THE STYGIAN DINER

by Mike McElhaney

 

You have found the most frequented stop along life's little journey in the form of this fine establishment my friend, no doubt about it. I know the place is quiet right now but it's been a busy day, people passing through. Dropping in, middle of the night like you are, is plain good instinct. No competition for a seat, and it's the seat you're looking for. And a stiff drink, of course.

What will yours be? Doesn't have to be of the distilled variety, either. As you can see behind this shiny counter we have plenty of sweet, bubbly elixirs on draft. If you don't see something you like we can mix up anything you can imagine. Also have your classics, like the coffee sitting over on that burner. Don't let the color fool you, just because that pot's been warming for an hour now doesn't mean it's bad. It's still plenty good, puts hair...well, you know. We also have a range of bottled drinks in this cooler tucked in the corner, the kind of stuff you can get anywhere.

Some of that? Got it. Thought that might be your poison. Let me get this poured for you before you wither away on me. Here you go. Just like in the pictures, right? Take a nice, long sip, let me know if it's ok. Good? Good! So tell me, beyond the draw of our whirligig above the diner, and our ever-so-comfortable cushioned spinning stools, what brings you this way?

That's a good reason. Not that there's a bad reason, you understand. Everybody's got their reasons for being where they are when they're there.

Me? Well, when you've been around as long as I have, and worked so many long years, sometimes just being somewhere is all the reason you need. I'm always here, as much a part of this place as it is of me. I look around at the blue and white checkered wall tiles, the green shaded lamps in the booths, the gleam off the chrome. I see myself in it.

Yeah, years and years. Decades in fact. Steady work, which a man like me can appreciate. You know it's funny, most folks spend their early years toiling away more than they do at the twilight. But me, I work hard right to the end, right to the very end. I can see that in your eyes too. Not working just to be busy, not because there aren't other things you'd rather be doing. Working when you've given your word on something, right? An honest effort? No more could be asked of a person, and no more given. Dependability, a true and overlooked vocation if there's ever been one, I always say.

You're right, and you know, most people don't think about it like that. I used to know this guy...you like parables? Tall tales? That sort of thing?

Ok, think of this like one of those old stories. There are a lot of stories floating around a place like this. You've probably got some of your own, and if you don't, you will soon, I'm sure of it. Mine starts pretty simply. I used to know this guy who's kind of what we're talking about, reliable and whatnot. The story starts in a Louisiana swamp on a hot summer day.

* * *

The man would have missed a freight train going by, deafened as he was by the buzz from the flies hovering in the lush swamp. The dampness in the air mirrored the moisture that beaded on the deep green leaves of the brush, the long grasses, and the tree trunks. Had he not lived the second half of his sixty-odd years near the marshes of Louisiana he would have found it hard to breath. Unfazed, he trudged through the pliable terrain sinking up to his ankles in fetid mud concealed beneath the spongy ground cover.

He was lost though he would hesitate to admit it in mixed company.

The day began like hundreds before, the man heading into the swamp on his boat. He had been on and off his trawler for a few hours checking a string of snapper traps he had laid in the last week along choice spots in the branching riverside coves. No sign of a bite in a one of them, and after replacing the last hoop net near a stand of old breakaway logs he had started heading back toward his boat.

But the recent seasonal rains had made the terrain more unforgiving than usual, and he had gotten a leg caught in cyprus roots not visible in the elevated waterline. In trying to free himself he had hit his head on the parent tree without being able to get a solid handhold, leaving him disoriented. Rubbing his head as he walked away he had paid little attention to which direction he was going.

Now as he came out into the small open space along the meandering way of a narrow river branch he knew he had gone the wrong way. He was familiar with the whole country here, hunting not just turtles but fish, small game, and sometimes small alligators. He had a good sense for the major tributaries weaving through this thirty mile wide swamp. This stream, with detritus from the shallow river banks and the overhanging trees floating by, was new to him.

On its own that was not surprising. For all his experience he believed with total humility that a man could only know so much about his corner of the world. His knowledge of the swamp, though great, was finite.

