Crossroads

The Night I Met Tanaka Joe.

I’m driving towards Nowhere with sixty miles an hour. The car’s headlights illuminate the slick, wet road before me. It is as if I’m riding across the back of an enormous snake, writhing through the landscape.  It doesn’t help much that the road has so many twists and turns it looks like it has been built by drunken contractors; it only helps keeping the slithering illusion alive.

 I’m driving in total silence, the splatter of rain being the only soundtrack that complements this nocturnal journey. The sound reminds me of the maracas, on that honeymoon that seems like ages ago. Back when I was still alive.

My eyes stray towards the digital clock that is part of almost every car interior and I notice the numbers changing. Zero, four, zero, zero; four AM. Any other man would be sleeping in his bed right now. The ungodly nature is only illustrated by the sheer absence of cars on the road. Nothing as much as a truck passes me from the other side of the road. I’m a lone traveller, on an even lonelier road.

I had woken up in my bed in the suburbs just half an hour ago. My wife was still asleep, as usual. You could have fired a cannon in the room beside her and still she wouldn’t have woken up. She does not toss or turn at all in the night; neither does she hog the blankets. It is like sleeping next to a statue; not even producing any body-heat. She isn’t any livelier during the day.

I had clambered out of the bed, wide awake. This did not happen to me often and usually I just read a bit until I fall asleep. It works, most of the time, but sometimes even Auden cannot lull me back into sleep with his poems. It was one of those nights I just become restless.  

I dressed, walked out of our bedroom and down the stairs, not pretending to be quiet, though the sounds I made echoed loudly in the big, empty house; we don’t have kids. The house is completely devoid of life except for myself.

I entered the pristine medical hub that is her kitchen and walked towards the counter on which I had left my keys to the car.

I closed the front door behind me as I walked across the lawn towards my car and blatantly ignored the gravel path that leads towards our idyllically red-painted door; my own little act of defiance.

So here I am, driving, feeling more awake than ever. I continue driving in silence for a while before I try turning on the radio. After my fourth try I find a nice jazz station. I turn down the sound a bit so it replaces the sound of the pattering rain by just a fraction of a decibel.

Glancing at the clock I notice I’ve been driving for about an hour now and my stomach gives a hearty grumble, if only to emphasize that I do need to eat. A traffic light makes me stop at the intersection of two roads, giving me four directions to travel to, although I hate the last option of turning back.  I go through a list of diners, whose flashing neon signs were plastered alongside the road.  I don’t recognise any of the names on the signs. Not really caring where I would be eating anyway, I turn left when the light hits green and eventually end up on a road that is even more desolate than the one I was driving before.

I decide to stop at the very next diner I see and I end up parking my car at a dingy looking diner. I notice two other cars and a truck are parked on the small parking lot as I ease my car in its allotted spot.

I get out of the car and start walking towards the diner where a flickering sign proclaims the name of the diner as ‘Ernie’s’. The door opens and a soft tinkle announces my arrival to the rest of the diner. A balding man behind the counter, dressed in a spectacularly filthy apron is wiping his hands with an even dirtier rag of cloth; the original colour peeks through the brownish and ochre stains like a convict looking through bars

“What’d you need?” he asks me.

“What have you got?” I ask him.

The man, Ernie, presumably, has a coughing fit before regurgitating the ‘Menu of the day’ with a copious amount of phlegm.  I tell him I’ll take the menu.

“…and a coffee, please”

“Sure thing, bub” Ernie grunts, gives another cough and puts the rag on his shoulder while he ambles into the kitchen behind the counter.

Taking a look around I find a couple sitting in the back of the diner, talking in hushed voices. The owner of the truck, a man with a ‘Grateful Dead’ cap and a woollen vest, is lying knock-out on the counter snoring softly. It looked like something out of a Edward Cooper painting with a large dose of grime and dirt added to it.

