Rob Thurman: Blackout

“You look like a damn rock star.” I could hear the wide grin in his voice without needing to see it. When I grunted, less than impressed, he added, “Okay, at least you don’t look like a goth bum anymore. That’s something.” He whisked the cape off me. “By the way, if you want to try out small-town life, for your granny’s sake, I know the diner is hiring. Tell them Lew sent you. Can’t get a better reference there, and if you stick around and get paid on a regular basis, maybe you’ll come back. I can always use the business, plus it’ll do my soul good to know you’re not walking around looking like a deranged mop. Do your granny up on high good to see it too.”

I got up and the last thing I expected came out of my mouth. “The diner, huh?” Despite the inner need to move, to run, I had to look at this logically. Monster killing was either my job or my hobby or both. Whichever it was or not, without my memories, I didn’t have a client list to go by.

It was a ridiculous thought. Getting paid to kill monsters. What crappy career fair steered you in that direction? Bottom line, the money I had wasn’t going to last forever. If “Cal” didn’t have a job, I’d soon be as homeless as my hair had labeled me. And this was where I’d woken up without most of my mind; this was the best place I could think of to look for it. My license’s fake address was in New York City. Good luck walking the streets there and randomly running into a clue to my identity. Going against my visceral fight-or-flight reaction was my best option. I had to have gotten here somehow. Maybe I’d find my car. Maybe it would contain some real ID or would trigger my memories. Then again, maybe my badass monster-slaying self rode into town on a fucking scooter. Sticking around was the best thing to do, no matter how wrong it felt.

Brain over guts. Brain over guts. Unnatural, but that was what I was going to do.

Besides, no matter what my guts were clamoring about, there was something about the Landing. I couldn’t put my finger on it and I definitely didn’t belong, but there was something… . I sensed that it was waiting right around the corner, if only I could find the right corner. Something waiting. Something … interesting.

Crazy thoughts for a crazy guy.

It turned out that the diner was two blocks away on Oleander. Besides loving their sweaters, they loved their flowers here too. Campy tourist Southern. The diner was the same on the outside. Flowers were painted on the plate-glass window… . Maybe they were oleanders—what did I know about flowers? Red-and-white awning, a welcome mat that actually said WELCOME, Y’ALL! No joke … WELCOME, Y’ALL! I didn’t step on it as I went through the door. It scared me worse than the dead monsters from the beach.

Inside it was the same. Red vinyl booths, desserts in a rotating pie case, little cow salt and pepper shakers on the table. It was homey and quaint, and anyone, with or without memories, could see this was not my kind of place. I started backing out the door before I was all the way through, but there was no escape.

“Lord, there you are. It’s two blocks. Did you get yourself lost on the way?” She was either Llewellyn’s older sister or aunt. She had the same face, same eyes, but not the same grin. She had no kind of smile showing, big or little. She was also about three times his size, but if you thought anything except “just more to love,” I didn’t think you’d live to regret it.

Moving over to me, she shook her head at my appearance. “I should’ve never answered the phone. That Lew and his damn strays. Three dogs, five cats, and now you.”

“I’m not a stray,” I objected immediately, although, technically, I was.

“Whatever you say,” she replied dismissively, obviously not believing me and as obviously too busy to bother coddling my self-image. “I’m down to one employee. That trash waitress of mine ran off with the principal at the school, if you can believe that. And him married with three kids. Trash, trash, trash.” She looked me up and down. “Lew said your name is Cal. He didn’t say you’d be dressed like some sort of undertaker or vampire. Suppose that’ll have all those silly girls hanging around—see if you sprout a fang. Like they never saw a real man before. Denzel, Clooney, now those are men. Mmm mmm.” She shook her head again, this time probably wishing I was one of those real men. “Well, hardly matters. Might up the business some. All right, Cal, tell me, can you cook? And I mean really cook. Sling it, dice it, and throw it on a plate, looking and tasting pretty?”

The question had me automatically checking for the nearest fire extinguisher. It could drive you nuts, your body remembering what your brain couldn’t. But whoever was doing the telling, it let me know that me and a griddle went together like Frankenstein’s monster and fire. “Not so much,” I said.

“Fine. Then you can replace that home-wrecking waitress of mine.” She pushed up against the counter, reached over, and returned with a red-and-white checkered apron that matched the napkins and the awning outside. That kind of pattern had a name, something that began with a G , but I couldn’t remember it. I doubted it was amnesia, though, and figured it was more of a guy thing that was causing that particular failure. “Now put that on and be the best damn waitress you can be. Don’t let Lew down.”

Taking the apron with two reluctant fingers, I asked, “Don’t you mean waiter? I’m a guy. Guys are waiters.”

“Not in a diner, honey. We only have waitresses. That’s part of our charm.” She gave my arm a light pinch. “Now hustle, Vlad, and stop with the scowl. Smile. This is a happy dining establishment. Happy sells.”

“You’re telling me to wear this”—I held up the apron—” and smile?”

“No, sugar, I know you’ll wear it and smile or you won’t get one tip. And with what I pay, you’re going to need those tips.” She swatted my ass. “You can call me ma’am or Miss Terrwyn. I had the same crazy-ass parents as Lew, but, unlike him, I’m going to respect their wishes when it comes to my name. Now get that apron on and hustle. The church crowd will be here soon. And there isn’t nothing like a good churching-up to give you an appetite.” When I hesitated, she gave me another pinch. “Go! Hustle!”

I went.

I took off my jacket, put that apron on, and hoped that when I did get my memories back, I’d lose this one in the process. But I hustled, as told, and found out I wasn’t a half-bad server—there wasn’t any way I was going to say or think “waitress.” I wouldn’t win any contests, but I dropped only two plates and threw only one guy through the window, all while wearing a red-and-white apron with a goddamn ruffle on the bottom. All in all, I considered that pretty successful.

Or so I thought almost seven hours later as I stood watching the son of a bitch I’d tossed through the glass roll around in the short shrubs outside the window, moaning for an ambulance. Now that … that had a smile on my face. He had it coming. He’d been leering at some teenage girls who were eating a whole lot of pie and giggling whenever I refilled their Cokes, which were actually Sprites, but I’d soon picked up that any kind of soda here was called Coke. It could be a Barney the Dinosaur-purple Grape Crush and it was still called a Coke. It was kind of intriguing, far more so than spider monsters, and that made me think Lew and my intuition were right. Either I’d been born a big-city guy or had lived long enough in a big city to have forgotten that backwater factoid. It also made me think what the hell kind of life did I lead that I found the Coke issue more interesting and exotic than monsters?