Randy's Diner

I.

Almost two hours into the drive, the boy finally looks up from his Switch.

"I'm hungry."

The father glances at the clock. 7:15. They should've eaten an hour ago, but he wanted to make good time. Get this over with. Drop the kid off at Sophie's new place in Denver. See the famous Brad. Pretend everything's fine.

"We'll stop soon."

The GPS shows nothing for the next thirty miles. No golden arches. No Chipotle. Just the thinning stretch of I-70 that connects everything to nothing. The boy goes back to his game. Mario jumps. Dies. Jumps again.

The Garmin flickers. Once. Twice. Goes black.

"Damn."

"What?"

"GPS died." The father taps it. Nothing. "Whatever. I know the way."

He does. Driven this route a dozen times since the divorce. Since Sophie decided Denver was far enough but not too far. Since the lawyers divided everything down the middle except the kid, who gets divided by weekends and holidays and summer breaks.

The road narrows. Must be construction. Three lanes squeeze to two, two to one. The trees get ambitious, reaching across the gap above like they're trying to shake hands. The BMW's headlights click on automatically.

"Getting dark," the boy observes.

"Yeah."

Then he sees it. A gap in the trees. A building. Chrome and glass catching the last light.

"Oh, cool," the boy says. "A real diner."

II.

RANDY'S DINER pulses in soft neon. Not gaudy. Tasteful. That specific pink-red that makes you think of milkshakes and poodle skirts. A Sinclair station sits beside it like a loyal dog. The green dinosaur logo's faded but still smiling.

"Looks like the place Grandpa used to take me," the father says before he can stop himself.

"Really?"

"Yeah. When I was your age."

The parking lot's half full. Good sign. Busy enough for decent food, not so packed you can't get a table.

The cars, though. The father slows as he looks for a spot. A mint-condition '57 Chevy, turquoise and white, chrome gleaming like it just rolled off the line. A Hudson Hornet in deep maroon. A Studebaker Golden Hawk. Even a Nash Metropolitan, that weird little two-tone thing his mother used to talk about.

"Car show?" the boy asks.

"Must be."

But there's no sign. No ropes. No people standing around admiring. Just cars from the same era, all parked at casual angles, all gleaming under lights that shouldn't make paint look that good.

They park between a Hudson Hornet and something the father can't identify. The BMW looks embarrassed.

Ding-ding.

The door chimes like a boxing bell, but friendly.

Inside: red vinyl booths run along both walls, the kind with little jukeboxes at each table. Chrome and glass, three plays for a quarter. A long counter with fixed stools, red seats spinning on chrome pedestals. The floor's that black and white checkered linoleum, waxed to a shine that throws reflections. Behind the counter, the kitchen's all stainless steel and white tile, orders clipped to a spinning wheel, the cook visible through the pass, white paper hat, working the grill like he's conducting a symphony.

The pie case rotates slowly near the register. Apple, cherry, lemon meringue, chocolate cream. The meringue stands up in perfect peaks like tiny Alps. A malt mixer gleams on the back counter next to a proper soda fountain, the kind with pull handles and syrup pumps. The coffee urns are those big silver bullets, one regular, one decaf, though nobody ever chooses decaf.

The air's thick with bacon grease and coffee and that underlying sweetness of pancake batter on a hot griddle. Somewhere, onions are caramelizing. A burger's getting that perfect crust.

A waitress glides over. Blonde victory rolls, red lips, winged liner. Beauty mark on her left cheek. Her uniform's white as fresh paper, every crease sharp. Nametag pinned straight: GLADYS.

"Two handsome gentlemen for dinner?"

The boy grins. The father feels himself smile back. When's the last time someone called him handsome? Even as a joke?

"Yeah. Two."

She leads them to a booth by the window. The vinyl exhales as they sit—whoosh—like it's grateful for the company. Menus appear. Heavy. Laminated. The prices are a joke. Must be a gimmick. Burger: 65¢. The father shows the boy.

"Is this for real?"

"Throwback prices," the father guesses. "They probably add a multiplier at the register."

"Still. Cool."

III.

