it's never up to you,
but she was walking back and forth
and I was passing through
― Leonard Cohen
The Blue Moon Grille
There’s an old diner on a street corner near a railroad crossing, and I’ve got some fine memories of that place.
My father took me there when I was little just to see trains go by. Afterwards, we’d stop for ice cream at the diner.
He told me when he was small, there were no automatic gates at the crossing, but a man would sit in an elevated hut and watch for trains, and manually lower the gate.
Apparently, that’s how my dad became a local hero.
It seems one night the gate operator fell asleep and didn’t see a train coming.
My dad could see a bus filled with people heading toward the tracks.
He shouted as loud as he could, and woke up the operator, who managed to lower the gate and save a busload of people.
Yep, I’ve got some fine memories of that place—some old, some new.
Occasionally, I go back to visit the old streets, watch the trains, and have a coffee in the nearby diner—at least, that’s the way things usually work—but one night, things turned out differently.
I’m a late night writer, but to earn a living, I sell real estate.
This one night I was in the old neighbourhood with an hour to kill before meeting a client.
I decided to drop by the diner, read the late edition of the newspaper, and have a coffee.
On the drive to the diner it began to rain heavily—a real downpour, even for April. The streets turned to glassy mirrors.
Everything was shiny and blurry. Car tail lights reflected in the slick roads looking like lipstick squiggles—the kind of colour Marilyn Monroe used to wear.
The street lamps all had rainbow auras and the area seemed darker than usual.
When I parked the car, I noticed the diner had been refurbished; maybe now under new ownership, and the metallic exterior gleamed.
But then again, maybe it was just the rain.
I bought a paper from the box near the bus stop and held it over my head like an umbrella as I ran for the cheery warmth of The Blue Moon Grille.
I know, it’s a sappy name, but that’s what it’s been called for as long as I remember—hell, the place has been there since The Great Depression, and I bet they’ve set a record for selling coffee and plates of pie.
The place is charming, in an art deco, divy sort of way—of course, I’m a sucker for nostalgia, as you might have guessed, and it suits me just right.
This is the kind of place where the two waitresses are called Flo and Audrey, and it doesn’t matter which one you get, because they both call you hon, and think you’re the cutest thing since sliced bread.
Speaking of bread, it’s that old white sliced type in the plastic bag with blue, red and yellow balloons that just shouts, Let’s be Friends!
Tonight, I happen to get Flo, and she’s wearing her hair up and carrying the same old yellow pad and blue pencil that she never writes with, because she knows the menu backwards, and in Spanish too.
I’m suddenly hungry and decide to order coffee and poached eggs on toast.
Dirty water and Adam and Eve on a raft, she calls out to Eddy, who wears the same white apron with his name embroidered on it, that he wore when I bought milkshakes here in high school.
I flash back to sitting in this very booth with Mike Murphy and having Mr. Gow, our History teacher drop by, sit with us and chat.
“You got a real knack for writing, Mark," he' d tell me, "someday you’re going to write the Great Canadian novel—just wait, you’ll see.”
He’s dead now. I feel a momentary pang of loss as I picture him—handsome tanned face, light brown hair, tie always undone. He was the best—now he’s gone.
His daughter mentioned at his funeral, he used to go downtown on weekends to rescue wounded birds that flew into lighted office towers…such a gentle man.
“It’s easy to get lost on rainy nights.”
I look up and the girl in the booth opposite is watching me, bemused.
She has this wispy, blonde Marilyn Monroe hair and is wearing a beige trench coat. She’s painted her lips with the most shocking shade of red I’ve ever seen.
She looks totally gorgeous, and although I’m usually shy, I find myself smiling in spite of myself.
“That obvious, huh?”
She breaks into a little girl giggle so charming I feel my heart melt.
“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you seemed so wistful and far away.”
At that moment, Flo arrives with both our orders and arches a penciled eyebrow, “You two sitting together?”
The girl is about to demur, but I jump in, “Yes—set them both down on this table, Flo.”
I wink and the girl mischievously smiles.
When Flo goes, she slides over onto the bench seat across from me.
“I’m Marilyn,” she laughs, daintily offering me her small white hand.
“Mark,” I smile, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
“I grew up just down the street—the big house opposite the park.” I tell her.
She takes a sip of her coffee and nods. “I know it—we used to live on Salem Avenue in the Craftsman’s cottage near the corner store.”
“I know it too,” I laugh.
I dreamt of that cottage in high school—imagined living there one day with a wife and kids—back when women were a dream and girls like Marilyn I only saw on the silver screen.
“You’re drifting,” she whispers, punching my arm playfully.
I blush. “You’re right, I was. I don’t know why I feel so nostalgic tonight.”
“It’s either the place, or the company,” she says laughingly.
“Maybe, it’s both.” I impulsively place my hand on hers.
We lock eyes and the whole world fades away. It’s only Marilyn and me on a rainy street kissing beneath an umbrella.
The scene fades and we’re back in the diner again. I feel shaky.
“You look pale. Are you feeling all right?”
I feel waves of heat, but also feel chilled too as if I’m coming down with something.
She sits beside me, and touches her hand to my forehead. “You feel a bit feverish.”
I can feel the warmth of her body beside me—and inhale the powdery fragrance of her perfume.
“It’s the rain—you got soaked and now you’re chilled. You should probably go home and soak in a warm bath—that’ll fix you up.”
I nod and signal to the waitress. She drops our bills and I pay both and leave her a tip.
She looks at me funny. “That’s a big tip, hon,” she says.
It probably is for a diner like this.
“Keep it,” I say, “I liked the service.”
Marilyn steadies me when I get to my feet and helps me out to the car.
She looks concerned. “You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. By the way, can I see you again?”
She giggles, “Sure, I don’t have a phone yet, but I’m in here at this time every Friday night.”
“Then, it’s a date,” I say.
She kisses me—a long, cold kiss that never seems to end. I try to embrace her again, but she straight-arms me, with a pretend, stern look on her face.
“You must go home and rest—nurses’ orders.”
“Yes, Ma’m,” I smile.
As I drive away, I see her in the rear view mirror waving to me.
I never saw her again.
I went back the following week, but she wasn’t there. Neither was Flo—it was her night off.
I asked Audrey about the girl, but she couldn’t recall her and suggested I come back the following day and speak to Flo.
The next day Flo was eyeing me, her penciled eyebrows arched.
“Sure, I recall you mister—that size of tip I don’t often see—but you were alone that night.”
“That’s impossible. You served both of us.”
A look of compassion crossed her face. “You didn’t look so good that night, mister—maybe you had a fever—fevers can make you think strange things.”
I could see there was no use in protesting. She was adamant. But for a month I kept returning to the diner, every Friday night at the same time.
Love always returns.
But it was all for naught. I never saw Marilyn again.
It was funny though. That moment in the diner when the world seemed to fade away—it was a flashback to a recurrent dream—a dream of kissing a girl under an umbrella in the rain…
and I’m still haunted by long, cold kisses, kisses that never seem to end.