Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  Mustache stands and pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his faded old Wranglers. He slips a couple of bills out of the worn black leather billfold, the kind my granddad used to carry, and sets them on the tray.

  My eyes follow him as he saunters across the room to the double-glass doors leading to the parking lot.

  Rather than push through the door with his hand, he turns and rests his back against the glass. For one brief moment our eyes meet across the room.

  One second is all it takes for my breath to hitch and my heart to stumble in its rhythm.

  Then I blink and the strangest thing happens.

  He pauses, giving me a single, slow nod.

  My mind is still stuck on the single nod this morning. I’ve worked at the diner for six months and Mustache has been coming here daily for four of them. Sixteen weeks of breakfasts and sometimes lunches almost five days a week. We’re talking at least sixty meals and not once has he ever smiled or nodded before.

  He’s obviously a weirdo.

  A strange man.

  A nut. And I’m a squirrel.

  I’m obsessed with his silence.

  At first, I tried to engage him same as I would any other customer. Chatting and smiling like a hired princess at a kiddie party. I would know. I’ve had that gig back home. With dark hair and pale skin, I can play at least three classic princesses and not have to wear a wig. I draw the line at clowns. I refuse to be a part of a traumatic childhood memory for some innocent kid.

  This time of year there’s not a huge market for princess cosplay in Roswell. The annual UFO festival officially begins next month, but the town is already abuzz with tourists because school’s out and the great American summer road trip tradition has begun.

  If it weren’t for the aliens, there wouldn’t be much reason for anyone to visit Roswell for anything more than gas, food, and lodging on the road to anywhere else. Whoever decided to make this town the official center for all things extraterrestrial and conspiratorial is a freaking marketing genius.

  Even smarter than the guys who thought up the giant ball of twine or a palace made of corn to lure road warriors off the interstate to their towns. I have a lot of questions about those roadside attractions:

  How big of a ball are we talking about? Don’t birds and mice eat the corn cobs? That corn place has to have some major rodent problems.

  These are the weird thoughts my mind focuses on.

  Like I said before, I’m among my people here.

  Sometimes we don’t find our tribe, they choose us.

  Growing up, I was told my father disappeared from my life not because he was a deadbeat loser but because an alien race of intergalactic travelers chose him of all people to kidnap as an example of the best humans have to offer. My mom believed this version of events with her whole heart.

  It definitely makes for a better story than he ran out on his wife and nine-year-old daughter.

  Especially in our small, forgotten town in the middle of nowhere upstate New York without a ball of twine or a corn-covered palace to keep it on the map.

  His disappearance made the local paper. Then the national news got a hold of the story and we became semi-famous for a couple of weeks. Longer if you count the grocery store checkout where the National Gossip put its version of events in its front page headlines for months:

  “Small Town America Under Attack by Aliens!”

  “We ask the probing questions behind a rash of abductions in America’s Heartland”

  “Are Christians Being Kidnapped by Demons from Outer Space?”

  “Roswell Aliens Return”

  “Alien Abduction Diet: Lose 10lbs in a Day”

  The articles were filled with interviews of “scientists” and “experts” who spun a fascinating narrative about people being ripped from their cozy beds and taken aboard spaceships where they were pricked, poked, prodded, and probed. Those lucky enough to return shared their nightmare encounters with the esteemed journalists of the National Gossip and other tabloids. According to my mom, some men, like my father, weren’t so fortunate.

  These experts came to the house and told my mother he was probably aboard a spaceship, comatose in a pod, speeding his way back to the home planet.

  Trust me, I know how crazy this sounds.

  Of course she wanted to believe her husband wasn’t a loser scumbag who could leave her. As a kid I used to comfort my mom and reassure her he left because he was a selfish jerkface, not trapped as an alien medical experiment.

  Why would the aliens choose him when they could have a noble prize winning physicist or mathematician? Someone useful to their cause?

  From what I knew of the man who donated half my DNA, he wasn’t exactly a blue ribbon winner. Other than his good looks. Mom shredded most of his photos, but kept a couple of him with me.

  The weird color and fuzzy focus of the images make it difficult to see the details of his face. Tall, dark eyes when not red from a flash, and brown, short hair are what I remember most.

  I was nine when he left.

  I’m older now than Mom was when she became a single parent.

  She always swore he was the funniest, most charming, smartest man she’d ever encountered. When they met, she thought he was perfect.

  Evidently, she was wrong.

  And had questionable taste in men.

  Who leaves their little girl and wife behind with never a phone call or a letter?

  Jerk face losers. Not perfect husbands and fathers.

  Grandpa swore he was probably in the mob and went into witness protection. Or into the river in New York City with cement boots.

  Sometimes when Mom wouldn’t get out of bed for days, he’d get angry enough I worried that if Dad ever came back, Grandpa would kill him and bury him in the woods behind our house.

  Maybe he already had.

  At my high school graduation, I scanned the crowd for a man with dark hair and sunglasses who didn’t seem to be sitting with anyone. I figured if my dad were in the witness protection program, letters and phone calls could be traced. I knew if he loved me enough he’d risk disguising himself to blend into a crowd.