The coffee arrives in white ceramic mugs that weigh a pound each. The father wraps his hands around his. Perfect temperature. That spot between hot and scalding where flavor lives.

"I'll have the pancakes," the boy tells Gladys. "Big stack."

"Excellent choice, sweetheart. And for Dad?"

Dad. Not 'you.' Not 'sir.' Dad. Like she knows them.

"Burger. Medium. Fries."

"Coming right up."

She glides away. The boy cranes his neck, taking it all in. "This place is amazing. It's like that movie you showed me. The one with the cars?"

"American Graffiti."

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

The father looks around. He's right. In the corner booth, a teenage couple shares a milkshake. Two straws, one glass, their foreheads almost touching. The girl's wearing a letterman jacket that's too big for her. His, obviously. She laughs at something he says, covers her mouth with her hand. Her nails are painted that specific shade of not-quite-pink that every girl wore in old movies.

At the counter, a man in a gray flannel suit reads the sports page, cigarette balanced in an ashtray beside his coffee. The smoke rises in a perfect line, undisturbed. His hat, an actual fedora, sits on the counter beside him. He turns a page with the practiced motion of someone who reads a paper every morning of his life.

Three stools down, a trucker works through meatloaf and mashed potatoes, gravy pooling in the crater he's made. His plaid shirt's rolled to the elbows. Forearms like ham hocks. He eats with the steady rhythm of a man who considers meals fuel, not entertainment.

The family of four in the middle booth is something else. The father's in his Sunday suit even though it's Wednesday, his tie clip catching the light. The mother's dress is yellow with tiny flowers, her hair in a perfect wave. The two kids, a boy and a girl, maybe six and eight, are working through fried chicken with the focused intensity of kids who've been told they can't have dessert until they clean their plates. The boy's got a napkin tucked into his collar like a bib. The girl's mary janes swing under the table, not quite reaching the floor.

The jukebox kicks on. Sinatra. "I've Got You Under My Skin."

"I know this song," the boy says, surprised.

"Everyone knows this song."

IV.

The food arrives impossibly fast. The burger's a thing of beauty. Hand-formed patty. Real cheese. Bun that doesn't disintegrate. The fries still have skin on them. The boy's pancakes tower like a wheat-based skyscraper, butter sliding down the sides like it's BASE jumping.

"Oh my God," the boy says through his first mouthful. "These are incredible."

The father bites into his burger. Stops. It tastes exactly like the burgers his father made. Not similar. Exact. Down to the weird thing with pickle juice his dad did that he never told anyone about.

"Good?" Gladys appears, coffee pot in hand.

"Perfect."

"We aim to please." She tops off his mug without asking. "You boys from around here?"

"Passing through. Heading to Denver."

Her hand pauses mid-pour, coffee stream wavering for just a heartbeat. Her eyes unfocus, like she's trying to remember a word in a foreign language. Then she blinks, comes back, but there's a tightness around her mouth now. The look of someone who's just remembered they left the iron on but can't quite recall where.

"Denver," she repeats. "That's nice."

V.

The boy excuses himself to find the restroom. The father sits. Eats. Watches.

The other customers are interesting. All dressed like they're going somewhere nice. The men in narrow ties and pressed shirts. The women in those full-skirted dresses that require multiple petticoats. Even the kids look like catalog models. Scrubbed. Polished. Perfect.

The man at the counter turns a page of his newspaper. The father catches the date.

June 15, 1957.

Cute. They really commit to the bit here. Probably print them special. The father respects the dedication.

The couple in the corner haven't touched their milkshake. Just keep leaning toward each other, straws poised, like they're about to sip but never quite do. The father watches them for thirty seconds. A minute. They don't drink.

The boy returns. "The bathroom's so retro. They have those cloth towel things on rollers."

"They're really committed to the theme."

"I love it."

They eat. The boy demolishes his pancakes. The father works through his burger. Around them, the diner hums with conversation. But if he listens, really listens, it's the same conversations. Repeating.

"—Eisenhower's doing a fine job—"

"—that new Bel Air's a beauty—"

"—catch Perry Como last night?—"

Like a loop. Like a—

"Ready for the check?"

