Greasy Spoon

self, conveyed through a chaos of memories, is constructed in layers of moments

I suddenly became aware of myself. I noticed I was sitting on a stool at one of those 1950s style diners. A greasy spoon. It seemed tremendously real, as real as anything can be when pitched into an unfamiliar place with no recollection of getting there from anywhere else. Even the passersby outside the oversized windows seemed real. I was aware of everything except time. The Coca-Cola clock on the wall behind the coffeemaker never moved beyond 3:00. AM or PM, I didn’t know.

Outside it was dark except for the light from the street lamp on the corner. I thought it was strange that the lamp was one of those oil-burning lamps from the 19^th century. I’d had the impression that I was living in the late 20^th century. I never remembered seeing them anywhere but picture books.

There were plenty of people walking along the sidewalk. Their eyes were either glazed over as if hazing to work or intent as if mazing to club hop. I shifted in my seat as I altered my gaze. I noticed a physically unfamiliar face, a person with knowing eyes. He was sharply dressed in designer clothing. He sat in a booth near the entrance with his head turned toward the counter, not looking at me but peering in my direction. His face was pale and pasty. His smile was menacing.

In an instant I was at his booth sitting across from him. I turned my head to view the clock. It was still stuck at 3:00. I saw two police officers on stools at the far end of the counter. A young woman, apparently a waitress, was mopping the floor behind the counter. She wore a red-and-white checkered blouse and had a white apron tied around her waist. I felt an impression of her absence from this establishment in days prior though I had no memory of being in this place.

Slowly, though, I realized that I had been here yesterday and that I had been patronizing this diner day after day … indefinitely. I was a regular among regulars. I sensed the person across from me was named Dorn. Was “Dorn” a name or a description? I couldn’t remember.

“Why don’t you stop wondering and talk with me?” asked Dorn.

I was startled. “Do I know you? I mean, have we met before?”

Dorn started back straight-faced, “I’m always here, just like you.”

“But I have no memories of this place, no memories of you. I do sense I come here every day and that I’ve seen you. But—”

Dorn interjected, “Memories? There are no memories. Just conceptions fostered by lonely souls with frightened minds.”

I was puzzled and more than a little unsettled. “Is this a dream?” I asked. “My dream?”

“This is reality.”

“But you don’t seem real to me. Neither does this place. I don’t feel real here, either.”

Dorn sighed, “Well, I can’t speak for you, but I’m real.”

Frustration crept into my voice, “I don’t think so. I have the feeling you are a figment of my imagination, a subconscious creation. I would say I am, too, but this, this, this … awareness seems to be mine. And yet … I have no control. You’re not real, I sense that, but there’s something or someone embodying my perception of this environment.”

Dorn smiled wickedly, “Tsk, tsk. I’m real. I hate to ask this because it might come across wrong, but have you taken your medication?”

“Yeah, very funny.” I was perturbed. “Look, at least try to cooperate with me. Help me understand the meaning of this experience.”

Dorn, disgusted, shot back, “There is no meaning. Experience is experience. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Flabbergasted, I demanded an answer, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t ‘mean.’”

Dorn seemed to be a Cheshire cat and I was as perplexed as Alice. Dorn’s features were remarkably real. His tie gleamed metallic silver. Had he been wearing it all along? This dream, this illusion, whatever it was, seemed almost excessively real. And yet, I couldn’t stop trying to invalidate its existence.

Anxiety welled within me, transforming my body into a physical deformity. I touched my eyelids. They were swollen and heavy. I tasted a hint of panic.

“You know, I just want this to stop. I want to go back. I want to remember my life. What is happening? I want this to stop right now!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Terror was mounting within me. “This. This place. You’re not real, not at all. I think I’m dreaming and I want to wake up!”

Dorn sighed loudly. “Why do you insist on controlling everything? You have no control. And I am real. This is not a dream.”

“Bullshit!” I was angry now. “This is not real!”

“Why?” Dorn quickly responded. “You admitted you’d felt you’d been visiting this diner day after day indefinitely.”

I thought for a second. I thought that, but I didn’t say that out loud. Or did I? I couldn’t remember now.

I sighed, feeling dejected, “It’s too chaotic and inexplicable. Worse yet, I’m becoming untethered.”

“It’s just your perception,” replied Dorn. “There’s no chaos. Observe the relaxed environment surrounding you. Coffee is being made. The waitress, Jenny, is engaged in a crossword puzzle. The regulars are reading newspapers and making conversation.”

To me, though, the situation was incomprehensible. My mind was reeling. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

Dorn answered with mild exasperation, “Well, just … enjoy yourself.” He smiled at me.

For some reason his smile infuriated me. “I can’t! I can’t enjoy confusion!”

Another sigh from Dorn, “You always want to know and to control. You have no control and there’s nothing to know.”

“How can I accept that?”

“I can’t answer that question.”

I peered intently at Dorn. “Do you have any answers?”

“By attempting to perceive the unreal you fail to perceive the real.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I asked, exasperated.

“‘That’ means nothing.”

I felt defeated. “Well, then, I don’t know how to perceive reality.”

Dorn took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “If you wish to do so you must let go.”

“How?” I asked. I truly wanted to know.

“Stop thinking the way you are. You’re capable. It’s like smoking. You’re addicted to your patterns of thought.”

I breathed a little easier and felt somewhat more relaxed. “How do I quit? How do I change my patterns?”

Dorn paused and turned to look out the window. It was snowing now and there were no passersby. He continued to look out the window as he spoke. “You know the answer, but I’ll tell you anyway: Stop.”