Not Here, Not Tonight- A Tale of Pie and Coffee
Not Here, Not Tonight-A Tale of Pie an Coffee
After the dust bowl in the 1930s, a young man who wished nothing much more than to read books and write poetry was making his way West by helping with the things he was good at, like tidying houses, helping on the Farms, setting tables, assisting with homework, and doing any thing he could, just for a spot to lay his sleeping bag, like a shed or a side house, park his typewriter, and perhaps grab a bite to eat for a day or two, before heading off to the next place.
One night, around or in Oklahoma, on the out-skirts of a small rainy muddy town, with some change in his pocket, he entered a coffee shop and put his last bit of change on the counter for a coffee and slice of apple pie before venturing into the evening’s icky weather, seeking shelter. He sipped his coffee slowwwllly... he ate the pie slowwwwwlllly as well, wrote in a journal, read the newspaper and a book from his bag and listened to the AM radio’s news and music fade in and out as gusts of rain and wind rushed by the tiny coffee shop. “Another Slice of Pie, Sir?”, the attendant, who was about 15 asked. “No thanks, said the writer, I don’t even know if i can get another coffee”, he said, spilling a few pennies on the table from his pockets and checking and double checking the rest, hurriedly. “No Problem, sir, we’re closing soon, another pie and coffee are on the house, they would have been thrown out anyways, it’s no trouble, the Shop’s our Family’s”, the attendant said. “Thanks, SO much”, the writer said. The attendant talked about the shop, and how his family owned it, during the time that he was finishing the cup of coffee, the writer explained that he had nowhere to stay and that he was weary of leaving and apologized for making the attendant lake as it was 5 minutes after closing. The Attendant told the writer it was a good Five or so miles to the next town, on the main road which was a straight shot and easy to navigate, and he would be going up hill, mostly. OR, Four miles on a back road that had more branches off of it than and old Oak tree or a lightning storm in October. As a third option, the Attendant offered the use of an old study, and storage room just in the back yard of his grandparents house, where he was living with his family, except that there were spiders, and a bit of dust as it was rumored to be quite haunted, the Attendant didn’t even go in the room due to the atmosphere, and the fact that he thought he heard noises in the small off building. In the blink of eye, the writer accepted the challenge with a grin from ear to ear, exclaiming how he feared no spirit at all, and how nice it would be to talk to a Ghost, and laughed at it all. “You should not do that, Sir.”, the attendant said, shaking his head a bit and sounding frightened. “You see, when you make fun of Ghosts, they can Get You, they can hit you, or steal from you or take you away into the place we can not see and you become one of them.”, he said, matter-of-factly. “Fine, I’ll laugh when they do that to me, I accept your challenge, (he nodded at the attendant, grinning) Mind if I take the newspaper? I’d like some reading before turning in.” Said the writer. “Yeah, Sure... Man, I hope you know what you’re in for.” said the attendant. And with that The attendant began shutting down the Coffee Shop, and the writer gathered his things and finished his coffee, helping the attendant place chairs up and prepare for the next business day. The attendant thanked the writer as the Lights were shut off, locks were set, and Open Signs were flipped to “Sorry We’re Closed”. They hurriedly got into the attendant’s car, trying to escape the storm that was still going strong.
Upon arrival at the attendants family residence, the writer began to let the stories that he heard earlier sink into his brains.
The darkness of the evening and the full moon’s eerie light occasionally peeking down from a crack in the clouds, combined with the grey exterior of the buildings on the site combined with the rain and the bad reception on the radio on the road there made the scene even more creepy.
“Just to let you know, one of my Grand Uncles passed away in there, he was very sensitive, don’t curse or yell in there, or at him or anything, if you see his Ghost, especially, please.”, the young attendant told his guest while handing him a canteen of water, to drink in the night and flashlight to help down the pathway. The writer thanked him again, and the two said good night as they went off to sleep.
The writer got to the dusty room very quickly, as the chill of the weather ran through his bones in every step he took.
