The Train Cart

Noah threw himself down in the booth. It was late, like it always was when he finally got around to making it in. He avoided the diner during the day, preferring the anonymity that came with the night crowd. The diner was a second home to Noah, had been his whole life. And a lot of ways a refuge when he needed it. Currently his actual home was a disaster. The renovations taking a permanent back seat while he focused on actual paid projects.

Milky specks decorated the sky through the darkened windows, the witching hour calling only the regulars in. Especially in the dead of winter. Noah was fairly sure the cook staff had no idea he co-owned the joint. He preferred it that way, ducking into a favorite back booth every time he came in. He was up to his eyes in demos and starting to feel the desperation that always settled in this time of year. They had limited daylight hours to work, and one good storm – that the good weather folks constantly threatened was coming – could set him behind months.

Taking a breath to settle himself he glanced around the converted train cart. He could still remember the large behemoth before it was the diner. The hulking heap of metal and steel rotting away. Local lore said the massive passenger cart had been part of a runaway train held hostage by bandits. The back end falling away when the renegades needed to make a hasty escape. Noah always thought that was a bunch of hogwash. But he did know that the train cart had sat on High Street for over a century. The bustling downtown strip cradling the vessel boasted all kinds of shops and businesses.

The township had made noises of tearing the bulky convoy down. That was when Noah’s parents spent every last cent they had into buying it. Noah’s mother had always dreamed of owning her own café and the abandoned train cart gave her dreams flight.

She wanted to keep the local lore alive and maintain the dignity of the cart. So, the family, and some really good contractors, painfully refurbished and reinvented the train. It was when Noah at eight years old knew he wanted to use his hands to create and build for the rest of his life.

Rich deep mahogany, chocolate, and chrome snuggled the inside of the diner. The cozy ambiance a perfect blend of familiar and foreign. Simple design. A long bar tucked the kitchen away from the public and a smattering of booths lines the windows. A juke box tucked into one end. Small register and hostess station at the other. In the summer they would set up tables outside along the bustling sidewalk of High Street. People would stop in after long days of shopping beside harried workers rushing to grab a quick lunch.

It always brought him joy to know his parents’ legacy would continue with the diner. He glanced around the space frowning down at the beat-up floor, that hadn’t been changed in the 25 years the diner has operated. The tile floor could really use an update and the ceiling….

Noah threw his head in his hands.

He needed to stop.

He didn’t need to pile on yet another project to his already overwhelming list. His brother would let him know if he needed him to fix anything up.

Rita nodded to him when she came out from the back. Within a few short minutes, he had a large steaming mug of the nectar of the gods, a slice of chocolate cake, and a quick peck on the side of his head. No words needing to pass between them. He smiled gratefully at Rita, taking a long fortifying gulp. He didn’t even care that it burned most of his throat. He was beat. He needed to organize his workload, make sure numbers meshed like he thought they did, be able to go home. His bed reached its tantalizing fingers out to him with annoying persistence.

The usual suspects were all in attendance tonight. Noah had identifiers for all of them, but he was sure Rita knew not only everyone’s name but also that of their closest loved ones. Rita had known Noah, and his older brother Tom, their entire life. Her children grew up with the brothers and the families spent holidays together and were one big unit. When they had lost both his parents, Rita’s family took them in completely.

Letting out a long sigh, Noah took out his stack of papers. He met Rita’s eyes, her kind face decorated with wrinkles and long silver braid causing Noah to clench with guilt. She had been asking him to come by to help with her fireplace for months. He kept meaning to get over there, but project after project piled up on him. And if he wasn’t careful the whole house of cards would crumble.

Tomorrow.

He would get there tomorrow.

He looked away, procrastinating. Studying the other patrons. Pinocchio sat in the first booth. The man in no way looked like a wooden puppet. Jack Nicholson glasses and scowl. But every night without fail he would have his black fedora perched on his bald head. Bright red feather stuck in the cap. Variations of suspenders and button up tops with slacks. A gold ring glinted on his finger, but he always came alone. Noah suspected a widower.

