by S. H. Marpel
“WAIT A MINUTE – PERSONAL problems are mysteries?” I protested, even hesitating with my next bite.
“Sure. If you knew everything about a problem there isn’t any mystery to it. In fact, that is one of the key ways that geniuses of all time have solved problems - to ask questions and define everything there is about a problem. Same rough idea that the detectives in mysteries use to solve cases.” John took another small bite to highlight his point.
“You’re saying these imaginary detectives, and their contrived actions are able to solve our modern problems - if Holmes showed up today and sat on the other side of you, you could give him problems like ‘Global Warming’ and he’d sort it out for you?” I was letting my ice cream melt and saturate the last of my pie at this point.
“More or less, yes. What I’m actually saying is that if you know how a mystery is written, you’ll be able to apply that to personal problems and solve them.” John then scraped the last of his own sauce and crumbs off his plate and pushed those few drops into his mouth, smiling at the final taste.
Eying my own saturated crust, I simply started to scrape this up and finish it off before it at least got as high as room temperature.
He flagged down Molly and got his own coffee. She refilled mine as she was in the neighborhood
And he only put honey in his. The look on his face said “perfect”.
We went back to talking about story plots and how living didn’t hand them out perfect, tearing apart politics and “news” media as failed examples.
And he got around to the internal biases we use to examine our worlds through. So I tuned back in again.
“Well, there could be a lot of additional factors in it. And that’s not to say that you shouldn’t pick out the stories you want to follow and then stick to those. People will do that anyway. The line we are going down is that knowing how good mysteries are written will let you see how to solve problems in real life. The problem we were approaching is that a person wants to believe something is true and so it becomes true for them. The actual concrete facts won’t necessarily support what’s being said. Like the old Polynesians said, ‘Truth is as valuable as it is workable.’ That implies you test everything for yourself.” John drained his cup and signaled the waitress for another.
While she was coming, I also swallowed my own last drops of coffee. Time to test that honey he used last time.
THAT WAS ALSO MY CUE to jump into his long exposition. “A good mystery, like a good romance, then has a pattern they follow to get the emotional result that reader’s expect.”
“Exactly. Westerns all follow a rough model, mainly that the hero wins in the end. Almost all good fiction has the lovers reconciled, the mystery solved, the evil is trumped by the good guys.” John said.
“So if you are getting a bad result from what you think is factual ‘news’ then maybe you’d be better off doing something else?” I asked.
John replied, “Certainly if you want to feel better. Ads don’t make you feel better, either. And a quarter of the time when you’re watching news, you are being interrupted by ads. Imagine how you would feel if out of a hundred-page book, 25 of them were advertisements for stuff completely dis-related to the story?”
I couldn’t disagree with him there. Exactly why shopping online was such a hassle. Like the stores, only worse – since you go into buy just one thing, but have to wade through all these other offers before you can simply pay.
He went on about how there are a handful of ways that sellers get you to buy, and how examples of how these work in real life.
Then he left a book for me with his signature in front – along with a phone number.
Certainly a charmer.
At that, he whisked out the door.
Then the diner shimmered out of my view.
AND LEFT ME STANDING outside its front door again.
V
I WENT IN, TOOK MY seat, ordered my pie a la mode and coffee, then waited a bit for John to make his appearance.
“Back again so soon?”
“Yes, Molly. Until he decides to do the right thing – or the ‘write’ thing.”
She stopped her travels on a dime, and pulled out a cloth from under the counter to wipe a phantom spill, again.
Quietly, she almost whispered to me, “I’m on your side, gal.”
“And what side is that?”
“You see that young girl in the back running the grill?”
I looked over and saw the teen-aged gal with deep red hair and hazel eyes glance up to smile back at me, while her hands were busy with flipping various items on the grill and occasionally shaking the fries over to the side. At least it looked like that. All I could really see were her pretty head and shoulders.
“We call her Hammi, although she likes to spell it with one ‘m’.”
I raised an eyebrow in question.
Molly just smiled. “Short for Hammurabi, which was probably an unfortunate name for her, but we didn’t pick it – and she’s been part of our life since she was found as a baby.” Molly had stopped wiping, distracted by the love for her kid.
Then she looked back to me and started wiping again. “She’s only here for the summer, but her future won’t be the same if you don’t get across to John what he’s supposed to do, what he needs to do.”
Molly saw a raised hand down the long counter, and slipped that dry cleaning cloth back underneath it. “You need something, just holler. Anything you need. Anything.”
She was looking direct into my eyes as she said that, and nodded in emphasis.
Then turned and swept down the row, the full pot of coffee almost flying into her hand in one fluid, practiced move as she went.
About that time, the door opened. John glanced around and saw the open stool next to me as the only one open, and started over.
My eyes went back to my pie, a little late this time.