Upon entrance, the writer found a small fireplace, with kindling and some firewood, not enough for the night, but enough to keep the cold away before he went to sleep. He lit a small fire and the chill left the little room. He took off his boots and socks to dry near the hearth grate, on a large stone. He read the newspaper, and made more notes in his journal. About a couple of hours or so later... the fire was out, the rooms was cozy, and the writer was nodding off. As he lied down on the sofa near the windows, the writer listened to the wind rush by the building’s sides, and the rain go from heavy to soft, and then back to heavy again.
The embers in the tiny fireplace faded and faded and faded. Soon, only the cloud covered sky, with sparsely flashing lightning, and what became almost a drumbeat, the rolling thunders, the rain and wind... were the sights and sounds of the night.
Sleep started surprisingly smoothly, but was sometimes jarred at random, the thoughts of Ghosts jumping in and out of his dreams. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come again. Wind making noise, the old building chilling again. In one strong moment something told him to open his eyes.
He did. There, down at the foot of the Sofa were two eyes looking right at him! He Grabbed one of his shoes and threw it has hard as he could at the thing looking at him. WHAM. Something hit his foot. He jumped up and ran as fast as he could up to the main house, barefoot. He pounded on the door, the attendant answered the writer yelling for help. “IT’S Haunted!, You were right.”, yelled the writer, “Come see, the eyes They looked at me from the foot of the Sofa, IT HIT MY FEET!”, ... I don’t know what to do!”, said the writer in a frenzy.
“I need my things, my journal and my bag, my works are in there, can i stay on the covered porch of the main house?”, asked the writer. “Of course, you can stay in the main room, fireplace is warm, no spooks there, hold on, I’ll, get my Boots and jacket, come out of the cold to dry off bit, i’ll get you some other shoes too, What size, nine, ten?", “Nine.", the writer replied.
With that, the two went into the dimly lit house, the wet visitor taking a moment to sit by a window in a porch room, and dry off his feet, face and hair with a towel provided by his host. After a couple minutes of the young attendant going out of his way in so many ways, he arrived back from a walk on what seemed to be the second and third floors, opening drawers of dressers and shutting them quickly, opening closets and shutting them as well, he jogged downstairs, wearing jeans, boots and a raincoat, with another towel, some socks, and a pair of brown boots in very nice condition.
“These’ll keep ya dry.”, the younger man said to the writer. The cold and frightened visitor put them on quickly as the night air began to chill his feet quite quickly.
Out they headed again, down the path to the side building. The wind whipped around them as they shut the door and looked around for the travelers belongings. “Too cold in here, let’s make this snappy.”, the writer said, both grabbing and bagging the writers things as fast as possible. “How were you sleeping, I mean, Which way were you facing when you saw the Eyes, mister?”, the younger of the two asked. “Right over there,”, he said as he pointed to the Eastern most window. “Uncle is usually seen over here, the kid said, pointing to the Northwest corner of the room. “AHA!”, the writer exclaimed, trying to analyze the situation scientifically. “I must have seen the reflection of my toenails at the foot of the Sofa in the moonlight or under a flash of lightning and when I threw my shoe at it, it hit me, and i thought it was the Ghost. HAH, How Foolish of me, to believe in such things.” said the writer.
And just as he bent down to grab the shoe he threw at what he thought was the Ghost, an invisible force grabbed it right out from under his fingers, as well as the other one, opened up the door, and threw them far up the pathway. The two stood speechless for a moment. “IS that all your Stuff, Mister?”, said the kid, “You Got it, let’s split.”, said the writer. Both nodded their heads”, with arms full, they made it up the pathway quite quickly. Once inside the screened porch, they put the writers belongings in a pile, and latched the screen door while catching their breath. The writer packed up and organized his journals and books and pencils and pens and put them into his ruck-sack while the wind picked up again. “That was crazy.”, the writer said. “I don’t know if I can sleep, now”, said the younger attendant, looking quite frightened. “Nor I”, said the writer.
