The Regular
The new kid from Ops, who’s only been on this rock about three weeks, put his mitts on the vinyl of the stool and started to pull it out, when the room went quiet. Not a peep. The kid looked over his shoulder and put his hands up in a show of public apology for the offence. He promptly took the stool beside it and ate his eggs with his elbows tucked tight.
That particular stool at the end of the counter stayed empty all night, every night. Drillers coming off second shift walked the long way around to reach the register, and anyone who had been on the rock long enough to lose their teeth did not have to be told: the careless who tried to sit in that stool got a polite hand on the arm and a short shake of the head. Within a week, they were part of it too.
It was ten minutes to closing, and the waitress turned the sign over to CLOSED in big red letters, looking backwards in the glass from the inside. There was a black corridor past it. She turned down the overheads, and the whole room was the color of wet ash. She winced about her sore feet. They’d been hurting for hours, and now that the shift was pretty much over, they registered their complaint.
She plucked a mug off the back shelf. It was the gray one with the chip opposite the handle. The waitress set it down in the brown ring in front of the stool and left it there, just like she’d done for a hundred nights prior. She then wiped the counter in front of it. Slow circles, little past where it needed to go. Her rag was damp and cold, and the cooler behind her hummed and rattled. It was rattling more than usual this night.
A cold draught blew in along the floor and bit her ankles as the door opened with a sigh. Out of the dark came the alien, shaking ice off its shoulders. Pieces of ice, small and large, hit the tiles of the floor like broken glass. It was cold and they didn’t melt.
The alien found the stool at the end of the counter, their stool, and sat down. The cushion of the stool sighed with the weight. As if it was relieved to be finally put in use. The hydraulics of the stool squeaked from disuse, and the alien did not pay any notice.
The waitress reached for the glass coffee pot on the hot plate, and she lifted it three inches, and as if she was reconsidering her life choices, she set it back down without so much as a tilt and pour.
“Tell me that’s real coffee.”
“It’s real enough to keep you awake. That’s all coffee ever promised anybody.”
“On Earth they had a word for this. Brown disappointment.”
“You’ve never been to Earth.”
“I’ve seen pictures. Big blue marble, full of shithole diners just like this. Every waitress calls everybody ‘hon.’”
The waitress’s lips thinned slightly, not a smile, and not anything else in particular either. She folded her rag in half, taking her time, and then she folded it in half again.
“I am from Earth, genius. Vancouver. I know what coffee’s supposed to taste like and I know what a tip’s supposed to look like, and you are zero for two.”
“The Company pays for the coffee.”
“The Company doesn’t pay for the smile, sugar. The smile’s my freelance gig.”
The alien grinned, too many square teeth, without an ounce of warmth. It was a practised bearing of teeth.
“Then I’m your best customer. I make you smile.”
“You make me tired. There’s a difference. Folks out here confuse the concepts constantly.”
“Last time I was here you weren’t tired.”
“Last time you were here we closed early and I had to mop twice.”
“Best mopping of your life. Admit it.”
“It was adequate mopping.”
The waitress looked towards the corner where the mop sat in its bucket by the kitchen door. It was grey water, and there were secrets under the grey water, too.
The alien placed its oddly perfect hands flat on the counter on either side of the mug. There was ice in the creases, and they caught the light of the room strange.
“One more night shift, sweetheart, and I’m done mopping for good. You ever seen Europa? Real water. It moves. You can watch it for hours.”
She leaned forward with her hands on the counter, pushing her shoulders to her ears. Her voice was measured and confident, quiet but not a whisper.
“I watched a man drown once. It wasn’t that interesting.”
The alien fidgeted with the empty mug, rubbing its finger across the chip.
“Jesus. Okay. Dark. I like it.”
She grinned at the alien’s use of an oath as if pretending to be human took practice. She straightened.
“You should order something. You never order. You sit in that stool like furniture and occasionally drink brown disappointment.”
“I’m a regular. Regulars don’t order. Regulars are expected. That’s the whole theology of the regular, ask anybody. This stool sits empty all because it’s mine. Now that’s regular, more regular than ordering. That’s… what’s the word?”
The alien let the punchline dangle. She let it sit there for a beat.
“Squatting,” said the waitress.
“Sacred. The word is sacred.”
She’d been easy for the customers to laugh and carry on with, all night. She was not so inclined now. The alien was not keeping track. Or keeping up.
“Tomorrow, when the job’s done, I’m taking you to Europa. Ice wine. No witnesses.”
“You say ‘no witnesses’ like it’s romantic.”
“Out here it’s the most romantic thing there is.”
The waitress looked down and ran her thumb along the edge of the chrome molding of the counter.
“What’s the job? Or is that pillow talk I’m not cleared for?”
“Careful, girl. Keep talking like that and I just might confess to something.”
“Promises, promises.”
The alien’s mask of a grin finally fell away.
“Crew skimmed Company ore. Whole damned crew. I’m on cleanup. They get a malfunction, I get a retirement. Europa. Ice wine. And you.”
Her hand stayed flat on top of the counter. She didn’t look away and met the challenge with the hint of a defiant smirk.
“A whole crew? Say that again. Slower.”
The alien laughed its awkward laugh and leaned across the counter. They were close enough that she could smell the cold.
“You like it when I talk shop.”
“I like someone who finishes what they start. All the way. No half measures. No mess left behind for me to mop up.”
The alien placed the mug squarely back on the counter and twirled it around by the handle. The chip faced the waitress. Then the alien stood and put scrip on the counter. It had real weight, heavier than it should have been. Sloppy cut. Amateur.
“Keep the change. Buy yourself something warm.”
“It’s the Kuiper Belt, honey. Warm ain’t on the menu.”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Same stool. Don’t be late. I hate reheating things.”
The alien made for the door, turned around to flash another show of teeth at her, before disappearing into the dark again. Another blast of cold air exhaled through the door as it opened and closed, and then it was quiet again, except for that godforsaken cooler humming and rattling its death throes. The ice on the tile glistened as it softened at the edges. The mop would soon be pressed into service once again.
But not yet. She untied her apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on the counter. Then the waitress picked up the unused mug, turned it around and placed it back in its home on the shelf with the chip facing out.
She looked beyond the stool where the shadows by the restrooms overtook the light.
“You catch all that?” she asked the shadows.
A shape slowly walked forward from the dark, and there was a small flash of flame as the cigarette became the only bleak warmth in the room.
The tip of it brightened orange then red.
“Every word.”
The waitress nodded, slid half the scrip across the counter, and tucked the rest into her bra.
