disclaimer |dɪsˈkleɪmə|

noun

a statement that denies something, especially responsibility: the novel carries a disclaimer about the characters bearing no relation to living persons.

• Law an act of repudiating a claim, warranty, or bequest. a disclaimer stating that the holidaymaker accepts compensation in full and final settlement of any claims.

I was leaning on my elbows on the front counter, pensively tapping my chin with my pen while trying to come up with a new burger of the day. I looked down at my little notepad and chuckled darkly when I saw that the best I could come up with was "thank god it's fried-egg burger," despite it not being Friday for another two days. My dad used to come up with the burgers of the day, and his "dad humour" was always evident. Names like "use it or bleus it," "it's fun to eat at the rYeMCA" and "if looks could kale" seemed to be second nature to him.

I sighed quietly so as to not reveal how bored I truly was, and looked around the diner. It had been quieter than normal, with none of my Wednesday regulars to chew the fat with. I always did like to wallow in a little nonsense here and there, and I was feeling especially frivolous tonight. It's not that there weren't any customers, just not my usuals.

I watched a pretty redhead steal a surreptitious glance at the garish novelty clock we have on the far wall of the diner. My dad won it from a drunken Ebay bid a few years before he died, and I had kept it afterwards as a memento of a happier time. The two hands of the cartoon rooster indicated that the time was 6:50, assuming that my sister had set it correctly. The redhead furrowed her brow slightly in consternation because she had been waiting nearly an hour and a half. I found myself wondering who would stand up someone so pretty, and was of half a mind to just join her myself. She was carefully guarding a nondescript backpack at her feet, filled with what, I had no idea, but I couldn't stop myself from trying to figure it out as a game of sorts.

Was it filled with unmarked, non sequential bills in five different currencies? Was it filled with a spare change of clothes? Maybe it was a dangerous bioweapon that she stole from one of those bunkers where they keep the smallpox virus. Maybe it was small pox. But more likely it was just a change of clothes. I then found myself wondering what kind of clothes. Did she wear naughty underwear? She was dressed rather plainly, so perhaps not.

I could see her tension mounting, glancing around my family's ramshackle diner as she waited, and I guessed it was as a means of assuaging her anxiety. I don't think it would have surprised her if I told her that the dilapidated red pleather seats were the original seats that my grandparents had installed when they first opened the diner in the early 60's. The laminate countertops were stained with little brown rings from years of customers not placing their coffee cups on coasters.

On particularly quiet shifts back when my parents were still alive, I would use a bit of elbow grease and a bit of Ajax in futile attempts to try and lift some of the worst stains. Even if I wasn't successful, it would at least appear like I was working. I looked down at one such egregious mark by one of my elbows. What were my grandparents thinking when they chose to match mint-green counter tops with red pleather booths? In addition to clashing horrendously, they also stained ridiculously easily.

There was a couple in the far corner who were having a heated, but hushed argument, so their voices were far too quiet for me to make out the words. I'd seen them a few times before, and they were good customers who tipped well so I let them stay despite their antics. Plus, they were easy on the eyes and that made my shift a little more enjoyable. Because today's shift had been especially quiet, I was grateful for even the smallest distraction.

I started playing another game, this time trying to imagine the circumstances of the two lovebirds. One was very tall, and one was rather short so it seemed that opposites did attract. Were they high school sweethearts? I didn't recognise them from the local highschool, so they must have been tourists. Why they would ever want to go to an isolated little town in the middle of nowhere for some sort of romantic getaway was lost on me. I mean, our burgers were the best in the tri-state area, but unless you were into the dingy diner ambience it wasn't exactly romantic.

I'd tried to offer a group of three sullen looking teenagers sitting in front of me at the bar a grin when I went to refill the cups that they had been nursing for hours, but they just glared into their coffee. Due to the fact that they were sitting together when there were numerous empty stools nearby, I figured that despite whatever animosity currently existed between them, they were, in fact, friends.

None of them looked particularly pleased to be here, and I couldn't blame them. I would rather be at home, on my computer, perusing the Internet or a myriad of other things. They didn't appear to be particularly pleased at the coffee, either, but it was a diner, not a café. What seemed a lifetime ago, I did try to cajole my parents into getting an espresso machine to make proper coffee, none of this instant percolated coffee nonsense. They would always give an indefinite "maybe after bills are paid this month."

When they died and the business was bequeathed to me, I found that it wasn't such a crock of bull as I had one thought it was. They weren't just lazy, they weren't just punishing me for whatever menial transgressions that week. I was still determined to buy one, but with increased electricity costs it was proving to be more laborious than I had originally anticipated.

I could see the pretty redhead turn her head to face the window that she sat next to, and my eyes followed. The rain had never really unnerved me before as it always seemed to be raining in my little hometown, and my logical side figured that the reason why she was still waiting was simply because her date had gotten caught in the storm. My intuition vehemently disagreed, and I shifted uncomfortably, subconsciously sensing that something was amiss.

The jingle of bells brought my attention to the door and in came a surly, unkempt man who sauntered off towards the table in the back where the couple were arguing. Upon assessment, I decided that despite his gruff appearance he seemed okay enough. He did seem to crack a small grin at today's "say it ain't cilantro" burger.

