Monster Box - Tales

The ocean spray kept sneaking up the sawtooth cliffs and across Deakins’ windshield, forcing him to run the wiper blades more times than he wished to count. The aroma was steaming like something rotten and abandoned. He would’ve avoided the brine altogether, but the cliffs were the fastest route to Antioch.

Maybe it was his mother’s long-ago words that had guided him there: “What the ocean lacks in memory, it makes up for in secrets.” Deakins had no secrets. Only a cavernous hole where his soul should’ve been. He’d been driving city-to-city, soiled fast food bags and splotched coffee cups as his companions. He’d seen much but gathered nothing. New York’s mossy park had not filled the chasm in his gut, nor had Chicago’s iron steeples. Wyoming’s barren and burned landscapes were nothing to recall at a later date. The emptiness in him widened when it should’ve shrank. He carried nothing important, no prized possessions and no sought-after knowledge, lost across his forefathers’ countryside. The thought that the sea knew what he didn’t made him glower at the waves, praying the steady roil would at least bring him peace and serenity. Or perhaps a secret or two.

His path dipped as the Rock Island Diner materialized within the tree line. It was a shack at best, dropped in the sand as if by a gigantic child tired of its plaything. Vehicles colonized the gravel lot; the miniscule settlement comprised of dusty cars and beaten trucks. The roof was several shingles light and the sign on top was awash with radiant sunset, strips of canvas torn free and fluttering. The ocean’s border sat fifty feet down the sandy slope, primrose clouds reflected across the watery surface like Chinese fishing boats.

Deakins climbed out of his four-door rust box. The surf’s breeze made his skin slither. His jeans seemed to dampen.

He trudged across the shifting salmon tundra until he stood at the edge of the waves. The water was black, empty for miles; the only sound a soft frothing against his toes. Deakins gathered the wetness in his jaw and spit on the water. He watched his saliva melt into the dark fathoms. Warm amber light glowed from the diner windows. It caressed him as he trudged up the hill and entered the eatery.

The place reeked of grease. Black and white checked tile blanketed the floor, smeared by years of spilled beer and scattered honey sand. The booths were rigid red plastic. The specials were scribbled in scarlet chalk on a tattered sandwich board above the bar, chairs and stools topped with cracked leather. Fifty years ago, the place had been a diamond. Now it was a hunk of stone rolled in muck. It was as if someone had dismantled a decayed, shipwrecked schooner, cut it to bits and used them to fashion the tables and bar. Deakins thought about shifting his legs into reverse, but his fatigue and the oncoming darkness made him wary. If need be, he could slurp coffee all night and hunt down a reasonable bed in the morning.

He pulled up a stool at the end of the bar. There were jars filled with white and black stones. Strictly ambiance.

“Get you something, hon?”

She was telephone pole thin, her tight bust strapped in a black apron. She gnashed her bubblegum with ivory teeth, brown curls escaping the bun on her head. Her nametag – reading Peggy! - hung crookedly, hastily pinned in place.

“Coffee,” he exhaled.

“That it?”

“For now. Thanks.”

The diner door swung open. A lanky man in a charcoal suit knifed his way inside. His pin-sized eyes stuck in his pasty complexion like raisins in dough as he blew past Deakins on his way to a barstool.

“Hey, Walt,” hailed Peggy.

Walt stuck out a hand and Peggy filled it with a plastic menu. His raisins perused it. He pointed to his choice. Chicken fried steak and veggies. Peggy nodded, scrawling down the order as if she’d already written half of it. Walt aimed a finger at the bathroom behind the tables. Before the waitress could acknowledge, he was off, coattail flapping as his stick legs transported him like an impatient mantis.

“What’s his problem?” asked Deakins.

“Hmm?” Peggy said.

“Didn’t say one word. Guy’s a dick.”

Peggy half-grinned. “Walt’s no dick. He’s special.”

Deakins watched Walt vanish inside the restroom. Peggy scooted down the bar, passing a bear of a man in his fifties. White-bearded, Royals cap on his crown as he shoveled runny eggs in his mouth. Probably a truck owner.