What did surprise him was the old, worn dock that poked a dozen feet into the water, its weathered grey color masking what kind of wood the structure was formed from. A few feet back from the water's edge, just up the embankment, was a one-room shack about ten feet on a side sporting a rusted metal roof seeming eager to slide off the rickety walls. In the long grass, sitting in a metal and fabric lawn chair beside a blackened fire pit, was an older man of at least eighty watching him with hawkish eyes.

* * *

Not as weird as you might think, and not as weird as that man thought at the time. The swamps are full of people living at the fringes, occupying long forgotten homesteads dotting the marsh. People live in the harshest, oddest places and eke out an existence. The people who live in the swamps are some of the hardiest.

No, I don't watch much reality TV, but yeah, I know what you're talking about. Swamp folk who make their living hunting alligators, or pulling logs, grabbing bullheads.

Yeah, those are a tough sort. You find them living on their own sometimes. Might seem intimidating, but they're really friendly underneath, and loyal to a fault. Reliable, like we're talking about, keep their word. Work hard. Swamp life's hard, and if you're making a go of it yourself out there you got to work hard.

By the way, you want some food? Kitchen's open, and by that I mean I'll cook you whatever you want, or at least give it a try. You can take a look at the menu there, see what grabs your interest.

A little of that, eh? Well you're not hard to please! I happen to be hiding some fancy culinary skills behind this old apron, and you just chance picked one of my specialities. If you don't mind, I'll just prep and cook while we talk. I'll be behind the kitchen counter over there, see? If you can't hear me, shout out, don't be shy.

* * *

"How are you doing, sir?" the man asked, slowing as he approached the small camp, arms loose at his sides. He knew better than to approach swamp folk too fast, at all threatening, or appearing to have anything to hide. That'd get you killed just as fast as getting pulled under by a big gator.

"Sorry for interrupting your relaxation, I just got lost back a ways when I was checking some turtle traps. Didn't know any folk had plots out here, and I meant no offense coming across your camp."

The old man had an intent look on his face, as if he were studying every hair on the younger man's head, every wrinkle in the face. He brought his bony left hand up to his face and with the spotty back of it he rubbed under his nose. Without shifting his eyes the old man snorted and then cast spittle into the grass.

The man came to the edge of what one might call the yard. The grass here was more than a foot shorter than that around the river banks, perhaps seeing some cutting a week back. He glanced at the fire pit, a blackened grill suspended above it. The smell of charred wood with hints of fish mixing in his nostrils. "Smells like a good catch there, sir."

The old man didn't react, didn't move, just kept his eyes on the newcomer.

There was a power behind those eyes, the man thought, that belied this old man's age.

The old man chewed at something in his mouth, contorting his lips, as if munching cud like some cow.

"Look, sir, I don't mean to trouble you, I just am lost and would like some help. I slipped on account of all this rain we've had, and I got turned about. I was hoping you might be able to tell me how to get back to town, or if you have a boat and could take me back. I would be happy to pay you for your help."

The old man did not respond, he just sat there, watching. What's more, he gave no indication of even having heard the words of his visitor.

The man made his way along the periphery of the camp, on the riverside, not getting too close to the old man. Despite the clear age of the dock and the shack, the old man and his chair, the man noticed that everything was well kept. Many swamp folk had stacks of broken things they used for parts, had a refuse pile nearby that they'd haul off into the deeper marsh every so often, had beer cans, butts, and odd trash littering their camps. This camp was clean and well kept. Old and worn yes, but well maintained. The man liked that.

He moved over to the dock, looking down into the shallow water around it. The water was murky even for the swamp, and mud swirled in odd patterns. The river stream was moving but the drift of twigs and leaves on the surface showed negligible speed. Whatever fish the old man had caught in this water, it was used to living in the dark.

Looking at the footings of the dock he did not see any fish darting around, which was odd. Fishing off docks was great most of the time because of how many shallow feeders congregated there. But here there was nothing. With the water this murky he realized he might not even see them. He decided to move out onto the dock to get a look at the water further out a bit, to see if it was clearer.

He took one step onto the dock.

"Stop!" commanded a strong, gritty voice from behind him. He turned to look, and the old man's chair was empty. Confused, he turned back to the dock and was face to face with the old man, unshaven face in his, penetrating eyes staring him down. His body which moments before had appeared somewhat frail now radiated confidence and power.

"This dock is not yet for you," the old man boomed.

