Story #2
Frank hated diners. He hated the shiny chrome and perky ambiance. He hated the cheerful music, the squeaky naugahyde seats, the paper napkins and full sets of silverware that wasn't even real silver. And every thing except coffee came with a straw. Straws! Straws were those things in barns or mattresses. Not eating establishments. He longed, just for a moment, deeply and desparately for the comfort of a solid wooden table and the knowledge that everyone in the place would carry their own knife. But those days were over, and he was better off not thinking of them any more.
He managed not to wince at the squeak of the naugahyde as he eased himself into a booth. He smiled at the waitress who brought his coffee and creamers, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He took the profered menu and did not notice her lack of an answering smile. She turned on her heel and left to attend another table.
He did not focus on the pictures of plastic food and the ad copy of descriptions. It didn't really matter what he ate here. He knew it would have to accompany Tums or the like, or he'd be in pain. He had almost gotten used to it. He fished in his pockets, but he didn't find any. Damn.
The waitress returned to the table and put a plate of french toast with ham in front of him and a jar of maple syrup on the table. She then sat across from him.
"I just told them I am taking my break now," she informed him, crossing her arms across her chest. "I want to know a few things and have questions for you. Who the hell are you, and why have you been stalking me?" Her eyes stared at him. She wasn't glaring, but there was certainly no hint of kindness.
"I'm Frank Syncope." He poured syrup on the french toast and cut it into tiny bites and began to eat. He continued talking between bites. "I didn't expect you to notice me. You weren't supposed to. I'm not even supposed to try to talk to you for another week."
"You're on a fucking schedule?"
He managed a shrug. "I talk to a lot of people."
Her lips were pressed firmly together.
"It's not supposed to be this way. You aren't supposed to be antagonizing me. I'm trying to be friendly. To confide in you what you are going to need to know. You're unbalancing me and I am not sure what to do now."
"Well, at least it sounds like you're trying to be honest. But if Frank Syncope is your real name, I'll eat my apron."
He stopped chewing and thought about Louis for a moment. He was still in a tiny apartment in a tenement, but last time he saw him, he was in New Jersey and running a counterfeit operation between long gaming sessions over the internet. Louis had been dating an ER nurse and just liked the way the words felt together. He was happy to be Frank Syncope and not something much worse. "It's a legal name. It'll do," he said. "If it makes you feel better, I can show you my id."
"I'd like that." She unfolded an arm to hold out her hand.
He sighed, and handed her the plastic that declared him Frank Syncope of 21 Paris Ave, Tartus, NY, height 5'10" and weight 195, eyes brown, hair brown. He knew his weight was bigger than that. He also knew his hair would need another dye job in about two weeks. "Here."
She looked at it. She seemed to know the feel of fake ids and did a couple of tests- rubbed it for chalk and held it up to the light, and ran a thumbnail along the edge. She frowned and handed it back. "Why me? Why not stalk someone else? and what are you hoping to gain from stalking anyone?"
"I'm not stalking. I'm trying to befriend you. To be part of your life. There's a difference. I am not going to try to hurt you. If you tell me to go away, I will. No questions asked."
"But you speak like an organization. If you go away someone else is going to try to do what you are doing. Why?"
Dammit. He had slipped. He needed to think a bit. "We don't have enought time right now to go into it. Not while you are on break. Please think about when and where you would like to sit down and talk about things."
"Meanwhile, you'll still be around."
He felt her begin to unbend. He nodded. "At a distance though. I don't want to be pushy."
She snorted. She stood up. She gave him a long measured look. She walked away, back to another customer who needed her.
He finished his french toast before he realized he hadn't requested it. Nor did he notice when the check was slipped onto his table with a fresh roll of Tums. But he was thoughtful as he paid the bill, and walked back outside in the cold to wait outside the dance studio where she would go next for her daily exercise.
