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Dreamer's Diner

On dreams denied

By Aren GivensPublished 4 years ago 10 min read
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Dreamer’s Diner

“If you want to talk work opportunities,” the elderly man had said as he palmed his business card into my hand like a customer giving a discreet tip, “Meet me at the Dizzy Diner at noon tomorrow.”

Card in hand, I could feel the raised nature of the words imprinted on the front of the card, as if the plainly written text had been designed in the same manner as braille. The name on the card read ‘Dustin Holt,’ and his title that of ‘Menagerie Manager.’ The surface of the egg-white colored card seemed spackled with some subtle traces of glitter; as the feeble rays of sunlight burned through the early morning cloud cover, the glitter sparkled like gold filigree.

So captivated by the nature of the card was I that I failed to notice the man hadn’t bothered to wait for my response. By the time I looked up, he had thoroughly vanished. Despite my best attempts to locate him among the tightly packed crowd of onlookers gathered at the hiring fair. And though I searched every corner of the campus where the fair had been organized, I could find no booth that aligned with the nature of the man or his card.

No onlooker could recall having encountered such a figure, and those working the booths were far more interested in pitching their elevator speeches than attempting to help me locate a potential rival.

And so it was that I ended the day with a carrying bag full of employment applications and organizational leaflets that promised the future. But only one business card that I tucked into the most intact sleeve of my childhood wallet. As I rode the local transit home, following the fair’s closure, fear that the card might become lost chewed at my mind. Every few stops, I rummaged in my back pocket to remove my wallet and ensure the card was still there.

Each time I was equal measures assured that the card was still in my possession and terrified that it would not be the next time I looked. The two sides held one another at a stalemate until the anxious side one over and I clutched the card in my hands like a passenger awaiting ticket approval by transit authorities.

By the time, the bus reached my destination the card had become deeply creased by the angle at which I’d held it. Yet despite its disfigurement, it retained some of its luster as I stepped off the bus and began the several block long walk to my home. Head bowed, I attempted to restore the card to its original shape as I lugged the tote bag weighted down with paperwork towards my house.

Preoccupied as I was with the card, I paid to attention to the manner in which the strap around my shoulder dug into the flesh with every few steps. Nor did I bother to double-check that the clasp on the bag was firmly secured, and I have no doubt that I left something of paper trail behind me as I walked along. By the time I’d reached the front-door step, the card had been restored to some semblance of its original state. As I removed the strap from around my neck, I noted the decreased weight and assumed that I’d adjusted to the burden.

Inside my apartment, I deposited the tote back on the couch. As I sank into the cushion beside it, I lay the business card atop the coffee table before me and began the process of sorting through the applications. After the first few applications had been completed and returned to the confines of my bag, I felt a compulsion to fixate on the card once again. After all, the meeting at the diner tomorrow could surely be considered an interview and brought me closer to the future than the mountain of applications at my side.

From the desk, I retrieved my laptop and attempted to learn more about the ambiguous figure and the company he represented. Much to my dismay, I gleamed little information pertaining to who he might be or what this opportunity might consist of. But for what I lacked in information about this interview, I made up in knowledge about the diner. After discerning how I would arrive, there I read a little about its historical nature and that it struggled to retain its staff. It seemed a quaint place, and I imagined that it would provide a decent backdrop for discussion with a potential employer.

Having held few formal jobs outside college, I took the opportunity to browse a number of websites dedicated to interview prep. By the end of my cram session, the sun had set outside, and my cat had crawled atop the pile of applications still awaiting my fountain pen’s ink. Beneath her weight, the applications crinkled and bent. But it was a minor nuisance to tug them out from beneath her and return to the task of filling them in as if they were standardized tests.

Having made my way through a good portion of the pile, my hand began to cramp up, so I took a break to review my progress. I knew I’d need to devise some manner of returning these completed applications so took a moment to plan out my route as I had when researching the diner. None of them were anywhere near my intended destination for tomorrow, and as I thought about it, it seemed unwise to carry around a bunch of applications to my meeting. So I figured I’d hold off dropping them off until the following day. With that determination, I set my pen down.

In my bedroom, I’d hung a calendar to the wall; each day marked with an ‘X’ for which I’d submitted an application but heard nothing back; they had long ceased to look like individual marks and had become a single continuous shape. But for the following day, I drew a circle around the date. From the comfort of my bed, I spent a large amount of time admiring that mark in the calendar. And when I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts were of the possibilities that awaited.