The man hesitated, meeting the old man's gaze, and then drew back his foot.

The old man narrowed his eyes at the younger man, his face still expressionless, except for the subtle intensity.

"I am the Caretaker," he said.

* * *

Crazy? Maybe.

What you need to know is that people aren't always as they seem, and just because you got an old man staring you down doesn't mean you're safe. Nor does it mean you're in danger. It's just that there's more to people than what you see on the surface.

Food's up, by the way. You'll want to eat this while it's fresh, best for the smell and the taste.

No, I'm good right now. I did try a bit back in the kitchen, as a chef you know, just to make sure it was turning out ok. Another bite or two and I'd be liable to eat the whole thing myself!

Oh look, we got ourselves a visitor. Let me help this young lady here real quick, you just sit tight, I'll be right back.

Hello miss, how are you doing this fine night? Seems like you may be in need of a little bit of help? Trying to get there? If you know where you're going there's no time like the present, that's what I say. Happy to help you miss, but I don't think we even need to call a cab. Look right out there...bus just pulled up. Yeah, we're kind of a crossroads. Busses, cabs, they make stops here regularly and go off taking people different places. From the looks of it, that one'll take you where you want to go. Ok dear, you have a good night. You too, and no trouble at all. Bye.

What? Oh, you don't need to worry about that, she was fine. She was in a hurry, don't know if you noticed. She knew exactly where she was going, you could tell just looking at those eyes. No time for food or drink, just needed some help moving on.

Now where was I?

* * *

"I'm sorry, mister, Caretaker, sir, for stepping onto your dock. I meant no offense."

The Caretaker's eyes pierced the man's. "None taken." Shaking his cloud-topped head he shuffled off the dock and past the man, back toward the shack.

The Caretaker opened the door wide, revealing a shadowy interior with sundry cooking tools, oil lamps, and a cot within sight. After working for a few minutes at a table he emerged again with some big fish fillets in hand. He brought them over to the fire pit and began setting up a spit, placing the fish into a wire rack enclosure, and sparking a fire to life. Finishing up he locked eyes with the man. "Want some catfish?"

The man felt the gurgle of his stomach made worse by the invitation, for there was little he loved more than blackened catfish with a fiery rub. "If you wouldn't mind sharing, sir, then yes, I would very much like to try some of your catfish."

"I told you, call me Caretaker, and drop the 'sir' nonsense. Do I look like I'm old enough to be your father, or..." The Caretaker trailed off, looked at the man, then himself, then shook his head again. "Fish will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

The man came over to the fire pit and helped stack some wood underneath, and then brought over a few more logs from the pile near the shack.

The Caretaker went into the shack again and returned seconds later with another folding chair. Setting it up next to the fire pit he waved the man to sit down, and then dragged his folding chair over and collapsed into it. He started turning the arm of the spit, warming the fish on both sides, his eyes for the first time attentive on something other than the man.

The two sat in quiet for many long minutes as the fire built and the smell of cooking fish began to diffuse throughout the area. The man stole glimpses of the Caretaker every so often, but uncertain of what to say, decided to remain silent while the fish cooked. Lost in his thoughts he did not notice a woman appear off at the tree line where he had come through.

The woman looked to be in her forties or fifties, with greying brown hair and confusion in her eyes. She wore a sun dress, the bottom of which had picked up some mud from the swamp.

The man furrowed his brow, wondering how a woman like that had gotten this lost, this far into the swamp, dressed like that. For him to be in this predicament was one thing, but this lady? He looked over at the Caretaker and saw the old man's features had softened. The Caretaker didn't look at all shocked to see the woman.

"I...I am lost. I don't know how I got here. I was driving, and was tired and hot." The woman spoke through sobs, the confusion in her eyes mirrored in her wavering tones. "I must have drifted off...blacked out...I don't remember. I woke in the swamp, trying to get out."

The Caretaker stood up, and walked over to the woman. "It's ok, my dear, you're fine. Just a little lost." He offered his arm to the woman and helped her walk through the camp toward the dock.

The woman nodded, seeming to comprehend little of her situation, responding more out of habit than rational choice. "Yes, lost. I just want to get out."