  I did the same thing when I graduated from the local state university. A much bigger crowd would provide better coverage. While the degrees were handed out name by name, I scanned the crowd for a dark haired loner in sunglasses, probably wearing a hat.

  When my name was called, I smiled and waved at the audience, hoping to give him a sign I knew he was there without blowing his cover.

  Because how could a perfect man disappear on his family?

  Had to be the mob.

  Or aliens.

  “CORNED BEEF HASH. Please.” His deep voice rumbles when he speaks, like he’s not used to saying so many words all at once. The pause between the order tells me please is an afterthought.

  “Huh?” I ask, clearly struck dumb.

  “If it’s not sold out, I’d like the corned beef hash. With an egg over easy. Please.” Still staring at his phone, he repeats his order, slowly and precisely.

  “But you always get the pecan pancakes on Thursdays,” I blurt, and then cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Oops.

  “I’ll bring that right out,” I mumble, then spin and speed toward the kitchen.

  Only after I reach the coffee station, do I turn around. I fumble my pen when I catch him staring. Not at the TV and the boring business channel with the never ending loop of scrolling commodity prices. Not at his phone.

  He’s staring at me.

  And then something even stranger happens.

  His top lip lifts in amusement. Calling it a smile would be a stretch of the imagination, but it’s a tiny seed that could grow into one with the right care and nurturing.

  My eyes must be bugging out of my face and I realize my mouth hangs open in a fabulous impression of my depressed goldfish. Clamping my lips together, I turn to face the wall.

  “I’m imagining things,” I mutter, pre
ssing my hands to my forehead.

  “Why are you talking to the wall?” Wanda bumps my hip.

  “I’m not.”

  “What’s got you all flustered? The oil guys flirting with you again?” She twists her neck to scan the entire dining area.

  I wave off the idea. “No, they’re harmless.”

  “If they get handsy, tell me. Tony’s not afraid to kick them out. They can find someplace else to eat around here.”

  Her pointless threat makes me laugh. “Only problem with that is there isn’t anywhere else to eat around here. Not unless you drive all the way into town.”

  “Would serve them right to have to use more gas to get their morning coffee.” She nods with a smug smile.

  Wanda might put on the charms and smiles for the customers, but she holds a grudge against the oil workers. Not sure if it’s a money issue or one of them broke her heart years ago, but she’s always warned me to keep away from them.

  The older ones aren’t too terrible. Some of them tell sexist and racist jokes, but at least lower their voices when they do and I can pretend I didn’t hear them. Unfortunately, that’s the best option to preserve my tips. A lesson I learned when I first started and used to tell them off for being racist pigs. Sucks I have to put up with their bullshit, but I need this money.

  The young, cocky ones who have the biggest trucks are more trouble. They think they’re kings of the desert and should be fawned over by us lowly peasants. The newer the truck, the bigger the attitude. And probably the smallest dick.

  Unlike most of the white company trucks, Grumpy drives a gray rig covered in dust and bugs stuck to the radiator screen. Figures he’s too lazy to wash it or take it to the car wash once in a while.

  “Someone’s staring at you,” Wanda whispers close to my ear. Her strong floral perfume forms a bubble around us. “Is that why you’re facing the wall?”

  “No one is staring.” Exasperated more with myself than her, I glance up at the ceiling.

  “You won’t see anything up there unless you’re looking for faded ketchup stains and dust trails in the corners.”

  Sure enough, when I focus my eyes I land on a narrow thread of dust hanging off of the white ceiling tile above my head.

  “Are you sure it’s ketchup and not blood?” I ask, not really wanting to knowing if it isn’t condiments gone wild. Most things in life are better if some of the nitty-gritty details are left out.

  “Don’t ask.” Laughing, Wanda pokes my back with her pad. “Forget I ever mentioned blood stains on the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “Never you mind. No one shot anyone in here. Never happened, and if you look for a police report, you won’t find one.”

  Sometimes I swear she makes stuff up to shock me. I give the ceiling another quick study. Surely if there was blood splatter, they’d spring for a couple new tiles. “That’s got to be a violation of health codes.”

  “You’d be surprised by how many people never look up.”

  I stare at the ceiling. “I’m going to go with ketchup.”

  “What about ketchup?” Wanda gives me a wink that unsettles rather than reassures me. She gently reminds me, “Your tables are waiting.”

  Only two in my section are occupied. Table five and table six, which is currently home to a group of oil men. No one appears disgruntled or impatient. Although it’s hard to tell without seeing their faces. That’s because they’re focused on their phones, necks angled down like swans.

  How can black liquid be so interesting? Most of these guys are worker bees. The market goes up or drops, it doesn’t affect their daily lives all that much. If one day a well suddenly runs dry or the refinery shuts down, I can see them getting their whiskers twisted. It’s oil. It comes out of the ground and that’s about as exciting as it gets around here.

  I don’t get it. When I first arrived, I tried to keep up with their shop talk, thinking it would be good to learn about the industry and be able to engage in small talk.

  That lasted about a month. It’s always the same, and more boring than a monotone voice online explaining mysterious lights in an Arizona night sky.

  I can see why people become adrenaline junkies. We need something to break up the monotony of daily existence.