When I awoke the next morning, the feeling of anxiety muddled my thoughts as I prepared for my day. Despite the ease with which I could reach the diner, I found myself compulsively checking the directions. My heart pounded in chest as I considered all things that would prevent me from making my appointed meeting.

By the time I was headed out the door, I’d envisioned nearly every catastrophe I could think of. Despite the never ending cycle of doom that occupied my thoughts, I had the presence of mind to bring the card with me. Perhaps I considered it a sort of good luck charm that would protect me. From both misfortune real and imagined.

The diner was located on a quite side street tucked away from the main road. Though one could imagine that once upon a time, its sign could have been spotted from anywhere it town. But were once small shops had been the lay of the land, towering apartment building obscured everything in sight.

Stepping into the diner felt like stepping into the past; everything from the simplistic jingle of the front door’s bell, to the antique varnished benches at the tables seemed unchanged. The uniforms of the wait staff too seemed as if they’d been made in some local print shop and lacked the detachment of attire produced abroad.

“How many are we seating for?” said a waiter who approached me as I stood at the entrance.

“Two,” I said. I scanned about the empty diner for signs of the man, but he was clearly no where in sight. Though as I followed the waiter to an appointed table, I found myself prying at the faces of those already seated. Perhaps hopeful that I might have simply overlooked him in my haste.

It might have just been my imagination, but as I passed one of the tables, I thought I caught a familiar glint of golden filigree upon a egg-shell colored card. But when I turned my head more squarely towards the source, the person shuffled their hands and my view was obstructed.

“What brings you here today?” said the waiter as he laid two menus atop the table as I slid into my seat.

“I have an interview with someone,” I said as I held out the business card. “Supposed to meet him at noon.”

“Wonderful,” said the waiter as he flipped over a coffee cup on the table and filled it the brim with a fragrant connection. As he pulled away from the table, he spared a glance toward the card.

“You know anything about this?” I held out the card closer to the waiter.

“Can’t say that I do,” said the waiter. “But if it’s work, you’re looking for, we have open positions. I could get you an application.”

“No,” I said as I retracted the card from the man’s face. “That’s alright.”

By the time, I’d drained the first cup of coffee it was well past noon and the bearer of the card had failed to show. In his place, though I’d witnessed a slow procession of others filter into the diner. And though they were cautious about it, I know I spotted a few of them clinging to those business cards. And each time the waiter was asked if he knew anything about he, his response was always the same statement of ignorance.

“You have one too,” I said as I leaned across the back of the seat towards a woman who sat alone. I flashed the business card in her direction.

“No,” she said, averting her eyes. “You’re mistaken.”

It was the same no matter how many I tried to approach. Before long the diner was crowded with people. Many who eyed each other with a sort of contemptible level of suspicion reserved for enemies on opposite side of the battlefield. Many did not stick around.

After so many cups of coffee that I began to feel intoxicated by the caffeine, I realized that hours had passed. And still the man had failed to show. The crowd that had arrived soon after me had moved on, and only the regulars remained now.

“Shift change,” said the waiter as he placed a bill atop my table.

I unfolded the piece of paper and produced the required payment from my wallet. As I handed the lot of it to him, he said:

“He ever show?”

“No,” I said as I pocketed the business card that had rested atop the table, “Another dead end.”

“Perhaps,” said the waiter as he went to add the money to the cash register. He returned with a double-sided application. “Maybe today was just a bad day, and tomorrow will be better.”

“I’ve no reason to come back tomorrow,” I said.

“Could always drop this off with us,” said the man as he slid the application across the table.

“I’ll think about it,” I said as I took the paper from him.

Shortly after he’d departed, I too decided it was time to make my way home. As I passed through the exit, I spied a garbage can. It overflowed with an abundance of applications that must have been deposited by others as they dejectedly departed. I was about to follow suit, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted the man from the previous day making his way out of the diner’s back exit.

He moved with purpose and before I could get his attention, had entered a car and pulled onto the main road. As I watched him disappear into the distance, I found myself still in possession of the application. And as I began my way homeward, I found my mind churning with the possibilities that might await me tomorrow.

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