Eggs Benedict would pick either the third or fourth booth, Noah guessed, by whatever mood she was in. Middle aged woman always in varying shades of blue and grey. She never ordered anything other than Eggs Benedict. Every. Single. Night. She would always do the crossword in a newspaper as she chewed away happily, never tiring of the same meal 365 days a year.

Italian suit sat in his usual booth close to the juke box. Laptop and books spread all over as his fingers clacked over the keyboard. Noah had to hand it to him, he sat where the incessant tap- tap- tap would be the least annoying.

Guess people could still be considerate.

Noah snorted to himself.

Yeah right. He parked his overly expensive butt there for the same reason Noah always picked the corner booth.

These seats had the best view of the bar. And that was where Tiny Dancer always sat. Perched delicately on a stool long blonde hair cascading down her back. She always looked like she just walked off the set of flash dance with the crazy outfits she would wear. Noah wondered if anyone else noticed her saddened eyes. Defeated expression.

Noah rarely had time for relationships. Heck, he couldn't even remember the last time he was involved with a woman. But Tiny Dancer always got his blood flowing if they made eye contact or he caught her smiling.

She was gorgeous, a blind man could see that. And her crazy dancer outfits suited her. But Noah could tell, she too was beaten down. He was watching her at this moment, smile and chat with Rita, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

The door to the diner jingled open and Noah glanced around quickly. All the usual suspects were already here. The man who walked in held himself in a way that immediately made the hair rise on Noah’s neck. Rita patted Tiny Dancer on the arm walking over to the register and smiling to the man.

Who whipped Rita across the face with the butt of his gun.

A series of things happened in the breath it took for Noah to fly to his feet and take a step.

Tiny Dancer slammed her hands on the counter screaming. She leaped up leaning over the counter grabbing the baseball bat Rita kept tucked beneath. And then she charged the man.

“No absolutely not. You get out. Get the heck out right you little pickle penis sad sack. This is my place.” Tiny Dancers low husky voice was laced with insanity as she ran at the guy swinging the bat. She caught him in the stomach. The man doubled over dropping his gun which Tiny Dancer kicked away. She drew the bat again her voice now barely discernible, “Think your tough? You just met your nightmare buddy. I’ll kill you and feed your entrails to your family, you worthless scum stick.” This time she brought the bat down on the man’s knee the discernable crack ricocheting off the metal tube.

She drew the bat back again ready to strike when Noah caught it in his hand.

“Hey now sweetheart, let me have that.” Noah said gently pulling the bat from her hands. He glanced over his shoulder. “Benedict, call the police.”

Tiny Dancer’s eyes were on fire. She looked at Noah in such a way that he could feel his insides burn. He half expected smoke to sizzle off his body. He held the bat behind his back and gestured for her to sit. She didn’t break eye contact with Noah. And it unsettled him. Women rarely met his eyes, and those who did never held him captive by the stare.

Finally, when the sound of sirens echoed in the distance she sighed. The would-be robber sprawled on the floor gasping in pain. She looked down her nose at him, stomping down on his hand as she sat back down.

The dining cart fell into silence. Freddie the night cook came out with all the commotion and was gingerly helping Rita to her feet while holding a bag of frozen peas to her face. Blood trickled down her cheek mixing with her flooding tears.

Pinocchio let out a whooping cheer and clapped his hands together. “Girlie you are a hero.”

Tiny Dancer shrank back into herself then, though her eyes still blazed. “I had a bad day, and he hurt Rita.”

Pinocchio snorted. “I don’t think there is a single person here who would go against what you did. But dearie, you might want to take some kick boxing or something.”

Noah resisted the chuckle that surged up. He gently placed the bat on an empty table, Italian suit joining the melee at the doorway.

“Ma’am I’m a lawyer. If you don’t mind, I think it would be best I spoke with the cops first when they got here, explain that you acted in complete self-defense.”

The man on the floor jerked, scoffing. The room turned to look at him. “Self-defense? That bi-”

Tiny Dancer leapt up reaching for the bat behind Noah who held her back. The man flinched crowding in on himself.

Noah, not knowing what else to do, and knowing he was not getting any work done for the rest of night, poured everyone fresh coffee.