"Yes, yes, of course my dear. It will be ok. I will help you." The Caretaker stepped up onto the dock and helped the woman up. Walking to the end of the dock the Caretaker smiled at the woman, and patted the side of her head. Then he crouched down and untied a heavy old rope that was wrapped around one of the end posts of the dock. The rope ran from the post, dangled in the water, and was tied at the other end to a low rowboat.

A rowboat. The man looked in wonder. How had he missed a rowboat being moored there at the end of the dock. Sure, it was a squat boat, not much taller than the dock's top and it blended in with the grey wood, but he should have been able to see it. He must be hungrier than he thought.

The Caretaker steadied the woman as she climbed down into the boat, taking a seat in the middle between the oars. "Now dear, those oars are latched into the sides there, see? But you probably won't need to do a thing. This river moves much quicker than it looks. You ride this current down that way, ten or fifteen minutes, and you'll be fine."

"I'll be fine," she repeated, in a daze.

"Yes ma'am, you'll be fine. Don't worry, you're in this boat now, and this boat won't get lost. So don't you worry a bit." The Caretaker smiled and squeezed her shoulder before tossing off the mooring rope.

The rowboat drifted away from the dock several feet, and began to move down the river along with all the other flotsam. The Caretaker was right, the boat was picking up speed. The boat and everything in the current was moving quicker as it passed the shack, heading toward a bend where sight of it would soon be lost.

The woman seemed calm and peaceful, just sitting in the middle of the boat, watching everything on the shores move by. The rowboat stayed in the middle of the river and kept its direction, though as it came toward the bend it curved. The man watched, pondering how odd the current's flow was, that the boat not only was being pushed along with increasing speed but the force on its sides was turning it, keeping it parallel to the riverbanks.

As the boat approached the bend the Caretaker raised his hand and waved, a caring look still on his face. The woman raised her hand in a short, detached wave. Her glazed eyes turned back forward, watching the river ahead of her, and the boat drifted out of view.

The Caretaker walked back from the dock and over to the fire pit, turning the fish again that had been neglected for the past few minutes. The fish, which should have been burnt on the downward facing side, looked fine. In fact the man saw that the fish looked perfect and were near done.

The man looked from the fish to the Caretaker, incredulous. "Why did you do that? To that woman? You put her in a boat in a swamp river? That woman doesn't live in the swamp, you can tell. She knows nothing about the swamp. You put her in a boat on her own and sent her down river? I may be lost but I'm pretty sure that goes deeper in."

"I helped her," responded the Caretaker, reaching over to pull the fish rack off the spit and place it on the rocks before them.

"Bullshit. She's in more trouble now than she was. And what about that boat? I didn't see that boat before, and granted I am tired and hungry, but why didn't you offer me that boat? Why did you chase me off the dock? So I wouldn't see it?"

The Caretaker opened the wire rack up with a rag to protect his hands, and with a large cooking fork slid one fillet off and onto an old plate, handing it to the man, and then took the other fillet for himself. He took a bite, closing his eyes for a moment, seeming to savor the taste. Opening his eyes again, he looked over at the man, and motioned to the food. "Eat up."

The man held his plate, not breaking the stare. "I asked you, why not offer me the boat? Why didn't you help me?"

"I am helping you. What you need isn't a boat. If it was, you would have seen it. Now eat some fish."

* * *

A monster?

I see, sending the woman off on the boat down the river on her own to an uncertain fate. Not giving the boat to the man when he first showed up. Kind of acting like a crazy old man sometimes, like a caring grandfather others, and careless with the woman. But a monster?

No, I don't think the old man's a monster, or crazy. Enigmatic, yes, but trying to help.

You know how sometimes you face a hard time, or a challenge, and really need a break? Once in a long while there's somebody there who can maybe make a difference? Sometimes it's a family member, sometimes a friend. Maybe a stranger even. But there's somebody there who could help. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't, people are different. Not everyone helps. Maybe it would risk that person's safety to help, or they are worried about appearances, or maybe it would just be too hard to help. Most people just want to get on with where they're going, have blinders on to anything or anyone else.

Yeah, it's kind of like that. The old man, think of him like that guy who's at the right place at the right time, and sure he may be crotchety and cranky, and yeah he looks weird and probably smells funny, and you may never know what's going on inside that head of his. But he's in a position to help and is always willing to. He'll work hard to help someone, whether his actions are understood. Commitment, that's what he has.