Over the next hour or two, in the kitchen, the two ate leftovers and listened to the radio’s poor reception fading in and out as the clouds passed above them, candles were lit, as the power had been occasionally dropping off and it going entirely flat out dark in the old house, so dark, that you could not even see a foot or two in front of your eyes. They talked of the ghost in the study, they talked about local legends and then about life in general. As the writer again began to droop off and begin to start to sleep, the thunder and lightning came rolling back through, Jarring the writer. “Come on, you can sleep on the couch in the main room”. Just before slumber, the two talked more, just a tad. The writer told the young gentleman thanks very much, and where he could access the main road again, as the next town might have more work for him, and possibly might have to be up before Dawn to make it to the next job on time. The young host gave the writer directions, and the writer wrote them down, bagged his notes, thanked his friend. Good nights were once again said. The writer, with assistance of a wind up alarm clock, left the house before dawn, and dropped a thank you note on the table before leaving, stating that he would be back for his shoes.
Months passed, the writer got out west, rented a room, and landed a job in the films, just like he said he wanted to. He took a car ride with driver and everything out to the house to thank the Attendant for giving him shelter that night with all the weird things that went on, and to return his boots, if he was at home.
Upon arrival, the writer was shocked in less than a moment. the house wasn’t there. ONLY a foundation... looking at the yard... NO Side buildings... the truck of a surveyor stood next to that of a Real Estate company, in the area that would have been the screen porch. “What Happened?... Where’s the house and the Kid that lived here?!!”, the writer asked the Real Estate man standing next to the Surveyor sipping coffee from mugs on the front of their trucks. “What do you mean, Kid that lived Here???, man, That house burnt down 20, 25 years ago, all the buildings on the property got burnt down. everyone died, lightning storm knocked out a transformer, bad wiring. Real sad.” The two looked very sad and looked down at the ground. All of a sudden a whirlwind of thoughts hit the writer at the same time. In his lost state, he became speechless, and dizzy... he walked around the property, where the living room was, he walked around in the space where the kitchen was, where he knew he was.
He told the workmen sorry for any inconvenience, and headed toward the driveway.
Just then on the ground, he noticed something, from the corner of his eye in the same spot, just like they had been thrown there by whatever it was that night, were his shoes.
He left them and ran, to the car, sped off,never to come back again.
THE END
-om- 10 - 6 - 2011
After the dust bowl in the 1930s, a young man who wished nothing much more than to read books and write poetry was making his way West by helping with the things he was good at, like tidying houses, helping on the Farms, setting tables, assisting with homework, and doing any thing he could, just for a spot to lay his sleeping bag, like a shed or a side house, park his typewriter, and perhaps grab a bite to eat for a day or two, before heading off to the next place.
One night, around or in Oklahoma, on the out-skirts of a small rainy muddy town, with some change in his pocket, he entered a coffee shop and put his last bit of change on the counter for a coffee and slice of apple pie before venturing into the evening’s icky weather, seeking shelter. He sipped his coffee slowwwllly... he ate the pie slowwwwwlllly as well, wrote in a journal, read the newspaper and a book from his bag and listened to the AM radio’s news and music fade in and out as gusts of rain and wind rushed by the tiny coffee shop. “Another Slice of Pie, Sir?”, the attendant, who was about 15 asked. “No thanks, said the writer, I don’t even know if i can get another coffee”, he said, spilling a few pennies on the table from his pockets and checking and double checking the rest, hurriedly. “No Problem, sir, we’re closing soon, another pie and coffee are on the house, they would have been thrown out anyways, it’s no trouble, the Shop’s our Family’s”, the attendant said. “Thanks, SO much”, the writer said. The attendant talked about the shop, and how his family owned it, during the time that he was finishing the cup of coffee, the writer explained that he had nowhere to stay and that he was weary of leaving and apologized for making the attendant lake as it was 5 minutes after closing. The Attendant told the writer it was a good Five or so miles to the next town, on the main road which was a straight shot and easy to navigate, and he would be going up hill, mostly. OR, Four miles on a back road that had more branches off of it than and old Oak tree or a lightning storm in October. As a third option, the Attendant offered the use of an old study, and storage room just in the back yard of his grandparents house, where he was living with his family, except that there were spiders, and a bit of dust as it was rumored to be quite haunted, the Attendant didn’t even go in the room due to the atmosphere, and the fact that he thought he heard noises in the small off building. In the blink of eye, the writer accepted the challenge with a grin from ear to ear, exclaiming how he feared no spirit at all, and how nice it would be to talk to a Ghost, and laughed at it all. “You should not do that, Sir.”, the attendant said, shaking his head a bit and sounding frightened. “You see, when you make fun of Ghosts, they can Get You, they can hit you, or steal from you or take you away into the place we can not see and you become one of them.”, he said, matter-of-factly. “Fine, I’ll laugh when they do that to me, I accept your challenge, (he nodded at the attendant, grinning) Mind if I take the newspaper? I’d like some reading before turning in.” Said the writer. “Yeah, Sure... Man, I hope you know what you’re in for.” said the attendant. And with that The attendant began shutting down the Coffee Shop, and the writer gathered his things and finished his coffee, helping the attendant place chairs up and prepare for the next business day. The attendant thanked the writer as the Lights were shut off, locks were set, and Open Signs were flipped to “Sorry We’re Closed”. They hurriedly got into the attendant’s car, trying to escape the storm that was still going strong.