  “Corned beef up,” Tony says as he slides a plate under the heat lamps.

  Walking to his table with his plate and the coffee carafe, uncertainty bubbles in my stomach. Will he speak to me again? Make eye contact? Now that he realizes his food and coffee are delivered by an actual sentient being, will things change?

  “Anything else?” I ask the top of his head.

  “Hot sauce if you have it. Please. Unless it’s Tabasco, then skip it.” He sets his phone down beside his half full coffee cup. “And a warm up, please.”

  Please count: four.

  “Uh, sure,” I mumble while filling his cup, leaving enough room at the top for his three creamers.

  Lucy charm count: zero.

  We usually keep green and red hot sauce on the tables, but his is missing. Maybe he stole them. Doubtful. I snag two bottles from an empty table and set them down across from his plate.

  “Anything else?” I rest the bottom of the coffee pot on my palm. The heat starts to burn my hand and I jerk it back. The movement sends a small arc of scalding hot liquid right toward his bare arm. Cringing, I wait for contact, but luckily he shifts out of the way. Narrowly avoiding being burned, he glances to the left as the coffee falls to the floor.

  Talk about lightning quick reflexes. I’d be covered in coffee if our places were switched. Grabbing a handful of paper napkins from the stainless tabletop dispenser, I wipe up coffee splatter from the table before crouching beside his chair and dabbing at the puddle. I’m eye level with his strong thighs encased in dark denim. This close I can see the individual dark hairs on his forearms and the small scar near his elbow. His scent wraps around me like a warm desert breeze full of sage and sandalwood. I wonder if it’s soap or a cologne. He doesn’t seem the aftershave kind of guy. Could be mustache oil or conditioner. Even up close, it’s very well kept.

  “I’m all set, thanks.” His voice cracks through my thoughts.

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll clean this up. So sorry.” I practically race across the restaurant and return the coffee pot to the warming plate.

  “The man says a few polite words and I’m all up in his personal space like an over eager Yorkie.” Shaking my head, I roll my eyes at myself.

  “Talking to the wall again?” Wanda asks from behind me.

  “Better than molesting costumers. I practically patted down someone’s crotch after nearly scalding him with coffee.”

  “Did you?” Her face appears in front of me, eyes wide with shock, but mostly amusement. “’Bout time you made a move on the hottie.”

  “I don’t think burning him near his favorite appendage is the way to win a man.”

  “Hell, I know I’ve threatened a few over the years. Excellent way to get their attention.”

  “Not the attention I want. Thank you.” My hands shake as I pick up the water pitcher to check on my other customers.

  After refilling some glasses and taking a few drink orders, I stop near table five to see if he’s done eating. I don’t get too close. Instead, I stalk him like a feral cat afraid of human contact.

  As if sensing me, he lifts his gaze to where I stand.

  I freeze, feeling pinned to the floor by his gaze.

  “All done?” I ask, attempting to break the tension.

  He nods, still staring. “Check would be good. Thanks.”

  Right. I haven’t moved to take his plate. I dig in my apron for his check, and after pulling out everything from the pocket, realize that I never printed out the ticket.

  “Be right back.”

  Wanda stands with her back to the counter, shaking her head and chuckling.

  “Don’t say whatever it is you’re about to say,” I warn her under my breath. “I don’t know why you find
this so amusing. Did you stop stealing your neighbor’s HBO login again? You clearly need better entertainment if you’re so amused by me.”

  “Cable’s got nothing on you. I’ve never seen any two people more awkward than that little dance I witnessed.”

  With a deep exhale, I try to let it go. Engaging with her only feeds her amusement.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I print my current tickets.

  “Sure, hon.” Wanda keeps her voice soft.

  “Drop off these checks for me? I’m going to take my break now.”

  “No way,” she replies, shaking her finger at me. “You’re not due for another half hour. Pull up your skirts and march over there.”

  “You used to be my favorite person here,” I tell her when she presses the tickets toward me.

  “Still am.” She steps away from me. “You can thank me later.”

  I flip off her back.

  “Stop being rude and do your job, sweetheart,” she says without turning around.

  Instead of hiding in my car, I casually stroll over to table five with the check.

  “All done?” I ask, reaching for his plate. It’s a stupid question. The folded napkin and utensils on top tell me his finished. Unless he’s going to eat his napkin, there’s nothing edible left to consume.

  “How come you never bring me a mint with my check?” Looking up, he makes eye contact. “All the other tables get a mint.”

  First, holy bananas are his eyes pretty today. Amber radiates through the green, a starburst through a swirling galaxy.

  Second, he’s been paying attention more than I think.

  “You never take yours, so I stopped bringing them. You know, for environmental reasons.” I throw in the last part to make it seem less petty.

  He rolls his lips and chews on his mustache for a moment. “May I have a mint, please?”

  That’s it.

  He doesn’t question or comment. Simply accepts my answer.

  “One mint, coming right up.” I give him a thumbs-up for reasons unclear even to me. Maybe I’m welcoming him to the mint club.

  Returning, I drop a handful of mints on the worn Formica of his table. “To make up for all the times you didn’t get one.”