Category: Fiction Factor

The big glass door at the Meadowdale Diner slowly opened, giving way to the pressure of Henry Brady’s right shoulder push. Once inside, he gave the place a quick once-over.

It was already filling up with the lunch crowd; many of the patrons were dressed in their business attire, having ducked in for a quick bite before heading back to the office.

But Henry?

He was wearing what appeared to be a mylar emergency blanket (with holes for his arms to go through) and light blue slippers.

Patrons began stepping away as he shuffled toward the counter.

“Can I get a cup of Joe?” he asked the young man working the register. “I don’t have any money on me but my co-workers will pay for it. They should be here in another 10 minutes or so.”

There was one small, open table in the corner of the restaurant, and Henry made his way over to it, easing into the hard, plastic chair and letting out a long sigh.

While most of the customers had already stopped staring – if you look hard enough you can see just about anything in the downtown of a big city – the manager kept his eye on the man, who had settled into his spot and had his arms crossed and propped on the table.

“Sir, are you OK?” said the manager after nervously walking toward Henry.

Henry looked up at him, saw that his name tag read “Jim,” and smiled.

“I’m fine, Jim … and I’ll be even better after I get that coffee,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

The manager leaned down on one knee.

“You just look – I don’t know – like maybe you wandered out of a doctor’s office or a hospital or something,” Jim said. “I just want to make sure no one is looking for you.”

Henry laughed.

“Ah, you just want to make sure I didn’t escape,” he said. “Trust me … I couldn’t even I wanted to. And really, I don’t want to … I’m just on my lunchbreak – like a lot of the other people in here.”

He then looked past the manager and out the window facing the busy side street outside the diner.

“That thing across the way … how long has that been here?” he asked while pointing.

“You mean the public parking deck?” Jim said. “I really couldn’t say. It’s been here as long as I can remember … 10, 20 years at least, I guess.”

Henry squinted to get a better look.

“Hmmm,” Henry said. “About 100 years from now … maybe not even quite that long … there’s gonna be what’s called a hover station. It’ll be a place where people can store their gliders. There won’t be any more cars, at least not how you think of cars now.

“But this place will still be here. Well, I don’t think it’s called the Meadowdale Diner anymore and everything is automated, but I can still come here and get coffee.”

Jim knew there was something amiss with Henry the moment he walked in, and his nonsensical rambling confirmed his suspicion. Perhaps he had wandered off from a mental health clinic down the block. Or, maybe he had undergone an outpatient procedure and had yet to fully shake off the anesthesia. There was a hospital satellite office less than a mile away.

“Sir, do you remember where you were just before you came in here?” Jim asked.

Henry nodded.

“Absolutely … I was across the street,” he said. “In fact, I was right in the middle of where that parking deck is – or was. After they started that energy pattern transmission company there wasn’t much need for gliders anymore. And then when scientists decided to mess around with time jumps, these quantum shops – the place where I work – began popping up all over the place.

“It’s been fun for me. Been with  the same shop for about half a century now. As a tester I don’t go to a lot of different places, but I get to go to a lot of different times, which I like better. I get to see how the climate has changed, how people have changed, changes in infrastructure … then I file a report.”

Henry got up, stretched, and waved at the two men who had just materialized near the diner’s exit.

“Well, Jim” he said. “There’s my ride. If you can just give me my coffee to go, one of them will settle up with you. I don’t miss much about the 21^st century but man, you guys did coffee right.”

Most of the runners snaked their way along the sidewalk of the city center, negotiating the course with relative ease. But a few – the few who couldn’t keep pace – weaved out onto the main road as they struggled to keep up.

“Get out of the street, you idiots!” squawked the man. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is? Morons …”

Once a serious runner himself, Jeremy Browning had made it his mission to serve as something of a monitor, spending every Monday and Friday eyeing the crew from the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club – and yelling at them. The runners from the organization put in two mini-marathons per week, starting their journey under the cover of early morning darkness and finishing just as the city came alive with both human and vehicular traffic.

At the outset, they were often the only people anywhere near the street, save for the occasional dog walker or casual jogger.

Jeremy would give them a loose follow during the predawn jaunt, just to make sure they were staying in line.

His role as a keen observer increased dramatically, however, as they neared the end of their run. This was the point where many became tired – and careless.

“Hey, Pink Guy,” he bellowed at the pale, sweating man who was bringing up the rear of the line of marathoners. “Get your ass back on the sidewalk before you get run over.”

There was no acknowledgement, although once the runner side-glanced the slow-moving car as it moved past, he stumbled back toward the walkway.

“I can’t always be your eyes and ears,” Jeremy said. “At some point you have to show some common sense.”

Jeremy didn’t know the names of any of the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club members; there had been so many different ones over the years, it would’ve been difficult to remember them all anyway.

Instead, he identified them by their appearance.

“Pink Guy” had been around only a couple of months, and Jeremy didn’t think he was fully committed to the discipline and stamina needed to be in such an organization.

Then there was “Fish Britches,” the sobriquet he had given the man who always wore salmon-colored running shorts (and matching headband) and seemed more interested in fashion than exertion.

“Richie Rich,” “Sweaty Butt,” “Pencil Legs” … Jeremy was always able to identify a few who didn’t follow the rules of the road, and he wasn’t at all shy about shaming them when they got out of line.

