was a lottery ticket. I must’ve picked up my father’s secret stash, where he hid his tickets from me after he promised he’d quit.

“7, 34, 90, 31, 16, and 14.” I froze as the ticket I was holding read what the announcer had just said. I glanced at the blue screen listing the six numbers where Mega Millions appeared in big red letters over them. I leaped for joy like a kangaroo, when the sound of something being shredded made my heart stop as a single tear rolled down my eye. Pieces of white paper shot up like snow and fell to the floor beneath my feet. It was also at that very moment that I also became a victim of the Evening Weeping Hour.