Matthew Cornachione - Dansk Bay Hotel

I opened the door and stepped in. The familiar scent of burgers and fries wafted to my nostrils. My stomach rumbled in response; I hadn’t eaten since I’d gotten off the plane in Anchorage.

The interior decor was nicer than I’d expected. A few small, but clean, tables lined the walls. Scenes of trees, mountains, and oceans adorned the wall. The diner’s back half was blocked off, presumably for the kitchen. A little face-lift and this would be a nice place for tourists.

A small podium with a modern cash register stood by the door. There was no sign indicating whether to seat myself, so I waited for the waitress. She was at the far end of the diner serving a steaming plate to the only other patron, a burly man with a rocking beard.

After dropping off the meal, the waitress turned and walked my way. I could tell for sure she wasn’t the original Lucy. The girl was young, maybe 19, lean, cute. Reminded me of Lena, before the incident.

Ugh, why was that coming back to mind now? I pushed the errant thought away and gave the waitress my most charming smile.

As soon as she spotted me her eyes widened. She put her head down and turned off to the side, disappearing through a set of saloon doors.

Huh. That was the second girl to take off running. What was with these people? Hard to say, but it looked like we’d have to get a team in here for hospitality training. A very skilled team. I’d never seen servers abandon customers. How hard is it to show someone to a seat and ask, “Would you like anything to drink?”

I eyed the man, the only other diner present. He didn’t look up from his plate, but I figured he wasn’t going anywhere soon. The waitress had scurried off, but I could corner him.

I sauntered over toward his table, sizing him up as I approached. His thick beard reached to his chest. I’d call it a hipster look back in San Francisco but on this guy it looked genuine. With his torn flannel jacket and faded army-green cap, I’d be more likely to label him homeless than hipster. He was old too, skin weathered and wrinkled. A man who’d lived a full life.

“She always like that?” I asked casually, standing across the table from him.

He took a big bite of his burger without acknowledging me.

“Excuse me, sir? Sir?”

Nothing. My irritation got the better of me. “SIR!” I said and slapped the table, making the salt and pepper jump.

That got his attention. He gazed up, and I realized I’d grossly misjudged his age. His skin was worn, but his eyes shone with vibrancy. At most, this man was in his mid-forties, although those forty odd years had clearly been rough ones.

“Seems a man ought to be able to enjoy his lunch in peace.” His tone was unusually calm.

“Um, I just have a few questions about…”

“Everybody’s got questions. Only thing I know for sure is I ain’t got no answers.”

He looked back down to his plate. Most people in these small towns love to tell you all about how great their little slice of heaven is. This guy wasn’t even going to tell me his name.

I wanted to slap the table again, but stopped myself. Shaking my head, I backed away. He was a lost cause, and I knew it.

So back to plan A: the waitress. I sat at the table across from the saloon doors. After a few minutes, my patience was rewarded. The doors swung open, and she reemerged. She hustled past me, carrying a steaming carafe down to refill the man’s coffee. The two conferred for a few moments. The man gestured my way, and the waitress looked over, averting her gaze once she saw I was watching. She snatched up the carafe and strode back to the saloon doors, eyes fixed toward the floor.

And so, she nearly ran straight into me when I slipped up from my chair and stood in the aisle.

At the last instant, she jerked to a halt, coffee sloshing onto the linoleum. Her eyes peered up at me, fearful. What did she think I was going to do?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said courteously as I could muster. “Kyle Ressler, with Touravista. I was hoping I might see a menu.”

“Um, you shouldn’t be here.” She glanced around, as if nervous that someone might be watching. The man didn’t seem perturbed.

“Well, it is a restaurant, isn’t it? I’d like to eat.”

“I don’t mean the restaurant. I mean the town.”

“Oh, is there some reason why?”

She hesitated. Again, she glanced over her shoulder, this time at the bearded man. Then she leaned in close and whispered.

“Help us.”

“With what?” I whispered back.

“With, well, with him. ”

“That guy?” I pointed toward the other patron.

She batted my arm down, but not before the bearded man saw it. He stood up and walked our way.

“No, I mean the… the withered one. He won’t let anyone…”

“Now there. Let’s not be scarin’ this fellow.” The bearded man interrupted.

The waitress hung her head and backed away. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Sorry ’bout that. Folks here are superstitious. Keeps life fun, but nothin’ you need trouble yourself with.”

Superstitious was an understatement; that poor girl was downright paranoid. She reminded me more of Lena than ever. Except Lena couldn’t even share her fears anymore.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I love to hear all about local folklore. Perhaps you could fill me in.”

“Ha! Son, what did I tell you earlier? I ain’t got no answers. All I can say is you’d do well to keep your stay short. Now, come on. You’d best get moving.”

He put his hand on my back, firmly ushering me toward the door. I let myself be guided away; no sense tangling with this guy.

“Another time then,” I said.

“No, I don’t think so.”

I reached the door and stepped outside. I hoped he’d follow, and then I could double back to question the waitress. Instead he let the door swing closed behind me and stayed inside, hidden behind the grimy panes.

“Wait. Where can I get some food?”

A bell rung as I walked into the trading post. I didn’t see anyone, which at least meant I wasn’t going to get kicked out right away. The store was small, and arranged like a gas station mini-mart. To the left, were shelves of various equipment, household goods, and all that; to the right, food. I went right.

In the back of the store, a door opened. The shopkeeper emerged from behind the gardening section. To my surprise, she was a true Alaskan native. She even wore a hide jacket, though blue jeans and boots made it clear she was steeped in American culture. She was old, white hair atop a weathered face, but she moved with grace.

“Welcome. How may I help you?”

“What?”

Oops. Had Lucy’s thrown me so much that a friendly greeting surprised me? I recovered quickly and continued more intelligently.

“I meant to say, I’m looking for something for lunch.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” The shopkeeper smiled. “I can set you up with a delicious meal. Do you cook? Have a microwave?”

“Actually, I’m hoping for something more immediate.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

She navigated the aisles with practiced ease and brought me to a small fridge filled with wrapped sandwiches. Her fingers hovered above them, moving back and forth before she snatched one out and handed it to me. Roast beef, my favorite. Nice.

“Made these myself this morning. It’s better than anything you’ll get at Lucy’s.” She cracked a wide smile.

I chuckled. I liked this woman.

“Do you happen to have any fresh fruit?”

“Of course.” She gestured to a basket to her left.

I grabbed an apple and followed her to the front.

As she rung me up at the register, I fell back into my familiar rhythm of information gathering. “So you’re an Alaska Native, right? You must have been here awhile.”