Chapter 9

The Last Day

11:16:21 p.m.

The diner couldn't be referred to as "family friendly" because there was a distinguishable code. Those that were from too far outside their bounds found no welcome, no business, and no contentment there. A regular would never bring a child to Last Chance. The conversation was often too ribald for that. It didn't matter if it was 3:00 p.m. or 3:00 a.m., conversation might turn to adult topics.

One famous night, an unfortunate streetwalker had been so offended by the discussion of female complications and sexually transmitted diseases that she had ranted at the diners before storming out to search for a higher class of degenerate.

A long forgotten bad boy had discovered the power of horribly overheated and maniacally prepared coffee when he had overstayed his welcome. Patrons had laughed about his predicament for days before moving on to other victims.

Over the course of years, the diner's personality had swirled and settled into the unique blend of dysfunction that was reflected on the last night. It was easy to understand how the place felt like home and the diners acted like family.

Patrons of the Last Chance were often lifelong customers. Rarely did a regular cease to visit for any reason other than death, disability, or forced separation. Several patrons present on the last night were second-generation diners and therefore had attained semi-famous status. Many a discussion had examined just who was the current diner with most seniority.

On this December 24, the assembled patrons carefully avoided mentioning what the date signified, out of courtesy to those who had no families with whom to celebrate the holiday. Christmas Eve was a huge day in Bethlehem, and the city was crowded with strangers, tourists, and family members returning from far away, all in town to celebrate Christmas.

On the last day, every single one of those visitors dined elsewhere. Only the regulars were present or soon to arrive. Over the years, the Last Chance had become a haven for this unique and bizarre cast of customers, occasionally leavened by the addition of a more ordinary person. Tonight, however, it was just the regulars.

Those who earned the title had come in on a more or less regular basis, interacted with the other regulars, and each had developed a personal niche within the castes of Bethlehem. Each had grown familiar over months to years, depending upon how the fit with other regulars—how unusual his or her behavior. Some diners never achieved such hallowed status and some gained it overnight. The more dysfunctional personalities were noticed sooner, and the regulars began to notice their absences as well. One with a greater sense of humor would find it the easier to become a "member." People love to laugh, and at the Last Chance especially, laughter was the elixir of life.

For those poor souls who were easy to laugh at, regular status meant being expected to provide comic relief, at your own expense, to some who were irrationally cruel. For some regulars, in fact, cruelty knew no bounds until another regular shouted for them to "knock it off." When a chorus of approving voices joined in, the cruelty would stop for a while.

On the last night, all types of characters were present. The cruel, comic, sad, lonely, and malfunctioning occupied their regular places, waiting for the show to begin.

At the worn, faded counter sat two steel workers, whose shift had ended at ten. By habit, they had stopped at Last Chance for a late supper and hot coffee. Tony Morelli wished to avoid an empty home until he was sufficiently exhausted to walk in, clean up a little, down a few drinks to take the edge off, and surrender to the oblivion of sleep, without losing time contemplating the empty apartment that perfectly reflected his life.

Not yet an alcoholic, Tony was working his way through the stages of alcohol abuse, on his way to full-blown addiction. Night sweats, bizarre dreams, and alcoholic cravings were common, but full D.T.'s were not yet his cross to bear. Those who chatted about nothing each night with Tony had no idea how tormented he was deep inside.

The child of a dysfunctional relationship, Tony had spent his childhood hiding under his bed, afraid his father would kill his mother during their daily shouting matches. Only occasionally had the shouting developed into the sound of fist on flesh, but when it did, Tony had hidden and cried for hours.

This had gone on for fourteen years, eleven months and twenty-nine days before his father, in an alcoholic fit, had inevitably hit his mother too hard and put her in the hospital on life support. When she died at 4:00 on the morning of Tony's fifteenth birthday, his father had been charged with murder and ultimately served life without parole. He had been lucky. The jury had recommended the electric chair, but the judge had not seen fit to electrocute a man who "only did what he had to do to keep his wayward wife in line."