A lonley diner waiter finds herself intrigued by a man carrying a small book and a pen, silently keeping to himslef.
—a/n: yk how hard it is to find a slow burn grimey gotham fic now a days... damn.
The crackling radio at the counter whispered an old jazz song, reminiscent of early days. It grounded me to this moment. That sliver in time when the earth began to close its eyes and the air holds still against pooling sunlight. Specks of dust lay to rest as the world begins to slow for the arrival of night. This place remained stagnant, the white tiles now wore a creamy color, sticky in nature but wise with memories. I delayed turning the harsh fluorescents on; the night would reserve much of their power anyway. For now I preferred to sit in this tacky diner until Gotham settled into the night. The city's second shift, its secret life.
The sun finally dips below the horizon and the neon lights of Paulie's Diner flood the dark streets in garish colors that reflect upon the soaked concrete. 11PM, the remaining evening crowd had gone off to see their wives, children, maybe even an empty home. Whatever the reason, this place remained, awaiting the second wave of hungry men and women. A group of people that held little urgency towards their life, but still managed this tension in their broadened shoulders or cigarette-ordained fingers. Upon working here I realized that diners are a transitory middle ground for all walks of life. People come in the midst of arguments, talks, and tensions. Introductions and ends. This diner is a neutral place. At night however it becomes heavy with a sensation of regret; the bar puts away the Sunday bowls and replaces them with small shot glasses brimmed with cheap liquor.Your manager, Adriana, a woman with a sticky black bob and crow's feet at her eyes, makes sure the cameras are on and some of the male employees are on shift.
Only, much like Switzerland, no one dared to make a huge ruckus. Paulie's was spared a dignity unlike the Waffle House down the street. Maybe because it held a place in most eastern Gothamites' hearts, but who knows.A man of the normal clientele walks in. Buried under bulky layers and a leather coat, a hood and cap casting a shadow under his eyes. What was not so ordinary was his hulking frame and height. Though you had seen your fair share of goons and gangsters roaming about every once in a while, enough not to fear the man.
"Welcome to Paulie's, what can I get you sir?" Your hand waits by the creasing papers of your flimsy notepad, red nails already chipped after a week's worth of work. The man shuffles and, being met with silence, you slowly peer up at his figure. His gaze remained fixed on the menu, with what seemed like no real intention of having walked in here in the first place.
"Our house burger is pretty solid. I'll probably have one tonight if that makes ya feel any better."
His thin lips go taut and with a small nod he hands you a 20. "That will be 11.50, would you like a fountain drink to go with it?" He nods once more, shifting the brim of his cap and looking away.
"Could I get a name for your order?"
"Todd." His voice almost comes out boyish, but still deep and gravelly enough to uphold the whole mysterious thing he had going on.
"Alright, that'll be ready for you in a bit." Running your fingers along his receipt, you pass him the parchment and a cup with a lid. As time passes you tend to some other customers, weaving through the kitchen and the bar, cleaning tables sparingly between orders. As you ran a cloth along the sticky counter near the coffee machine and shakers, the bell above the door rings. A cool breeze of air whips in your direction when a short man clad in denim with a thinning head comes stumbling in, rambling incoherently."Rain.. stupid thing... ALWAYS raining here..."
His hands go up in the air as he makes his nightly prayers to Lady Gotham, wildly moving with the holy spirit as he wrecks the bulletin board of cancelled concerts and contractor ads. Your head turns to Michael by the register, unbothered by the man's display at the entrance. Adriana lazily yells his name from the back and he sighs with a roll of his eyes. You look around to see if any customers really cared for the scene. It's Gotham after all, the lounging diners didn't really bat an eye. The hooded man however seemed alert, his knee slightly lifted from his stool as his gaze lingered at his peripherals. Your assumption about his career line might have been right after all, but the man never really does anything. Michael leads the inebriated man out the door with a cup of water and even offers to get him a taxi, even if the broke college boy could barely afford his own phone bill.
The hooded man then resumes to the small paperback in his hands, shoulders untensing as the waiter boy closed the door. Todd, if that was his real name anyway, held a ballpoint to his book, glancing around slightly. Maybe waiting for his order, maybe not wanting anyone to peek at the contents of his scribbles. Either way it reminded you to check in on the kitchen.
"Is uh, order 35 done?" You peer your head under the delivery window. Michael is tying his apron back on.
"I barely started the patty, I had to deal with Mr. Bean over there didn't I?"
"Oh hush. You should be glad the man could barely walk on his own two feet. We all know you punch like a girl."
"Whatever." The boy shakes his head, fringy hair swaying, a tsk at the edge of his lips.Sighing, you look back at the hooded man. The scar on his hand catches your eye as he flips through another page.