“Doing okay, John?”

John swallowed hard, giving her a quick nod.

Deakins glanced around. A young couple inhabited a booth, gulping down chocolate pie and smiling euphorically. An overweight mother sat at a table, poured into a burgundy tracksuit and commanding her pudgy child to eat her green beans. The strident ding of a bell rang out, yanking Deakins’ eyes to the window behind the bar. A drained man with hair the color of oil set cherry pie on the sill.

“Pie’s up, Peggy!” he chimed as cheerfully as he could.

“Merci, Ricky,” the waitress sang, snatching it up. She relinquished it in front of John, who pushed his empty plate aside and dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Peggy approached Deakins with a steaming mug. She set it down with a wink. “Here you are, sailor.” As he curled his fingers around the porcelain, she was gone.

Deakins had sampled twenty coffees from twenty states. This stuff was goddamn morose. He’d asked for coffee and what he’d gotten was dishwater somebody scooped out of a soaking steak pan. Still, it was hot. And it would keep him alert.

He noticed the girls on the third sip.

Three of them, to his left. Propped on their stools like finches on a branch. Strange he hadn’t seen them on his way in. It was defeatist to call them blonde. All three had a hue closer to white. It hung down their shoulders like solidified moonbeam. The closest girl wore a china blue turtleneck and mocha slacks. The middle one was clad in a maroon blouse, her skirt the color of ripe tomatoes in summer. The last girl flaunted a peach sundress spotted with pistachio blossoms. Wicker sandals encased the delicate feet of all three. A glass of flat water sat before each of them. China Blue lifted hers, sipping slowly as if savoring the taste. The other two stared, deep in some serene, fathomless thought.

“College girls.”

Peggy leaned in front of Deakins, casting a trademark half-smile toward the moon-haired patrons. He lowered his mug.

“What?”

“Hippies. Up here on some mission.” She leaned close and he smelled her tangy, lemon-scented perfume. “Heard them talking. About the ‘state of the sea.’”

“State of the what?”

“The sea. Activists, honey.” She shook her head. “Weird kids if you ask me. Need a refill?”

“Soon. Don’t worry.”

His reply pulled a grin from her as she galloped back down the bar. Deakins choked down the watery excuse and resumed his leering. Peggy was right. The girls did seem...off. They were also goddamn gorgeous.

Deakins hopped a few beds as he hopped the states. He’d been with a variety. A dancer in Texas, a real estate brunette from Illinois. He wasn’t prejudiced when it came to the opposite sex. One may not be as cute as another, but they all had the same nooks and crannies. China Blue, Tomato Skirt and Peaches, however, were, by behavior and mouth-watering bodies, something completely different.

The young couple was smooching like zoo camels. The fat little girl was demanding dessert as Rick twirled his spatula with sweaty digits. Peggy appeared from the back, a fresh cherry pie in one hand and a silver blade in the other. Deakins watched her set the pie in front of Trucker John and slice through the sugary crust, her breasts softly jiggling with each stroke of her arm. He brought the mug to his lips again, opened his mouth, ready for the heat.

He heard the humming.

The soft sound seemed to caress the air. Deakins lowered his mug, ensnared by the tune. He searched his brain to identify it but couldn’t. In fact, its soothing charm made him forget his brain altogether.

The tones originated from Tomato Skirt’s luminescent throat. China Blue joined in, contributing an alto harmony. Peaches followed suit, another octave higher. The humming took on a haunting quality, embraced by their flawless rhythm and pitch. Peggy’s arm ceased sawing, her and John’s eyes fixed on the three. Their voices invaded the ears of the couple. Wandered across the diner until the little one and her track-suited mother were also listening. Deakins’ coffee was an abandoned thing as their mouths opened and their graceful lyrics began:

“Come list ye landsman all to me,

to tell the truth I’m bound...

What happened to me by going to sea

and the wonders that I found...”

Nausea gripped Deakins. His heart became a vicious bulldog in a crate, pumping a marathon despite his stillness. His...