“IS SHE HAVING YOUR famous apple pie a la mode? Please give me a slice just like hers.” John sat down next to me, and I kept my face looking down at my pie and it’s melting ice cream, wondering the best approach to starting our conversation.
“Isn’t this just the greatest dessert ever?” He asked me. “I’ve heard about this all over town, and came to try it. Then I had to come back for more. ”
I smiled at him. “You’re about to tell me my smile makes my face look better – and no, that’s not being forward.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Mary – and your name is John.”
His face showed his surprise. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve just met, but Molly says you come in here regularly.”
He smiled. “I didn’t take Molly for a match-maker.”
I shook my head and smiled in return. “She’s not. I was just curious.”
“About who was going to fill this seat?”
“You’re not going to believe me, but what I’m about to say makes more sense the longer you listen.”
Molly brought his pie over and glanced at me with curious eyes as she heard that part of our conversation.
“Your name is John Earl Stark, you write Western mysteries, although you like fantasy as well. You don’t like big cities and would rather be living on a farm where there is clean air and you wouldn’t be interrupted.”
John slowed down eating his pie, and considered what I was telling him.
“You’d rather have a minimalist lifestyle and you’re only out here in L.A. to catch the ambiance, plus the weather isn’t bad in the winter. But come spring, you’ll be back on the road. And what you call your ‘office’ is actually a one-room apartment, probably noisy all night. So you write during the wee hours of the early morning when it’s quiet.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I’m a walking mystery that you are going to have to figure out. Not because I say so, but because your primary theory is that all the world is a story and people try to make sense of it by taking it apart like s story plot.”
&n
bsp; He quit eating, his fork resting on his pie. Just looking at me.
“Now, what you’ve also discovered is that the three main story structures are all interconnected on every story – romance, mystery, action – and the best stories intertwine all three.”
I took a bite of my pie with some ice cream on it, and he did as well.
Swallowing mine, I continued, “And you’ve done a big study of what makes people tick. But you realized that people would accept your conclusions easier if you wrote them as fiction. So you’re testing the markets for this type of story, since your non-fiction research into self-improvement books hasn’t paid off as well as you want – probably because you’d rather be researching and writing than promoting yourself as an author.”
Now his forehead furrowed. “I’ve never told anyone this.”
“Not yet.”
“Yet?”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
“You weren’t here last week...”
“What you call ‘last week’ was quite a few iterations ago. You’re stuck in a time loop, but don’t remember the earlier cycles. I do, and at least some of the other customers here do, but they won’t let on.”
“If that’s so, what are everyone else doing here?”
“A few of them are probably rooting for you, and want to help you decide to follow your passion, wind up writing full time and taking a part-time job on a farm where you can do whatever you want.”
“And the rest?”
“They want you to do anything but.”
“That sounds pretty harmless.”
“Except for why they want you doing anything else. Which is because you’re very, very good at helping people solve mysteries in their lives. Very good. You even helped me, which is why I was inspired to come back and help you.”
“Well, I’m touched...”
“But I didn’t get to the punchline. I’m here from your future to help you. Because these other people are after the opposite of what you want out of life – control, money, influence, and so on. They don’t care about people improving other’s lives. You do.”
John nodded at this. “Now say that I believe you. If I ‘follow my passion’, wind up on a farm and write anytime I’m not doing my chores, what is that going to get me?”
“Endless inspiration, a lot of great stories to tell people, and some amazingly pretty gals that take you on adventures. Plus, people leave you alone to your lifestyle. Your job that whisks you off to all these adventures pays you well, and yet doesn’t take away from your farming responsibilities – much. You have a comfortable life, lots of beautiful women in it, and tons of interesting stories to write.”
“And what happens if I don’t?”
“Pretty much more of the same life you’ve already lived, and it will probably get worse.”
“You make it sound pretty cut and dried.”
“Well, I have my reasons to paint it like that. But it’s your decision.”
“How I helped you and inspired you to do stuff like I ‘did’.”
“Right.”
“How can you prove that?”
I thought on this one for a bit. “OK, here’s a story you’re going to write later. We’ll meet at some distant time on board a ship called the U.S.S. Sea Quest, which is running dinner tours off the coast. I entertain there as a ghost.”
“Ghost?” John sputtered as he raise his eyebrows.
I took his cup of coffee in my hand, then passed the other one through it. Then made both hands and arms disappear and float that coffee mug toward his face.
He intercepted it with both of his hands, carefully. It was still steaming hot and quite full.
Then I disappeared entirely, leaving my clothes to define my shape. Then came back into view. And smiled at him.
“Is that enough proof?”
John looked around. Anyone else who might have seen that hadn’t reacted. Molly was carefully staying down at the far end of the counter.
“Could be some tricks, slight-of-hand...”