The father looks up. Gladys is there, but he didn't see her approach. One second empty space, next second she's standing beside their booth, order pad in hand.

"Actually, yes. We should—"

"Can we get pie?" The boy interrupts, eyes bright. "They have pie, right? In that spinning thing?"

"Always have pie, sweetheart." Gladys's smile doesn't move but somehow gets wider. "Cherry's fresh. Made it this morning."

"Dad, please?"

The father glances around. The teenage couple still hasn't touched their milkshake. Same level. Same two straws poised above the surface. The girl laughs the exact same laugh, hand covering her mouth in the exact same way. Like someone lifted a needle on a record and dropped it back at the same spot.

The man with the newspaper turns a page. But it's the same page. The father's sure of it. The same motion. The cigarette in the ashtray hasn't burned down. The smoke still rises in that perfect, undisturbed line.

"We really need to go." His voice comes out tighter than intended.

"Oh, don't rush off." Gladys sets her hand on the table. Her nails are perfect red ovals. No chips. No wear. Like they were painted five minutes ago. "The highway gets so dark this time of night. So easy to get turned around."

"We have GPS."

Her smile flickers. Just for a second. Like a TV losing signal. "GPS?" She says it carefully, like it's a foreign word. Then the smile returns, bright as ever. "Well, whatever that is, the highway gets so dark this time of night. So easy to get turned around."

"Dad?" The boy's looking between them, confused.

At the family's booth, the little girl picks up a drumstick. Takes a bite. Sets it down. The meat's still there. Whole. She picks it up again. Takes the same bite. Sets it down.

The father's throat goes dry. "Check. Please."

"Stay for pie," Gladys says. Not a question. Her eyes are very blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that doesn't exist in nature. "Everyone stays for pie."

The trucker at the counter pushes mashed potatoes onto his fork. Lifts it. Opens his mouth. The fork goes in empty. Comes out empty. The potatoes are still on the plate, untouched. He pushes them onto his fork again.

"We're leaving." The father starts to stand.

Gladys doesn't move. Blocks him without blocking. Just standing there, smiling. "Randy makes the best pie. Been making it since... oh, when did we open? Feels like yesterday. Feels like forever."

The jukebox skips. The same three seconds of Sinatra: "I've got you under my—I've got you under my—I've got you under my—"

"Move." The father's standing now.

The boy tugs his sleeve. "Dad, you're being weird."

Every head in the diner turns. Synchronized. Smooth as a music box with all its figures on the same gear. Looking at them. Just looking.

"Pie's on the house," Gladys says softly. "Everything's on the house if you stay."

The father reaches for his wallet. Pulls out a twenty. Drops it on the table. "Keep the change."

She picks up the bill. Holds it like it's something exotic. Something dangerous. "This isn't... we don't..." She stops. Folds it carefully. Once. Twice. Three times. Tucks it into her apron. When she looks up, her eyes are different. Still that impossible blue, but wet now. Shining.

"Thank you," she whispers. Then louder, performing for the room: "You folks drive safe now!"

The father grabs the boy's arm. Not rough, but firm. The kind of grip that says we're leaving now and I'll explain later.

VI.

They stand. The boy confused, stumbling after his father. As they walk to the door, the father sees it all clearly now. Nobody's eating. Nobody's ever been eating.

Forks rise. Mouths open. But nothing disappears. The same bites. The same sips. The same page turns. The same laugh. Over and over.

The father's hand on the door. He looks back. Everyone's still watching. Not obviously. Not directly. But watching.

Gladys stands behind the counter now—how did she get there so fast?—still holding that smile like it's the only thing keeping her upright. But her eyes. Jesus, her eyes. Blue like a gas flame turned too high, about to gutter out. When she blinks, it's too slow, like she's trying to hold onto the darkness behind her eyelids.

She mouths something. Just for him. Two words. No sound.

Thank you.

Then the smile clicks back into place. Automatic. Like a lock engaging. She waves the same perfect hostess wave, fingers together, side to side, but her other hand grips the counter edge so hard her knuckles go the color of bone.

VII.

Outside, the air tastes wrong. Thin. Like breathing at altitude, like the atmosphere can't decide what it wants to be.