Upon arrival at the attendants family residence, the writer began to let the stories that he heard earlier sink into his brains.
The darkness of the evening and the full moon’s eerie light occasionally peeking down from a crack in the clouds, combined with the grey exterior of the buildings on the site combined with the rain and the bad reception on the radio on the road there made the scene even more creepy.
“Just to let you know, one of my Grand Uncles passed away in there, he was very sensitive, don’t curse or yell in there, or at him or anything, if you see his Ghost, especially, please.”, the young attendant told his guest while handing him a canteen of water, to drink in the night and flashlight to help down the pathway. The writer thanked him again, and the two said good night as they went off to sleep.
The writer got to the dusty room very quickly, as the chill of the weather ran through his bones in every step he took.
Upon entrance, the writer found a small fireplace, with kindling and some firewood, not enough for the night, but enough to keep the cold away before he went to sleep. He lit a small fire and the chill left the little room. He took off his boots and socks to dry near the hearth grate, on a large stone. He read the newspaper, and made more notes in his journal. About a couple of hours or so later... the fire was out, the rooms was cozy, and the writer was nodding off. As he lied down on the sofa near the windows, the writer listened to the wind rush by the building’s sides, and the rain go from heavy to soft, and then back to heavy again.
The embers in the tiny fireplace faded and faded and faded. Soon, only the cloud covered sky, with sparsely flashing lightning, and what became almost a drumbeat, the rolling thunders, the rain and wind... were the sights and sounds of the night.
Sleep started surprisingly smoothly, but was sometimes jarred at random, the thoughts of Ghosts jumping in and out of his dreams. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come again. Wind making noise, the old building chilling again. In one strong moment something told him to open his eyes.
He did. There, down at the foot of the Sofa were two eyes looking right at him! He Grabbed one of his shoes and threw it has hard as he could at the thing looking at him. WHAM. Something hit his foot. He jumped up and ran as fast as he could up to the main house, barefoot. He pounded on the door, the attendant answered the writer yelling for help. “IT’S Haunted!, You were right.”, yelled the writer, “Come see, the eyes They looked at me from the foot of the Sofa, IT HIT MY FEET!”, ... I don’t know what to do!”, said the writer in a frenzy.
“I need my things, my journal and my bag, my works are in there, can i stay on the covered porch of the main house?”, asked the writer. “Of course, you can stay in the main room, fireplace is warm, no spooks there, hold on, I’ll, get my Boots and jacket, come out of the cold to dry off bit, i’ll get you some other shoes too, What size, nine, ten?", “Nine.", the writer replied.
With that, the two went into the dimly lit house, the wet visitor taking a moment to sit by a window in a porch room, and dry off his feet, face and hair with a towel provided by his host. After a couple minutes of the young attendant going out of his way in so many ways, he arrived back from a walk on what seemed to be the second and third floors, opening drawers of dressers and shutting them quickly, opening closets and shutting them as well, he jogged downstairs, wearing jeans, boots and a raincoat, with another towel, some socks, and a pair of brown boots in very nice condition.
