“It’s people, ‘aint it?”
I turned around to see who’d spoken. That late at night, there were just a few customers left, and only one was staring me down unblinking. He was a heavyset gruff looking fella with a salt-and-pepper goatee and an old trucker hat with the name ‘Craig’ on it.
“Beg your pardon?” I asked.
He gestured to a decade-old promotional poster on the wall. ‘Guess our secret ingredient and win all-you-can-eat tacos for a year’ I’d forgotten it was even there. Funny how when you look at something for too long, it disappears.
“It’s people, yeah?”
His voice was like sandpaper. It was so over the top in how deep and rough it sounded, if he were a WWE wrestler, his agent would tell him to reel it in some.
I laughed and wiped down the table next to his. “If it was, I’d have the FDA breathing down my neck right now.”
He grunted.
“Can I take that for ya?” I asked, motioning to his empty plate.
He crumpled his napkin, tossed it on the plate, and then shoved it closer to me without a word. I picked it up and gave his table a quick wipe.
“I know it’s people,” he said, “I ‘aint gonna tell no one. It’s our secret.”
I laughed and shrugged as I walked behind the counter and put his plate in my lukewarm dish water. The suds had congealed into some kind of moss clinging to the sides of the sink. It was probably time to change the water, but I figured I’d be closing up soon anyways. Just three more cups of coffee and two plates left. I could make it.
The trucker tossed some coins on the table and stood up. It’d be rude to count, but I did give a quick glance to make sure there was enough.
“Need change?” I asked.
“Nah,” he answered.
He walked over to the counter and grabbed one of my take-out menus, folded it in half, then stuffed it into his dirty jeans. I saw him turn on his heels to leave, but he stopped suddenly and looked me dead in the eye.
“Might have some fresh produce for ya soon,” he said, patting the pocket where he’d shoved the menu. “We can figure out payment later.”
I chuckled and waved. He walked out of my little diner without another word. The beams of his truck lit up the parking lot as he pulled back onto the highway. I was just one stop on the road for him, and he was just one of the many faces my diner attracted late at night for being one of the only places open past midnight around here. I would have forgotten all about him, if I hadn’t come in one morning and found a note on the door.
“Delivered ya fresh produce. Let myself in. It’s in the freezer.”
I was perplexed. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but I knew exactly how they’d gotten in: the freaking key under the welcome mat. It was missing. I walked into the diner, expecting to find it ransacked, but everything was fine. Totally normal. Until I checked the freezer.
“Jesus H Christ God Almighty,” I muttered beneath my breath.
There were three poor souls hanging from the meat hooks. It’s weird, you know? I know I saw them there, I remember calling the cops in a panicked frenzy, but thank God I can’t actually remember any specifics. I couldn’t tell you what they looked like. Not their genders, not their skin color, not their sizes. It’s all a blur.
That was weeks ago, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember what Craig looked like ever since. It’s hard for the police to find him, because ‘fat trucker with a goatee’ describes about 70% of my customer base.
I was told not to worry about it. Lightning never strikes twice. They said Craig would never come back. It was too risky, but…there was a message from an unknown caller on my answering machine this morning. There was no mistaking that deep, gruff voice.
“Your next delivery’s ready. Don’t worry about the diner. I’ll leave it at your place.”
