"Supernatural Donuts"

We never rationalized what we witnessed that night in a small southern town.

Supernatural Donuts

 

               In the dark of night off to my right, my diminished peripheral vision caught a flash of lightning punctuating the gloom. Despite the potential threat to our open-air ride, my tired and dry, grainy eyes remained focused front and center. Riding between the strobe of the centerline reflectors and the endless shoulder stripe, I suffered from white line fever. My ears hissed from the buffeting wind. My numb right hand death gripped the throttle, and my feet tingled from the day-long vibration of engine droning and road surface rolling beneath our two wheels. My back ached, and my butt had long gone dead. I imagined Karen, my passenger, rode as fatigued as I.

               Karen tapped me on the shoulder, our usual mode of communication with her touches’ vigor relative to the seriousness of the information she wished to convey. Glancing aside, I saw her dimly lit arm point out to the lightning flashes. I nodded, figuring that we would outrun the storms going over 70 mph south, perpendicular to the westerly moving storm. Riding all day and well past my preferred time to stop for the day, four hours past in fact, I knew it had to be approaching midnight. The moderate traffic had thinned and the glow of Atlanta gradually dimmed over my left shoulder. Hours back, way before seeing the glow of Atlanta from the north, we found that all overnight lodging was full due to a political convention. I’m not one for turning back for something as trivial as a good night’s rest, so we pressed on. At about fifty miles south of Atlanta, I pulled off I-75 at an exit that promised lodging.

               Riding at a slower speed, my brain and hands had to adjust to the local road conditions and laws. Karen lightly gripped my waist which surprised me seeing she seemed pretty content behind me when we were going 70. We followed the main road for a ways but saw no lodging to speak of. We slowed to the village speed limit on the outskirts of Locust Hollow.  Karen’s fingers tightened around my waist as we drove down the main ‘business’ section of the village when in fact I would say most of the place hadn’t seen much business in a couple decades. We rode on hoping there was indeed lodging up ahead and it would be fit for human habitation. In a blink, we were beyond the canyon of old abandoned buildings.

A diner sat on the left. Out front, a dimly lit sign which simply read “Eat” stood high on a pole above the parking lot, and we could see people inside. I leaned the bike over and wheeled in. I had to get off and stand on my feet if my legs would support the weight. Pulling up to the curb, Karen peered around me to look inside the diner, and the three people inside all turned to look at us. I kicked down the stand, tipped the bike, and slid off leaving Karen sitting there.  I tested my legs.  A double-flash of far off lightning caught my eye before I looked at her and she looked at the people looking at us.

               “I don’t know,” she said simply studying the diner through her open visor. Karen always had a sense for ‘things amiss’ on our earthly plane and her trust level wasn’t high concerning anyone she didn’t know. Maybe something as mundane as being two northerners in the Deep South unnerved her, I didn’t know.

               “I have to take a break,” I said stretching out. “Maybe they’ll know about a motel.”

               Oddly, the front door wasn’t latched and swung back and forth in the light nightly breeze with a squeak and a squawk with every swing. The three inside stared at us until we stepped inside when they snapped their gazes away. I scanned the diner and smirked at Karen who didn’t smile at all.  Like a clichéd diner from a 50’s movie, it had the well-worn, dusty green and cream linoleum floor, the long counter with plastic-covered menus sticking up in chrome holders, the shiny steel pedestal swivel seats with plastic cushions, and the plain, abused booths along the front window. An old man rustled his newspaper and an old lady stared at a slice of dry toast on a plate in front of her.  A ceiling fan hung motionless over the greasy grill and next to that was a blackboard announcing “Today’s Specials.” Nearly illegible, I made out that steak, eggs, and toast or a burger with fries could be had for fifty cents. It didn’t register in my hazy thoughts.

               And no 50’s movie diner would be complete without an archetypal counter attendant and standing there behind the counter the diner’s own fit the bill.  Wearing a creased white paper hat on haystack hair, the tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes wore a plaid shirt and jeans with a once white grease-smeared apron pulled tight.

               “Grill’s closed, y’all,” he drawled.  “Gonna’ close soon.”

               “Do you have any coffee?” I asked. “Maybe something at all to eat?”

               The counterman nodded at the elevated glass plate sitting on the counter. Under the glass dome were two donuts, a plain and a glazed. As on cue, an old-time metal coffee maker steamed out a gasp of hot bitter breath.    

               “Okay,” I said, beginning to get the feel of the place and it wasn’t good.

               “Two coffee’s?” He asked looking at Karen who only nodded while gripping my arm.

               “Yes�"please�"and the donuts.”

               The old man made a scoffing sound, and I swore I heard him mumble something about ‘fool Yankees’.

               I took the two rather untidy cups of coffee and the donuts while Karen acted like she was in a daze. We went to a creaking booth by the squeaking door. I went to sit down opposite Karen when she sat down, but she dragged me by the arm to sit next to her. I complied. The coffee was thick and bitter and donuts seemed old�"like from the day before and didn’t have much taste. The counterman eyed us as he flipped off the lights behind the counter and the grill.

               “Past closin’ time,” he said answering my non-vocalized question, but the two old people just sat there staring and rustling.

               “Do you know of a motel out here�"in�"?”

               “Locust Hollow. No, don’t know of any.”

               “Great,” I mumbled, my butt beginning to ache from the hard booth seat.

               We quickly finished, got up, paid more than the coffee and donuts were worth and walked to the door. As we stepped across the threshold the diner went dark including the “Eat” sign in the parking lot. I noticed the clouds shadowing the nearly full moon and a far-off owl hooted.  Karen took notice and gave me the look before slipping on her helmet. I did the same, and we rode off hoping for the best.

               Sure enough, a few miles down the road we found the promised motel, and it turned out clean and comfortable owned by a hospitable older couple. We slept soundly until well past sunrise. After waking and cleaning up, we prepared to ride.  Going back the direction we came to get back on the interstate, we neared Locust Hollow.

               My throttle hand relaxed and the bike slowed as we approached the diner we visited the night before. Wide-eyed, I double-took the sunlit condition of the diner just as Karen slapped me in the ribs and extended her arm to point at it. We stared at the diner unable to comprehend what we beheld while slowly motoring out through the deserted village.

               The unlatched door still swung in the breeze but other than that detail…