“How much more stuff do you want me to levitate? Or maybe I should just start something more risqué, such as getting my ghostly hand beneath that shirt of yours and onto that strong midsection you have – then start counting your abs while you laugh from tickling...”
His plate of pie began levitating up into the air – until he firmly took hold and set it back down.
Then he gave a wry grin. “You’re really something, you know.”
“But you still don’t believe me.”
“I want to, I do. It’s just a lot to take in.”
“That’s because you need to decide. And like I said. If you decide to putter your life away, then a lot of people won’t get helped. For me, it’s an eternity as a ghost. Which isn’t bad, if you think about it, but it’s not as fun as being corporeal.”
To make the point, I brushed his arm lightly up his sleeve – until he took his other hand to stop mine and put it into my lap.
I then held that hand with both of mine.
“See? Warm-blooded and very real.”
John rose at that. Pulled out his wallet and put some bills on the counter.
“Yes, Mary. Very real. I’ll think it over. And you can see me next week on my usual schedule.”
His face was firm, not unpleasant. And he turned, then left out the front door.
I looked at the rest of the customers who paid no attention to us.
Except a couple on the far wall, who were watching me watch them.
And the diner faded again.
VI
AGAIN, I CAME THROUGH the front door. Two empty stools to my right.
But I turned left and went to the back wall where a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair was sitting in a booth opposite a brunette with brown eyes, a decade or two younger than him.
He was in dark slacks with a buttoned-down light blue long-sleeved shirt. She was wearing a striking red silk cheongsam. Neither appropriate for mid-day L.A. Obviously weren’t part of the “normal” crowd.
He stood. She scooted over to make room for me.
The man spoke first. “Hi, Mary. I’m Abe, this is Stefi. Please join us until John gets here.”
I took their offer. “Thanks. It makes sense that you know me – but we haven’t ever met?”
He shook his head. “No, never. Not in person. But I do my research, and John wrote a nice book about you.”
“So you’re from the future?”
Stefi spoke at that. “Technically, we are all from the future, as this is John’s time-loop. And I enjoyed his book about you, too. Especially the way you kept the young women safe on your ship.”
I chuckled. “Now you’re going to embarrass me. All that ghosting was a lot of fun, but we now have scant minutes before I have to be over there with my pie and ice cream. Please give me the short version of what side you’re on and how do we help each other?”
Abe had sat by that time. “Besides Molly and Hami, we’re the only ones really on your side. The rest of these people are either working to make sure John doesn’t ever wind up on a farm writing stories – or they are neutral observers. And we don’t have much information on any of their backgrounds than that.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Quickly, can you point out the ones I need to look out for?”
From her two hands, stacked on top of one another on the table top, Stefi moved one of her index fingers which we could see, but no one else noticed. “Those two booths by the door on this side. They glared at you when you came in. Everyone else carefully avoids eye-contact with anyone else here – so they can just observe and otherwise stay out of what’s happening.”
I had a minute left, according to that clock. So I rose.
“It’s about time for my cue. Thanks Abe, Stefi – let’s compare more notes next time.”
As I moved toward my seat, I watched the four men in each of the two booths by the door.
Without warning, one b
ig guy on the outside put his foot right in front of mine, just where I was walking.
So I simply had my own leg thin to its phantom appearance, and give him a ghostly chill as it passed through his solid one.
On that touch, he pulled it in again quickly. And he shrunk back from me as I passed. I’d made my point.
WHEN I GOT TO MY STOOL, my pie and ice cream and coffee were all waiting.
Molly smiled at me and nodded.
John came in the door in that next second.
He looked over the room again, and I looked down at my pie.
“Is she having your famous apple pie a la mode? Please give me a slice just like hers.” John sat down next to me, and I kept my face looking down at my pie and it’s melting ice cream.
“Isn’t this just the greatest dessert ever?” John asked me once more. “I’ve heard about this all over town, and came to try it. Then I had to come back for more. ”
I smiled at him.
“I don’t mean to seem forward, but that smile makes your face look better.” He held his hand out. “Hi, I’m John.”
“Mary,” I said as I shook his hand. “And thanks for the kind word.”
“Anything to help a fellow traveler through this wild world we live in.” John replied.
“How’s your writing going?”
“Not bad. I could use more inspiration. That’s why I like coming to this diner.”
“Find a lot of mysteries here?”
“Some, mostly character studies...”
He stopped and looked at me. “Did I mention mysteries?”
“You just look like a mystery writer. I guessed.”
“You guess pretty good.”
“Here, let me try my other guesses.”
I looked him over.
“Your from the Midwest, spend some time every day writing. But you’ve done some hard work in your life. Single, eligible, brilliant, prolific. But not ready to settle down.”
John was open-mouthed.
“Oh, and you’re going to give me a copy of your latest book with your autograph in it.”
He patted his jacket pocket – it was still there.
“How did you...?”
