You stop at the diner because you’re hungry.
You’re driving from Phoenix to a suburb of Los Angeles. Before you left you grabbed a bag of mixed nuts and tonic water for the road, happy hour without the booze.
But it wasn’t enough.
So you stop, although you’re broke and can’t afford to lose the time.
The diner is one of those 50s nostalgia kind of places, with a neon sign and a jukebox and a long counter in front of a long window, like an Edward Hopper painting except no diners are inside, not even lonely ones.
Is the place open?
Yes, it must be.
The lights are on and the countertops are gleaming, and the booths are set with paper placemats and thick diner cups and forks and knives.
You walk through the door; a bell rings.
A man walks out of the kitchen to greet you. He’s dressed like the owner of a place like this would be dressed in a movie, with a rag over his shoulder. On his tag is the name Seo-jun Kim.
“Welcome,” he says. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the counter. You sit down. With the rag, he wipes down the surface in front of you, which was already sparkling clean.
This must be some sort of avant garde pop-up experience restaurant, a fake 50s diner in the middle of the desert that only serves minimalist Korean barbecue with homemade, curcuma-laced kimchi.
But no, on the menu is the usual diner fare: burgers, chili, tuna melts.
“So, what’ll be?” Seo-jun has a deep voice, with a slight Texas drawl.
You order a burger and fries.
“Anything to drink?”
“Just water is fine.”
He nods and walks into the back.
They did a fantastic job simulating the 1950s, or at least the 1950s as you imagine they must have been, down to the menus and napkin holders. Strange to go to all that trouble in the middle of nowhere. The air conditioner lets off a soft lull.
The desert outside looks like the desert around Phoenix: flat, with stunted bushes and no cacti, the kind of place rattlesnakes are embarrassed to call home. You think about something someone you once loved used to say: Phoenix has two types of buildings, ugly old buildings and ugly new buildings.
The suburb of Los Angeles you’re headed for is ugly too, but that’s not saying much. Los Angeles has lots of suburbs, and most of them are ugly.
You wonder what it’s like for Seo-jun to work here all alone, unless maybe there’s a cook in the back you haven’t seen. How did he get a Texas accent? Is there a Korean community somewhere in Texas? Houston, perhaps?
Seon-jun comes out from the back with the burger and fries, a big, diner-sized portion. “Here you go.” He puts down the plate and brings over the condiments, a little glass of pickle slices, a jar of mustard, plastic bottles with a spout at the top, red for ketchup, white for mayo.
“Do you get many customers out here?”
Seo-jun shakes his head. “You’re the first one in a good while.”
“How do you guys manage to stay in business, running a place like this in the middle of the desert?”
“We get by alright.” Seo-jun flashes a mysterious smile; the guy could double as a Spinx, you swear. “Enjoy your meal,” he says, and heads back to the kitchen.
The jukebox switches on, the pink and yellow lights around the sides flickering awake.
The music it plays isn’t Elvis or Rocking Robin or Patsy Cline, like you’d expect. It’s a strange sort of music, the kind meant to charm a cobra out of its basket, the horseshoe-shaped marking on its raised hood swaying back and forth for all the world to see.
The burger and fries taste great. You squirt some ketchup on to your plate, a red splat of cartoon blood.
You’re starting to feel sleepy, which isn’t good.
You need to finish the drive tonight. No way you can afford a motel, not even a run-down place, with bed bugs and black-eyed prostitutes. If you can’t make it, you’ll have to pull off the road and sleep in your car.
You know what happens to people who sleep in their cars out here. Sometimes they don’t find their bodies for years, their bones bleached out by the desert sun.
You’ve cleaned your plate, but Seo-jun hasn’t come back.
“Hello?” Nothing.
Just when you’re beginning to wonder if you should walk out without paying, Seo-jun Kim reappears. “Ready for your milkshake?” he asks, with the same smile he had before.
You try hard not to look annoyed. “Actually, could I just have the bill? I really need to get back out on the road.”
“Have the milkshake, I insist. It’s on the house.”
You’re in the mood for something sweet, especially something that’s free. Maybe the sugar will help keep you awake. “Ok,” you say. “Why not?”
“Which flavor do you want?” Seo-jun points to the menu on the wall. You go for the malted.
This time he works right in front of you at a milk shake machine, with a silver cup and long silver rod that mixes up the ingredients with a whir. He hands you the finished shake in a cut crystal glass, thick and beige, the fold on the top like a wave.
“Do you maybe have a spoon or a straw?” How are you supposed to drink this thing?
“I’m sorry, we’re fresh out.” A strange thing to be out of, but then this is a strange place.
You shrug. “Bottoms up,” you say, and take a swig.
Seo-jun and the diner disappear.
You’re alone in the dark, the music from the jukebox playing in the distance.
You get up and walk towards it, feeling your way through the dark, for a wall or the counter or the window, anything to hold onto.
The music grows louder. You shuffle forward, your hands moving to the front and to the sides, like a mime pretending to be trapped in a box.
At last, you touch something.
A ladder, the lowest rung.
You pull yourself up and climb.
You’re in the middle of somewhere, the song you heard sung by the stars, a sweet trill and melodic line, like a nightingale alone at three in the morning, singing over the skyline of a city where no one wants to live, but many do.
You climb higher.
The universe dives into you, stealing your breath and filling every cell of your body with starlight.
And:
you’re a small child again, four years old, maybe five, on the way to your first and last family camping trip, far from home.
Where you live is flat and dull, an endless maze of uninspired houses that all look the same, but you’re too young to know this yet. You’re sitting in the back of your parent’s station wagon, drunk with sleep. You drift off.
“Wake up, wake up,” your mother says. “Look out the window.”
Your mother, beautiful and still alive, sitting in the seat in front of you. You reach up to touch her hair, and she smiles.
“Look outside,” she whispers.
You’re a small child in your family car at sunset, the word “loss” not yet a part of your vocabulary. You look outside:
right here, right now, it’s the first time you ever saw mountains.
The empty glass is in front of you on the counter.
“All done?” Seon-jun asks.
You do your best to nod.
Seon-jun writes out the bill, humming a song you know. The jukebox is still. “Here you go.”
You’re shocked how low the bill is. The diner must also charge 1950s prices. You slip Seon-jun a bill and say, “Keep the change.”
He shakes his head. “No tipping here.”
When you start your, you remember the suburb of Los Angeles you’re headed for is close to the beach. This makes you smile.
You’ll stop there first, get out of your car and walk towards the ocean under the moonless, star-filled sky.
Not to swim, just to listen to the waves.
Milena Kokova is named after two deranged parrots she once owned and still loves. Sometimes, she writes.