I choose one of alcoves in the middle of the diner, so as not to be disturbed by the noises coming from both the trucker and the couple, who are giggling and fondling each other intently now. I take a paperback out of my jacket pocket and start reading. I haven’t even finished the first two pages before Ernie comes back and drops a plate of food in front of me, splattering some ketchup on the table. He follows it up by planting a steaming cup of coffee before me.

“Thanks” I say but all I get back is a neanderthalic grunt.

Picking up my book again I start reading where I left off, eating a frie once in a while.

My concentration wavers as I hear the doorbell jingle, announcing a new customer. With my back turned to the door and the counter I cannot see who this new guest is.  A female voice rings through the diner asking for coffee and Ernie’s voice replies with his usual grunt. A tinkle of a spoon. The porcelain ring of a cup being placed on its saucer and finally the sound of liquid being poured announce the coffee as being served.

A ‘Thanks’ and a grunt follow up together with the mixed sound of nearing, light female steps and the shuffling of Ernie across the tile floor ends the concerto. I lose myself in my book once more.

“Hiya,” a sparkling voice asks me “Can I sit here?”

I look up and notice a woman standing near my padded alcove, a cup of coffee in her hand. She’s wearing a pinstriped jacket with a vibrant red blouse underneath and a pair of jeans accentuates the curves of her hips. Red Allstars top off the wardrobe. Her head is covered in coppery, curly hair with a set of brown eyes giving an overall warm feeling to her.

“Hello?” she asks again, slightly annoyed “Can I sit here?”

“Sure” I say and clear up some of my meal “Sorry” I add apologetically.

“No problem,” she says smiling and eases into the seat opposite of me “What’cha reading?” she asks me and points at the book I had put aside. I show her the book; it’s a compilation of works by W.H.Auden.

“Can I see?”

I shrug and hand her book. She takes it and starts flicking through the pages.

“Poetry, eh?” she says and hands me back the book “You a writer?” her voice has a soft southern drawl to it that makes her voice as smooth as silk.

I shake my head ruefully. “Unfortunately, I’m not that talented, I’m afraid”

“So, what do you do…err…?” She asks hesitantly.

I tell her my name.

“What’s yours?” I ask her.

“Tanaka Joe” she replies “Nice to meet you”

I raise an eyebrow at the name but I don’t mention it any further.

“D’you like it?” she asks me and takes a sip of coffee “I chose it myself”

“It certainly…suits you” I reply honestly, the name is as strange as she is.

“Thanks,” she says happily “So, what’s it that you do?”

“It’s not that interesting really,” I tell her “I work at a company that sells and buys bouncy castles” Ashamed, I take a sip of my coffee.

“That’s a nice job” she tells me with certain seriousness and stirs her coffee.

“So, what do you, Joe?” I ask her.

“I’m a god of death” she says matter-of-factly.  

“What?” I ask her, unbelievingly.

“A god of death” she says matter-of-factly and a bit louder, as if I didn’t hear her.

“No seriously, what do you?” I ask her again.

“I reap souls” she tells me with a straight face, and a smile plays on her lips “Hence, I am a god of death”

I sigh inwardly. The crazy people you find in the deep of the night. I decide to go along with her joke, or whatever it is she’s doing.

“So, where’s your scythe?” I ask her “Aren’t you a little meagrely equipped to be a god of death?”

A look of disgust appears on her face.

“Gah!” she says, vexed, “You humans always assume because we are gods of death we carry a scythe” she throws her hands up in the air for added drama. “So now you’re wondering where my hourglass is, am I right? And why I’m not dressed like some LARP reject?” she continues.

True enough, I was thinking just that, but I don’t tell her that.

“It’s like that musician said. What’s his name?” she says and waves her hand dismissively “”The times, they are a changing”, right? You seriously didn’t expect us to wear that black, loathsome garb forever. Not to mention the unnecessary scare-factor of looking like an anorexic’s worst nightmare” she says, visibly annoyed. “Understand that there’s only one person I show my pelvic bone tone to, and that’s my boyfriend” She looks at me sternly with her brown eyes.