* * *

The two men ate the catfish fillets in silence for the next ten minutes. The man had to admit this was the best black catfish he ever had. It was flavorful, spiced just right, and the cook was perfect. How the old man had pulled that off despite leaving the fish over the fire too long without turning it, the man did not know. He contented himself to finish up the meal, looking out onto the river and the dancing shadows from the overhead canopy.

"There's a responsibility that a man has," the Caretaker began, breaking the calm, "when he has a job to do, when he takes on an obligation. It differentiates men from each other. The good from the not so good, the strong from the weak...and I'm not talking about muscles. I'm talking about character. Great men were never very common, but good men are in short supply these days. Do you know what I mean?"

The man laid his bare plate down onto the rocks and sat back in his chair, nodding his head. "I saw it in the war. Responsibility to your brothers. Responsibility to your country. All the fighting, all the killing. Most men fight for something or someone they love, because of a promise made to themselves as much to anyone else. Even when you didn't think you could do it anymore you did your duty until someone else came along to take over that burden."

He rubbed his eyes, feeling weary. "Even when we came back there was work to be done. Home to build, families to start, kids to take care of. We worked hard for ourselves, for each other. We weren't fighting a war anymore, we were just living the day to day. But the commitments are similar."

The Caretaker stacked his plate onto the man's and then put his feet up on a nearby log. "Building a family, building a home, that's not easy work. A man makes an oath to his wife, to his kids. To himself. Not all men can live up to that."

"No," agreed the man, "not all can. But many did. I did. I worked hard, every day, for nearly forty years of marriage to the woman I loved. I gave her a good home, gave her the best I could no matter how hard, right up to the end when she passed a year ago. I worked hard for my kids, raising them with her, getting them the good start I didn't have. Don't see them much anymore, and I don't know how grateful they really are, but it was the right thing to do, and I did it. Kept up with my responsibility. Same with my buddies from the war. Started families, saw things through, built our lives and our towns." The man looked off into the swamp woods at nothing in particular, recalling distant memories.

"Oaths. You made oaths to yourself, to your wife, to your kids, to your friends. You made oaths to people you loved and people you never met before." The Caretaker's gaze was again intense. "More important, you kept the oaths."

"It's the right thing to do."

"It may be, but that doesn't make it easier, or less noble. Most people don't."

* * *

That's a good word for it, you're right. Honor. That's something that's missing in people these days, missing not just here but the world over. Seems every generation understands that word less.

Many people can't handle responsibility anymore of any kind. Think about how many kids gets coddled, how many so called adults live at home well into their twenties.

Thirties? Some are living at home into their thirties these days? Shows how often I get out. Twenty-five, thirty years old. All my kids were born by thirty, and my oldest was eleven. The point is that people are kids way into what used to be called adulthood, and so many people can't take care of themselves or anyone else anymore. And honor? Forget about honor. People these days look out for themselves, not anyone else, and break their word as easy as they breathe.

Don't get me started on their work ethic. I can prattle on about hard work for hours. Too many free loaders these days, afraid to put in the time it takes to do something right. Not you though, I can see it in your eyes.

Yes, that's what I mean. Not being afraid of a challenge, not giving up no matter how hard, just doing what you've said you'd do. Seeing it through. Do the job while you're on watch. Responsibility, like we talked about.

Speaking of, can I clear that plate out for you, and refresh your drink? All set for now? Sounds good. Let me just take care of this for you then.

* * *

"Do you know anything about the ancient Greeks?" asked the Caretaker.

"No," the man answered. "Can't say that I do. Had all these old pagan gods. Athens is there. That's about it."

"That's a start. Let me tell you about one of the things the ancient Greeks believed in." He got up, went over to the shack, and could be heard moving stuff around. He reappeared with a broad black book in his hands, wider and longer than a normal book. The Caretaker blew heavy dust off its hard surface and handed the book to the man, face up. 'The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri' was set into the leather front in bronze characters.

The man opened up the book. The aged pages were massive, with old typeface, containing page after page of the English translation of Dante's magnum opus. "I know this. Never read it, but I've heard of it." He continued paging through, scanning with interest the first few pictures made from engraved plates.

