Chapter 8

The Last Day

11:13:15 p.m.

Truly awful music played from an ancient jukebox. A decrepit postcard taped haphazardly to the register sternly proclaimed:

"In God We Trust.

All Others Have to PAY!"

That card had been taped in place by the owner, who still lived but rarely came around. A formerly rich stockbroker humbled by a serious of disastrous investment schemes, Richard Brooks had used his last remaining savings to buy the diner. He had renovated an old property that he had taken in trade for a long forgotten debt and opened the diner as a hedge against poverty. Over the decades, the diner had provided his best source of support and a boatload of valuable tax deductions. Still, Richard was no nearer the Last Chance this Christmas Eve than he was on any other day. Besides having its own special place in the diner, that warning postcard was the source of unending conversation, none of which came near the boring truth. Sometime in the distant past, it was said, a forgotten short order cook taped it there after an inebriated regular attempted to secure financing for a meal. Someone thought the cook's last name had been Short. Others argued that Shorty had been the cook's nickname, given by an equally forgotten waitress. Still others claimed that the forgotten cook had a name with very few letters; hence it was a short name, not the name "Short." Those with enough seniority to remember a waitress and short order cook from 1968 often wrangled over the names of other forgotten patron saints of the Last Chance Diner.

On the last day, the tired old argument seemed more passionate than usual, and it raged furiously until the lights went out. After the lights clicked back on, several regulars began arguing instead about when was the last time the diner had gone dark. The vote was three to two in favor of four winters back, but no one could remember why it had happened or for how long it had lasted.

It was another night like all the rest at the old diner. Nothing was ever new and nothing ever changed.

If asked, not one patron would have admitted noticing the long haired, wild-eyed derelict standing on a milk crate directly across the street. He held a crude sign that proclaimed, "THE END IS NEAR," in block letters, hand written. In case that was not enough to remind the busiest passersby, it was repeated in smaller letters, "The End Is Near!" No one saw him coming or going. He was just there.

The old guy had been around for weeks. No one remembered precisely when he had taken up residence across the way. In the intervening weeks, he had become a fixture, as dependable as the diner's menu. It didn't matter what time of day you passed, he was there, faithful and determined. One of the younger waitresses had nicknamed him "Old Faithful."

His sign, though exposed to wind, rain, and snow, never seemed any worse for the wear. On the last day, he was as much a fixture as the lamppost. To some, he was oddly comforting because he was the same, all day, every day.

The old man missed nothing in the power outage argument. When the men discussed the Mayan end date having passed three days earlier, the old man snorted and commented about people needing to learn to read calendars a little better. The Mayans had had it nearly right. The ancients had simply missed a few minor details.

On the last day, both the old man and the beetle were perfectly positioned for the show as the timer blinked its warning. 12:00.