“These’ll keep ya dry.”, the younger man said to the writer. The cold and frightened visitor put them on quickly as the night air began to chill his feet quite quickly.
Out they headed again, down the path to the side building. The wind whipped around them as they shut the door and looked around for the travelers belongings. “Too cold in here, let’s make this snappy.”, the writer said, both grabbing and bagging the writers things as fast as possible. “How were you sleeping, I mean, Which way were you facing when you saw the Eyes, mister?”, the younger of the two asked. “Right over there,”, he said as he pointed to the Eastern most window. “Uncle is usually seen over here, the kid said, pointing to the Northwest corner of the room. “AHA!”, the writer exclaimed, trying to analyze the situation scientifically. “I must have seen the reflection of my toenails at the foot of the Sofa in the moonlight or under a flash of lightning and when I threw my shoe at it, it hit me, and i thought it was the Ghost. HAH, How Foolish of me, to believe in such things.” said the writer.
And just as he bent down to grab the shoe he threw at what he thought was the Ghost, an invisible force grabbed it right out from under his fingers, as well as the other one, opened up the door, and threw them far up the pathway. The two stood speechless for a moment. “IS that all your Stuff, Mister?”, said the kid, “You Got it, let’s split.”, said the writer. Both nodded their heads”, with arms full, they made it up the pathway quite quickly. Once inside the screened porch, they put the writers belongings in a pile, and latched the screen door while catching their breath. The writer packed up and organized his journals and books and pencils and pens and put them into his ruck-sack while the wind picked up again. “That was crazy.”, the writer said. “I don’t know if I can sleep, now”, said the younger attendant, looking quite frightened. “Nor I”, said the writer.
Over the next hour or two, in the kitchen, the two ate leftovers and listened to the radio’s poor reception fading in and out as the clouds passed above them, candles were lit, as the power had been occasionally dropping off and it going entirely flat out dark in the old house, so dark, that you could not even see a foot or two in front of your eyes. They talked of the ghost in the study, they talked about local legends and then about life in general. As the writer again began to droop off and begin to start to sleep, the thunder and lightning came rolling back through, Jarring the writer. “Come on, you can sleep on the couch in the main room”. Just before slumber, the two talked more, just a tad. The writer told the young gentleman thanks very much, and where he could access the main road again, as the next town might have more work for him, and possibly might have to be up before Dawn to make it to the next job on time. The young host gave the writer directions, and the writer wrote them down, bagged his notes, thanked his friend. Good nights were once again said. The writer, with assistance of a wind up alarm clock, left the house before dawn, and dropped a thank you note on the table before leaving, stating that he would be back for his shoes.
Months passed, the writer got out west, rented a room, and landed a job in the films, just like he said he wanted to. He took a car ride with driver and everything out to the house to thank the Attendant for giving him shelter that night with all the weird things that went on, and to return his boots, if he was at home.
Upon arrival, the writer was shocked in less than a moment. the house wasn’t there. ONLY a foundation... looking at the yard... NO Side buildings... the truck of a surveyor stood next to that of a Real Estate company, in the area that would have been the screen porch. “What Happened?... Where’s the house and the Kid that lived here?!!”, the writer asked the Real Estate man standing next to the Surveyor sipping coffee from mugs on the front of their trucks. “What do you mean, Kid that lived Here???, man, That house burnt down 20, 25 years ago, all the buildings on the property got burnt down. everyone died, lightning storm knocked out a transformer, bad wiring. Real sad.” The two looked very sad and looked down at the ground. All of a sudden a whirlwind of thoughts hit the writer at the same time. In his lost state, he became speechless, and dizzy... he walked around the property, where the living room was, he walked around in the space where the kitchen was, where he knew he was.
He told the workmen sorry for any inconvenience, and headed toward the driveway.
Just then on the ground, he noticed something, from the corner of his eye in the same spot, just like they had been thrown there by whatever it was that night, were his shoes.
He left them and ran, to the car, sped off,never to come back again.
THE END
-om- 10 - 6 - 2011
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