“I guess I need to start calling you Road Kill instead of Sweaty Butt,” he shouted as the fellow with the perpetually damp shorts foundered toward the thoroughfare. “Mark my words … the next time you stagger out here on the asphalt will be your last. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Jeremy remembered another occasion when Sweaty Butt was clipped by a Honda Civic when he ran in front of the compact in an effort to keep pace with the rest of the group. The injury wasn’t serious, but Jeremy was livid.

He’d anticipated the event moments earlier and hollered as loud as he could to warn the runner. Sweaty Butt looked up in time to avoid a more serious crash, but had he been paying attention he could’ve steered clear of it altogether.

“Why don’t they listen?” Jeremy would often mutter to himself.

Of course, he had to believe they were listening, even if they might not even realize it.

They never so much as looked in his direction when he started vocalizing his displeasure, but somehow, he always seemed able to keep them out of harm’s way.

Yeah, there was Sweaty Butt’s incident with the Honda. And then several years earlier there was the guy – “Terrycloth Drawers” Jeremy remembers calling him – who was on a collision course with a minivan before darting out of the road and into a sticker bush.

Jeremy screamed with such force he was certain he’d busted a blood vessel.

When he thought about it – and it was basically all that he thought about – everyone in the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club should thank him for what he did.

Every time they did their weekly runs, he was serving as their lookout. And when Monday and Friday were done and the same number of harriers who started also finished, Jeremy felt as though his goal was accomplished.

And that was a good feeling, albeit a bittersweet one.

Because if he’d had a ghost looking out for him all those years ago, maybe he’d still be alive today.

The captain stood at the head of the table, tapped his wine glass three times with a silver spoon, and smiled as the dinner guests took a break from their polite conversations.

“Thank you,” he said. “I just want to say how happy we are to have you on our Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure. I know tomorrow is a big day with our competition beginning in the morning, and of course we’ll crown our champion at the end of the evening.

“So please … eat, drink – but not too much because we’ll be getting an early start – and enjoy yourself. We want this to be an experience of a lifetime for you all.”

The pickleball cruise drew an older crowd, and one not afraid to spend money. While it included ocean views and standard tourist stops typical of ocean journeys, it was designed for people who took the sport seriously.

And few took it more seriously than Timothy and Kathleen Miasma.

To say the pair were popular players in their local pickleball club in Seaside, Florida, would be a falsehood. The retired pharmaceuticals executives were, in fact, reviled.

Both had tempers that would manifest in uncomfortable and often inexcusable ways, and they had plenty of smashed paddles and torn nets to show for it. Being sore losers was compounded by the fact that neither were very good players; when it was competition time, they were among the first to exit.

But their wealth helped build facilities and courts, and even funded a pavilion (called the Timothy and Kathleen Miasma Pavilion, of course) that made all-weather play possible. The joke was that they were a “necessary evil.”

This time, though, they were taking their talents to the sea, and had made it known that they intended to be crowned Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure champions.

They were paired against Bob and Betty Shipley in the first round of competition, and made a point to seek them out after leaving their dinner plates untouched.

“My wife and I look forward to beating you tomorrow,” Timothy said to the Shipleys, who seemed caught off guard by the boast. “This is a business trip for us, and you’re the first order of business. Winning is all that matters.”

It didn’t take long for  the other passengers to realize the Miasmas were not the “fun couple” of the cruise, and any impromptu mini-social groups that formed made sure to exclude them.

As the drinking and feasting wound down, Timothy and Kathleen prepared to make their way back to the cabin – but not before one final pronouncement.

“This time tomorrow night,” Kathleen bellowed, “we will stand alone as champions. Mark my words.”

The Miasmas were up at dawn on tournament day, and after a leisurely early morning, they made their way to the courts on the main deck.

Trophies for first, second and third place were already set up on a table situated near center court, as well as ribbons that would be handed out to all the participants.

But while Timothy and Kathleen were already there when tournament officials arrived, none of the other players were anywhere in sight. And five minutes before the preliminary matches were scheduled to begin, the courts were empty except for the couple who had guaranteed victory the night before.

“Excuse me,” Timothy said, getting the attention of one of the tourney directors, Jan Edwards. “According to the rules, if the players don’t show up on their assigned court by the official start time, they have to forfeit the match. Well, the official start time will come and go soon and if the Shipleys aren’t here, we advance.

“Those are the rules.”

Edwards was more concerned with the complete lack of competitors than she was with the Miasmas’ tardy foes, but nodded in agreement.

“That’s correct,” she said. “But I think we have bigger problems than that. It’s not just the Shipleys who are late, so is everyone else – besides you. Something isn’t right.”

A half hour went by before officials noticed panicked waves from members of the ship’s crew. They scurried over to see what the excitement was about while the Miasmas looked on. Once the commotion settled, Edwards – following a subdued conversation with the ship’s captain – made her way towards them.

“I’m afraid I have some horrible news,” she said. “All of the rest of the competitors are dead. They were found dead in their cabins … every one of them.”

Timothy looked at the official with a gleam in his eye.

“Well,” he said. “We win the tournament.”

Edwards gazed at him in disbelief.

“There are over 30 people dead, sir,” she said, gritting her teeth as she choked out the sentence. “I don’t think anyone is thinking about pickleball championships right now.”

Kathleen walked over to the first-place trophy, grabbed it, and held it in front of her.

“I said we’d stand alone as champions,” she shouted. “And here we are.”

The victorious couple knew that in just a few days they’d be back in Seaside, and their trophy would no doubt be the envy of every other member of their club. They shared a quick kiss and then walked away with their hardware, discreetly tossing the flask of poison overboard.