The Nightshift

It was around ten after Life when he came in.

Nightshift was the best shift, to the three that worked at the diner at The End.

It let the dishwasher have a break when their feet started to hurt. It let the cook wear headphones while he worked. And it let the waitress write in her journal.

The customer was no one special. An average joe with a bit of scruff and a plain, if respectable outfit. He sat at a booth near the kitchen and ordered a cup of coffee, some pancakes, and a side of hashbrowns.

As the waitress poured some coffee, he asked her, "Where am I?"

She shrugged. "Where you're supposed to be."

"No," he shook his head. "I really don't know where I am!"

"I know," she said calmly. "And like I said. You're where you're supposed to be." She set a small pitcher of cream and sugar shaker down. "Food will be ready soon."

"Wait!" He nearly grabbed her arm. "May I have a pen and napkin please?"

She brought him the requested items and went back to the kitchen.

"They're always so jittery," she commented to the cook.

He flipped a pancake and nodded. "He'll calm down."

"I know. Are they on a break?" The waitress glanced at the sink full of bubbles.

"They're having a snack."

The waitress nodded and wandered back out to check on the man at the booth. He was writing on the napkin, looking puzzled as he did so.

"Need more coffee?" She asked.

"I can't remember," he whispered.

"Can't remember what?"

"It." He shook his head. "It was important."

The waitress went to grab the coffee pot. When she came back, the man had his wallet out, sorting what had been inside. Business cards, credit cards, debit cards, receipts, all of them scattered over the tabletop. She silently refilled the cup and went to the counter to grab the food that was sitting there.

"You know you're supposed to ring the bell," she reminded the cook impatiently.

He pointedly put his headphones back in.

The waitress rolled her eyes and dropped the food off.

His name was Martin Serling. He lived on 22 Oak Lane in Somerville, Ohio. He was an electrician. He had a family. His wife's name was Helen, his oldest son's name was Greg, and his younger son's name was Thomas. His business card read "Serling Electric, For All Your Shocking Needs!"

Martin stared down at the picture in his hands. It was the four of them during Thomas's most recent trip home from college. He could see traces of gray in Helen's pitch black hair. His was already much more pronounced, the fine blonde having gone mostly grey by the time he was forty two. The class ring on Greg's hand was half hidden by the collar of Thomas's shirt.

He's nine and his mom dies in a home invasion.

He spends the next five years in therapy for the nightmares.

He's eighteen and he meets Helen during a mutual friend's graduation party.

He's twenty seven and they've been married for three years when she tells him she's pregnant with their first child.

He's still twenty seven when she loses the baby.

He's thirty four and chasing around after Greg in the yard when a child from across the street dies in a hit-and-run. Explaining death to a five year old is hard. Even harder still is attending the funeral.