ZIMMY'S

One of my favorite stories from my chapbook, "Beheading The Muse."

This is another of those stories that was an assignment, but it was MY opening paragraph that inspired others at the Midwest Writers Forum in Lowell, IN.  In fact, we all came up with such good stories that we invaded another writing group that met at Barnes and Noble in Merrillville,  IN (Writers Expressions) and five of us read our versions, ‘amazing’ all those in attendance at the ‘similar themes’ in our works.  Unfortunately, we had to reveal that it had actually been a conspiracy on our part and that we knew one another.  Either way, they enjoyed it.

You can find another story using this opening paragraph if you happen to own the limited-edition anthology published by the Highland Writers Group at Borders in Highland, IN.  The anthology is called “Between The Pages,” and contained a number of great stories by folks that are still great friends (and published authors now!).

ZIMMY'S

   The old man shuffled into the diner, shivering from the cold fog that permeated the harbor where I work.  There were only three of us customers in here at this hour and we all pretended we didn't care but stared at his reflection, all of us except Zimmy, of course.  Zimmy was the cook.  He just glanced at the guy and chewed at his stogie and walked over while he wiped his hands on a dirty white towel.

  “Coffee, please,” he said, sitting down at the dining bar.

   Zimmy poured the coffee, his lower jaw jutting out as he did.  It was an odd habit that actually softened his gruff features.

   “Foggy night out, isn’t it?” commented the old man to no one in particular, putting his gnarled fingers around the cup to warm them.  He had thinning white hair that was in need of a trim, a one-time neatly trimmed beard and gold-metal spectacles that slipped down his nose when he talked, making him look like one of those armchair Trotskyite socialists.  He was also dressed kind of funny, not like anyone around here.  I figgered him for a European or somethin’, though he spoke American good enough.

   Zimmy grunted a nod at the old man’s statement, walked down to me and freshened mine.  The old man turned and gazed out the big windows of the storefront.  I looked as well.  The fog was an ugly, thick, misty gray curtain drawn across the outside.  The streetlamps didn’t illuminate much as the moisture diffused the light sources until they were simply blurs.  Tonight was especially bad.  You couldn’t see a thing across the street to Yancey’s bar.  It was usually fun to sit in here and watch the fights from the safety of a blue-plate special.  Hell, you couldn’t even tell there was an ‘across the street,’ other than the fuzzy yellow glow of their lights and the faint sound of the music comin’ through the glass.

   The old man sipped at the cup of steamy joe, closing his eyes and let it warm him.  You could almost see the hot liquid work, draining the cold grayness from his face and putting color back into his cheeks.  Mickey and Thom got up to leave, pulling their coats around themselves before throwing coins onto the table where the remains of a chicken dinner sat.  They nodded and walked out into the fog.  The old man watched them go while Zimmy bussed the table.

   “Ever heard of Arthur C. Clarke?” he asked me, staring at my reflection in the glass.

   “Artie Clark?  Can’t say that I have.” I told him.  “Sounds like a prissy-boy with that middle initial.  What neighborhood’s he from?”

   The old man chuckled.  “Arthur C. Clark,” he replied, with an emphasis on the “C.”  He’s… not from around here.”

   “What about him, then.”

   “He wrote an interesting set of stories--,”

   “Ah!” I said, waving my hand in dismissal, “I told you he was a prissy-boy!”

   “He wrote an interesting set of stories,” continued the old man, overriding my remark, “About a place called The White Hart.”

   “And?” I said, noticing that Zimmy was wiping down the counter between the old man and I, chomping on his cigar in a manner that suggested he was taking it all in.

   “One story in that series commented about a fog, just like this.”

   “Pfah!” I spat, “We gets this kinda fog all the time.”

   “Hmmm, yes.  Well,” he continued, “In one story, a man enters the bar called the White Hart and comments to the patrons therein about said fog.  He ponders the question, ‘How do we know we stay in the same universe, the same dimension, when we walk out into a fog so thick that we can’t even see across the street.’  I found the whole concept quite fascinating.”

   “Yeah,” chimed in Zimmy before I could come back with a smart-aleck answer.  “Yeah!” he says again, “Dat would be an innerestin’ concept.”

   Now my jaw hit the counter.  I didn’t think Zimmy knew that many words!  I mean, Zimmy don’t speak much, let alone think.  He just tends to the counter and the cookin’; throwing out the bums that cause trouble and catching the cheats that don’t pay.

   “Just think,” said the old man, warming up to the subject, “What would the world be like in a different dimension?  Think of all the ‘What If’s’ and how they would affect you.”

   “Like what?” I muttered sullenly, miffed that Zimmy had deprived me of some fun with this old coot.

   “Oh, all kinds of things,” pondered the old man, “Think of it!  There might be such things as talking boxes.  Instantly heated food!”  He chuckled as if contemplating private joke, “Presidents from Hollywood.  A way to send letters instantly to anywhere in the world.  Advertising on the moon!”

   “Oh, jesh!” I snorted, “You’ve gone too far now!  Who would want to advertise on da moon?  How would they get da words up there?”

   “Have I really ‘gone too far?’” he replied, turning toward me, “Have I really said anything that isn’t possible?  How do you know that I’m not from that dimension myself?”

   I snorted my derision.

   “How do you know,” the old man continued, pointing behind him toward the outside, “that, when I walk through that door and into that fog, I won’t simply vanish into the mists?”

   “Yeah, right.”  I snickered, getting ready to lambast him.  Zimmy gave me a hurt look, so I stopped.

   “Tell me,” countered the old guy, “do you have the letters J, C, Q, W or X in your alphabet?”

   “What are those?” I asked.  I noticed a smile creep across Zimmy’s face.  The old man didn’t answer, he just asked another question.

   “Is the electricity here AC or DC?”

   “Why, DC of course!” I laughed at the absurdity of his question, “AC is dangerous and deadly!  Mr. Edison proved it when that crazy Tesla and da Westinghouse guy tried to squeeze in on his racket”

   “And who won against Hitler in World War Two?”

   “World War what?” I said, “We ain’t had but one of them type wars!  Oh!  You mean that little skirmish that France had with Germany a few decades back?  They kicked his ass and put that demented little man away before he killed the Kaiser!”

   The old man smiled and pulled some coins out from his pocket, staring at them for a moment before laying them on the table and heading for the door.

   “I guess I still have some searching to do,” he said. 

    As the door opened, I saw Zimmy picking up a coin and looking at it in the light.  He fisted it and ran toward the door.  In a flash, I was right behind him as we ran outside after the guy.  We’d both seen the old man shuffle past the window only a second before, so he couldn’t be more than ten yards in any direction.

   “HEY!” we both called, running down the street.  I crossed, calling out “HEY” again, but didn’t see anyone.  There was nothing and no one there.  I walked back to where I heard Zimmy calling out.  The fog was so thick I almost bumped into him before I saw him.  We stood out in the middle of the street with that heavy soup swirling about us for a few moments and then turned to go back to the store.

   While we walked, I asked,  “Whatsamatta Zimmy, did the old coot cheat you with some fake coins?”

   “I dunno,” muttered Zimmy, showing me the gold coin in his hand, “Who da hell is Clinton Rex and what da hell is da Democratic Kingdom of America?”

   “Damned if I kn-,”

   We both stopped at the storefront.  I was sure it was the same spot!  We hadn’t gone more than thirty feet or so, but something had changed!  The lighting was different.  Instead of it coming from globes that were hanging from fixtures, it was darker, and the place was packed!

   Zimmy and I craned our eyeballs up to the sign above the entrance.  I turned to look at him and he to me before we blurted out together:

   “What the fuck is a Starbucks?”