The Caretaker reached over and flipped forward many pages, moving to specific plate. "Have you heard of this?"

The man looked at it. There was a boat with a ferryman struggling against choppy waters, with people thrashing about. Some seemed to be drifting without purpose, others seemed desperate to cling to the boat, as if trying to climb up. Two figures stood in the middle of the boat witnessing the scene, one with detachment, the other with some modicum of fear.

"Dante and Virgil crossing the River Styx, with the ferryman, Charon, driving the boat. These are souls clinging to it desperately, trying to escape their fate." The Caretaker sat down in his chair, settling back, letting the man study the picture.

"The River Styx," the Caretaker said, "separates Earth from Hades, the realm of the dead. It is named after, and in some of the Greek stories is the body of, the goddess Styx. Styx swore to follow Zeus in the Great War against the Titans, and was true to her word. After the War ended, and the Olympians were victorious, Zeus decreed that all oaths of the gods would be sworn on the River Styx. Any breaking their oaths would face terrible punishment."

The Caretaker leaned over and tapped the picture. "Charon here, the ferryman, would take the souls of those who died across the River Styx and into Hades, from whence the souls would go on to any number of fates. All souls passed through his hands."

The strain on the ferryman was apparent, as was the clear importance of the two passengers in reaching their destination. The souls around, those without the ferryman's help, seemed lost.

The Caretaker closed the book and took it from the man, resting it on his lap. "I have been minding this dock for a long time. A long, long time. It is an honor to do so, and I have been working hard at this no matter what challenges have arisen." He looked straight into the man's eyes, a solemn look that spoke more than could be expressed in words.

"I believe that you are a man of honesty, of honor, of hard work, of responsibility. I believe you are a man who above others can be trusted with duty, a duty more important than even that to brothers in war or being a husband to a wife. A duty a fair degree more challenging than both." The Caretaker studied the man's reaction, which was reserved but not flinching.

The Caretaker continued. "I mind this dock, all day, every day, without end. Have for years. People will come and go, and I help them get on a boat, or point them back through the swamp." His tone got very serious. "I would ask you, if you would help an old man, by ensuring my duty is done in my stead for a time while I rest."

The man blinked, stunned by the question. "I...I just got here. On accident, remember? I was trying to get back to town before I came upon here. What I was looking for was a boat before you gave the last one to..." the man said, trailing off as he pointed over to the dock. At the end of the dock sat a small rowboat, its top rising just above the top of the dock's surface, oars clamped to its sides. He stared, then looked back at the Caretaker.

"Did you really want to go back? You know the swamp. Why did you come here if you wanted to go back?" The question hung in the air, and the man seemed to grapple with it. "You can take the boat anytime, you see it right there. Don't let me stop you. Take it down river. You can. Or," the Caretaker said, leaning forward, "you can do me the honor of ensuring my duty is done for a time, in my stead, while I rest."

The man looked at the dock and rowboat tied to its end post. He looked over at the cooling embers of the fire pit, the remains of the shared meal, and the rickety old shack. He turned back to look into the woods he had come from, which looked familiar but so distant all at once. He turned back to the Caretaker. "How long?"

"As long as I am gone. All that I ask is that you ensure that my duty is fulfilled. Nothing more."

The man shifted in his chair, resting his chin on folded hands, thinking. This was a crazy situation, and he fought to understand what was happening, what was being asked of him. The old man must want to get into town for once, he thought, to get a real meal, sleep in a real bed, get a real shower. He may even know people, or have family, in town.

But he was taking this whole duty thing with the dock very serious. It was almost unnerving to the man how committed the Caretaker was to his job, if that's what it was. The man could appreciate responsibility, and did have a sense that this old man, this Caretaker, was from a bygone age. He could help, at least for a little while. He didn't have anywhere to be, didn't have anyone counting on him or waiting for him. He wasn't in a hurry.

Looking up at the Caretaker, the man cleared his throat. "Ok, I'll do it, for a little while."

The Caretaker stood up, tucking the black book under his left arm. He gripped the right forearm of the seated man with his right hand, pulling him up with surprising vigor, locking their arms, staring the man in the eye. "Swear it. Swear to an old man that you will ensure my duty is done in my stead while I am gone. Swear it on the River Styx."