The boy's already at the car, trying the handle.

"Dad. It's locked."

The father clicks the remote. The BMW chirps, headlights flashing once. Normal. Everything normal. But his hands shake as he grips the door handle. The metal feels too cold, like it's been sitting in a freezer.

They get in. The father's hand hesitates on the ignition—in movies, this is when the car won't start. When you're trapped. But the engine turns over immediately.

His finger finds the lock button. All four doors click at once. The boy glances at him.

"Dad?"

"Seatbelt."

The father's eyes scan the parking lot. The diner windows glow amber, and through them... nothing. Just light. Just the suggestion of movement. The air inside the BMW is wrong-cold, that cold you feel in empty houses. The back of his neck prickles. Every instinct screaming: watched.

They pull out, gravel crunching like bones under the tires. In the mirror, Randy's shrinks but doesn't fade. And in the doorway—how did he miss her coming outside?—Gladys. Still waving. Still smiling. Her hand moving back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome.

They're barely past the tree line when the boy's hand shoots to his pocket.

"My Switch."

"What?"

"I left it. In the booth."

The father looks in the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Trees. Road. Dark.

No diner. No sign. No warm glow.

"You're sure?"

"It was right there. Dad, it was just... turn around!"

The father slows. Considers. That warm light should be visible for at least a quarter mile. He can see nothing but pine trees and darkness.

"I... I don't think we can go back."

"What do you mean? Just turn—"

"It's not there anymore."

The boy twists in his seat, face pressed against the back window. "But... but my Switch."

VIII.

The GPS springs to life. Recalculating.

They're on I-70. Exactly where they should be. Forty-five minutes from Denver. The clock reads 10:47 PM.

The father blinks. Looks again. 10:47.

That's not possible.

They stopped at 7:15. Ate for maybe twenty minutes. Thirty at most. Should be 7:45. Maybe 8:00 if he's being generous.

Not 10:47.

Three hours. They lost three hours.

The boy's chin is sticky with syrup. The father tastes pickle juice. His father's secret ingredient. Dead thirty-seven years.

"Dad?"

The father's throat clicks. Dry. Like he hasn't spoken in years.

"That was a real place, right?"

Before he can answer, the GPS screen hemorrhages. Black to static to something else. Neon red bleeding through pixels like a wound.

RANDY'S DINER 0.1 miles

Thump.

His foot finds the brake. The BMW shudders, ABS chattering like teeth. The world outside the windshield shifts—interstate to gravel to—

They're in the parking lot.

No.

No no no no no.

The parking lot. That specific gravel. That specific angle of light. Like the last three hours were a held breath the universe just exhaled.

Same turquoise '57 Chevy, chrome throwing back their headlights like accusations. Same Hudson Hornet. Same Studebaker. The cars haven't moved. Not an inch.

Through the diner windows: amber light thick as honey. The teenage couple, foreheads still almost touching over their untouched milkshake. The man at the counter, newspaper page half-turned for eternity. The family of four, fried chicken cooling on their plates, cooling forever.

"Cool." The boy's seatbelt clicks. "We're back. I can get my Switch."

The father's hands won't release the steering wheel. Can't. His knuckles are white ridges, bone trying to escape skin. Through the glass door, he tracks movement. Gladys. Of course, Gladys.

She's at their booth.

Their booth.

The plates haven't moved. Burger bleeding grease into a perfect circle. Pancakes drowning slow. Syrup thick as motor oil, frozen mid-drip.

She's pouring coffee. The stream doesn't wobble. Doesn't splash. Just falls in a perfect brown column like she's done this ten thousand times. Will do it ten thousand more.

The father's hands are shaking now. His wedding ring, the one he still wears, Christ knows why, taps against the steering wheel. Tick. Tick. Tick.

She looks up. Through the glass. Those impossible blue eyes lock onto his.

Her hand never stops pouring. The coffee never overflows. The mug never fills.

She's smiling now. Not the waitress smile from before. This one's different. Satisfied. The smile of someone watching a mousetrap spring shut.

The boy's hand finds the door handle.

"Come on, Dad. Our food's getting cold."