"So uh, a big guy like you reads..." You peek down to read the cover. "Jane Austen, huh?" A small huff and smirk land on your lips. You half expected him to spare you some dry witty response, but the way he ordered food proved otherwise. He only looks up at you, unamused, letting the prolonged silence speak for itself. Cringing, you straighten your back and clear your throat. "Sorry, your order should be ready soon anyway." Dropping a fist lightly to the counter, you walk away to find some other busy work.
The night continues as programmed and a yawn reaches your lips. The clock by the broken jukebox says it's basically time for your break. Unraveling your apron, you drop by Adriana's office, her door open and a small cool table lamp illuminating her mess of papers. "I'm going on break for a bit, would you mind covering for 15 minutes? Marie didn't show."The older woman held her fingers to her temple, rummaging through bills and ordering sheets.
"Sure, serves me as a break from all this mess." She sighed, pushing her chair back with a quick swivel."
Thank you." You smile, ready to nag Michael for an order. After a couple of minutes you scroll through your phone. Empty inboxes, automated reminders about rent deadlines and college assignments. In your contacts you hope for some semblance of human interaction, but nothing remains besides old conversations with classmates and your aunt. It's late, who would be texting this late anyway. Looking around at the dimly lit locker room, desolate and still, you crave something. Maybe it was just the hunger and fatigue, maybe the yearning for your cozy bed, but you felt like you lacked something. In the very sense of the word, you felt the absence of something that lingered in its place.
Shutting the screen off, you let a small breath escape between your lips and head through the kitchen. "Hey, your dinner's ready." Michael gestures to the cheap red plating with his spatula and a small warmth takes place in your heart. A misplaced sense of domesticity settles somewhere in your gratitude towards your coworker. Your relationship was impersonal, but the small action fed you in a way. Picking it up from the silver counter, you nod back at him.
"Thanks, want anything from the bar?"
He shakes his head. "I'll get something later."
"Oh, alright." The food warms the tips of your fingers and as you walk up to the front you are still met with the hooded man from before. Half his meal is finished and he slowly picks at the rest, too invested in the book you had stupidly commented on. For some reason this man had been your only real source of entertainment tonight, his presence holding something mysterious yet plain that intrigued you. The way he folded into himself as if he felt ill-fitting in this large place. Coming out of a daze you realized you had unintentionally sat right next to him.
"Told you I was going to eat one." You mumble meekly at the burger in front of you, shrugging your shoulders.
He doesn't say anything but throws you a bone with a grunt of acknowledgement. Side by side, the two of you eat silently in the hum of fluorescents, clanking dishes, and rain dampened conversations. The clock slowly ticks by as you lazily chew your food, the man beside you rustling with the paper wrapping of his burger. Occasionally his shoulder would brush against yours, and you resisted the urge to flinch, ignoring the small flicker of warmth that ran through you. Looking down by the base of the stools you noticed the drying mud on his boots, bulky and military-like. He sniffled every so often and his large hand comically dwarfed the paper cup. At the corner of your eye you could make out his strong jaw, unhurriedly working through the rest of his food. Sitting beside him you entertained this strange fantasy of a connection, like the two of you had wandered into this diner with a history beyond today. Maybe he was treating you, after a long day at college, the both of you drunk and hungry in the middle of the night. His eyes never once drifted your way and the reminder of your reality settled back in quietly, but you still appreciated his lack of complaint at your side. Like little kids sat on a curb on a hot summer day, the energy between you was awkward but comfortable in a strange way. Dusting the last bits of salt from your fingers you hear Adriana call you back to your spot. Sparing the man a final glance, he still seems tied up in his own business, so you pick up your plate and head to the back once more.
When you return, apron tied back at your waist, the man has disappeared. His absence strangely noticeable for how fully he had filled the past hour. You take a rag to his space, a paper cup and wrinkled receipt left in his wake, a couple of ones haphazardly tossed on the tray. Taking his trash you spot the little book laying a seat away, face down, spine creased, like he left in a hurry or just forgot himself. What confused you was his apparent attachment to these bound pages, only to have left them behind. You glance around to see if he might come running back for it but there's no sign of him. Picking the book up by one finger to its open page, you can't help but take a small look. For such a grizzly man his handwriting was a neat mix of cursive scrawl alongside the typed words, laid carefully between the lines and margins.
"He was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the Elliot family. A mere nobody."
"Precisely so; only a nobody, to whom the Elliots of Kellynch-hall were quite indifferent."nobody is a comfortable thing to beYou read it once. Then again. Thumb hovering over the page like you might leave something back, and then thinking better of it. You don't write anything. You just close it carefully, more carefully than you would your own things, and slip it into your apron pocket.