The man saw the gravity in the Caretaker's eyes, and felt the firmness of the grip. He gripped the Caretaker's forearm back, staring straight back at the Caretaker, feeling a weight settling upon him. "I swear it. I swear to you I will ensure your duty is done in your place while you're gone. You have my word." Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "On the River Styx."

The Caretaker closed his eyes, breathed a deep breath, then opened his eyes. He smiled at the man, a smile almost too wide for his face, and pulled the man into a great hug as grandfather might. When he pulled back there were hints of wetness at the corners of his eyes.

"You ok?" asked the man, confused.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Great. Thank you. Thank you so much."

His voice was giddy, energetic, and there was a bounce to his motions that had not been there five minutes before. "I just need to get something, then I'll be going."

The Caretaker bounded into the shack and rummaged about before coming back out with what looked like a woman's golden wedding ring on a black strap. The man could see some squarish, etched repeating patterns marked into the surface, not waves but something similar, with some other details and flourishes he couldn't make out. The ring was a stunning antique, and sparkled in the light as the Caretaker slipped the strap around his neck.

Looking around the camp one final time, the Caretaker turned to the man once more, and handed him the black book. "This is a good read, I promise. A good way to pass the time."

"Thanks."

The two men looked at each other, then shook hands. The Caretaker embraced the man one more time before stepping back. "Thank you, I will not forget this." He then started to walk across the yard, paused at the edge, and then took a step into the deep grass.

"How long?" called the man after him.

The Caretaker stopped and turned, a serene look on his face. "As long as I am gone." Then he faced the swamp woods, a jovial expression returning to his face, and disappeared into the trees.

The man was alone.

* * *

Yeah, kind of touching there at the end, isn't it? It's one of those heart-warming, sad-but-happy ways to end a story, eh?

The real ending?

Oh, I see what you mean. No, the man never broke his oath to the old man. He kept his word, making sure that the Caretaker's duty was met while the old man was gone, not missing a day during his vigil. He helped countless men and women who found their way to that spot on to wherever they needed to go. Never complained either, just did his duty, kept his word. Even read that whole big book eventually.

The Caretaker? Well, that's a little more tricky, time being what it is. Time moves so slow some times, and so fast other times, it's kind of hard to say how much time really passed. But the important thing is that the man made sure the duty always was done, without fail, and always would be until it was time to give it back.

By the way, I know you said why you were passing through, but you never said where you were going? No where in particular, eh? No plan? Yeah, happens a lot. Sometimes happens to all of us.

Hey, since you're not in a hurry, would you mind if I asked you for a favor? You can say no, of course...

* * *

The man left the diner, turning back to gaze upon the sign that rotated above the roof, the words 'The Stygian Diner' glowing in bright neon. Tall streetlights poured light down at the corners of this desolate junction on the rural highways, giving the place an old and comforting look, like it was someplace out of time. The night was brisk and clear, the sliver of a moon doing little to obscure the swath of stars above.

Behind him the man heard an engine crank a couple of times and then catch. He turned to see the headlights of an old pickup truck flicker on. The pickup was something of an antique, with many rounded edges and a vibrant green color to its body that didn't get used much in cars these days.

He walked over to the truck's passenger side, slapping the hood twice as he passed, and pulled open the door, hopping inside. "Long time, no see."

"I'm here, aren't I." The driver aimed the rearview mirror down at his head. He drew a black comb through his ample snow white hair, straightening it out.

"You look old, you know," the man said.

"Look who's talking." Fixing the mirror the older man settled himself back in the bench seat and put his hand on the column shifter. Pausing, he bobbed his head toward the diner. "Is it all set?"

"Yes," the man answered, looking back, "it's still being taken care of."

The older man smiled, shaking his head. "Alright. This is your night. Where do you want to go?"

Turning to the window, the man breathed a deep sigh through a thin smile. "Anywhere but here."

Nodding, the old man put the pickup into gear and pulled out onto the road, heading into the night. As the truck left the corner a bit of streetlight reflected off something golden and shiny inside the cab. It was small and circular, hung by a black cord of some kind from the rear view mirror, and swayed back and forth.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Mike McElhaney