Unwillingly, I find myself being intrigued by her story even as Ernie gives us another coughing serenade. Whatever role’s she is rehearsing, it’s convincing.

“I even borrowed this jacket off Lady Luck to look more appealing to the poor soul who is biting the dust this night” she says looking me right in the eye “It’s so hard to give off the right image, you know”

“Tell me about it.” I tell her, as if I know. She digs in the inside pocket of the jacket and takes out a packet of smokes and a silver lighter with a skull engraved on the side. Lighting the cigarette she moves the bowl of chrysanthemums when she reaches for the ashtray. She takes an angry drag and aims the smoke for the ceiling.

“So,” I start “What do you do as a god of death”

“Oh, you know,” she says casually “send souls to purgatory, make sure they don’t go roaming around the globe. It’s such a bitch when they just won’t give in, you know. I once spent an entire night convincing a little girl to let go because she just couldn’t leave without her puppy”

“So what did you do?” I ask her.

She shrugs, “I told her she could have all the puppies in the world in Heaven”

“I see”

“Do you know how many puppies die each day?” she asks me rhetorically “Let me just say I’m glad I’m not part of the animal department. Thank God Mother Nature takes care of her own shit” She takes a long drag and blows a couple of smoke rings.

“So, you’re on a job right now?” I ask her and drain the last of my coffee.

“Yeah, some poor sod is dying tonight, in this diner” she says. Joe shifts in her seat and puts her feet on the bench, resting one arm on her knee as she tips off some ash in the ashtray.

Her remark does not even come across as a joke and even if it was, it’s not a funny one.

She takes a final drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray, leaving four cigarette butts in the crystal ash collector.

Turning her wrist she checks the time on a antique looking timepiece and clacks her tongue.

“Almost time,” she says, sits up straight and puts a hand through her hair “How do I look?” she asks me.

I tell her she looks good and I mean it.

“Thanks,” she tells me with a pearly smile and gets up from her seat, straightening her jacket “To tell you the truth, I never even liked scaring the crap out of all those medieval villagers. I think this is way more stylish” she adds with a wink.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you,” she tells me and stretches out her hand. I take her hand and immediately realize it is icy cold. She bends over towards my neck and whispers something in my ear.  Chills run down my spine as she lets go of my hand a walks towards the counter. In shock I turn my head and follow her from behind as she walks through the counter and wall and into the kitchen.

A muffled scream. The clatter of kitchenware and a thump on the floor.

I only saw Tanaka Joe one more time after that fateful night in the diner.

I was walking my daughter home from school, her pigtails bobbing along with her youthful, bouncy pace. Working at home on my novel had allowed me to spend some more time with my daughter, as well as picking up some household duties, unfortunately. My wife hardly had any time anymore with her gallery finally kicking off.

“Why are all those people there, daddy?” she asked me and pointed towards a crowd standing near an intersection.

“I don’t know, sweetie” I said and took her by her hand “Stay close to daddy now”

I walked towards the crowd and pushed a few people out of the way. At last I end up at the barriers the police have erected to keep nosy onlookers away from the scene.

It’s a car-crash, and a bad one at that. A car ploughed into a truck, leaving the passenger crammed between the underside of the truck and the roof of the car. Fire-fighters were trying desperately to save the victim with by prying open the roof.

“Come, sweetie” I said to my daughter and as I started to turn around, I noticed her; Tanaka Joe. Wearing a different outfit this time, but still recognizable with that coppery hair she sported. She was sort of lounging next to the car crash. Unseen. As if she wasn’t even there.

She caught sight of me and waved jovially, followed by a wink.

I gave her a smile and a wave back; knowing I would see her again one day.

“Who were you waving to, daddy?” my daughter asked when I ushered her out of the crowd.

“An old friend” I answered.

Step 1: Post this into your LJ publicly.
Step 2: Others will reply anonymously about what they really think of you.
Step 3: Cry, because this meme is so brutal, and it hurts.

Give me your true feelings here, no holding back. I don't care who you are or what my relation is to you, but I want to know everything. So please, go for it!