The pretty redhead glanced at the clock again, and sighed. I would give her another half an hour or so before she would decide to leave. She uncrossed her legs and subtly checked that the backpack was still beneath her feet. When she did not feel the weight of it brushing against her, fear flashed in her eyes despite her face remaining composed. She let out a swear under her breath, and looked down under the table. When she didn't find her quarry, she swore out loud in a language that I didn't know. It sounded like Russian, maybe. Scurrying out of her booth and dropping to all fours, she felt around where her backpack had been.

Snatching something and stowing it in her back pocket, she quickly got up and moved towards the bathrooms. As she made to pull the door towards her, someone else swung it open from the other side. Startled, the redhead stumbled backwards. She proffered a flustered apology to the man on the other side of the door, who offered her a wan smile in response.

The man sat down on the booth behind where the pretty redhead was previously sitting to join another man who was wearing a scarf and coat. I walked over to them and refilled their coffee. They offered me a quiet thanks, in what I thought might have been a British accent. Once again it puzzled me why so many tourists would all of a sudden want to visit my shabby diner in my derelict hometown, but I didn't press them. Instead, I made my way over to the couple in the corner.

Their argument had rapidly became more heated, drawing the attention of the dark haired teenager who gazed up at them warily. The female he was sitting next to followed his gaze, and the newcomer they were staring at became aware of their attention. He tentatively placed his hand on the shoulder of the shorter of the two men arguing in what he intended to be a calming gesture, however it seemingly had the opposite effect. The man quickly withdrew his hand as he became the subject of the now shouting man's ire and grimaced.

Feeling as though they were intruding, the two teenagers quickly averted their gaze and instead looked at each other. The dark haired one shrugged, and offered a grim smile to his friend. His friend just nodded in response before turning to the redhead on her other side. Even though she didn't say anything, the redhead teenager felt her eyes, and turned to meet them. His face softened, just for an instant, and he playfully stuck his tongue out at her.

Abruptly, the shouting stopped, replaced by a loud thud that startled the three teenagers, and nearly made me drop the pot of coffee that I was carrying. They turned their heads in confusion as they could not see the shorter man rub the back of his head, where he was hit by the newcomer. In response, the shorter man offered a lopsided, sheepish grin to the newcomer, whose cheeks were tinged pink. The tall man raised his hands and sighed in exasperation before stalking off to the bathroom.

Walking over to them, I lifted the pot of coffee slightly above my head in a gesture to ask them if they wanted a refill. The short one just raised his mug in response and shook his head with a mischievous smirk. Nodding in response, I turned to the booth behind where the pretty redhead was sitting.

The man in the coat and the scarf had observed the interaction with a look of wry bemusement on his face before turning his attention to the man sitting opposite of himself, curiosity burning in his friend's eyes. The former man shook his head almost imperceptibly, and even though the latter man was far from satisfied, he did not push the matter.

Suddenly, the pretty redhead from earlier burst out of the bathrooms, slamming the door behind her, and sprinted to the front entrance of the diner. Ignoring the indignant cries of the dark haired teenager who had spilled his coffee in surprise, and pausing only to spare a brief, inquisitive glance for the man in the coat and scarf who replied with a curt nod, before running out of the diner.

The man in the scarf and coat turned his attention to the rain outside the window, with a look of concern on his face. There was something about the nature of the storm perturbed him, though I couldn't quite figure out why. Suddenly, the lights in the diner faltered, followed by various sounds of surprise. A flash of lightning temporarily illuminated the room, and I could see the tall man emerge from the bathrooms.

Consciously counting the time between the flash of lightning and the surely inevitable roll of thunder, confusion washed over my face when none came. Instead, there was another flash of lightning, and realisation dawned on me. The reason why the rain was so unsettling to the pretty redhead and the man in the scarf and coat was because the rain was falling up.

I could vaguely see the pretty redhead in the parking lot, with sparse street lamps flickering and offering small halos of light. She turned her collar against the cold and damp, and I figured it was too windy for her to bother with her umbrella. Walking briskly through the parking lot, she suddenly stopped and turned around. In the space of a blink, a derelict statue had suddenly appeared in front of her. From the distance, I couldn't quite make out what it was, but I would guess that it had once been a statute of an angel.

She shook her head, and turned to continue through the parking lot, but her path was blocked by yet another statue. She barely had time to register to scream before she felt being grabbed from behind. The sound wafted through the parking lot and startled everyone in the diner. Just as suddenly as they had faltered, the lights came back on, and the three men in the corner rushed out to where the sound emanated.

The three teenagers looked at each other, one with determination, one with apprehension, and the other with concern. The dark haired one with determination on his face silently beseeched his two compatriots, and the red head blanched with fear. The female turned to the redhead, rolled her eyes, and followed the dark haired one out of the entrance.

Seemingly warring with himself, the redhead clenched and unclenched his fists whilst breathing deeply. He glanced to the door where his compatriots had left, and then to his feet. Steeling himself, he hesitantly stood and shambled uneasily to the door, mumbling under his breath. The only two visitors left in the diner were the man in the scarf and coat, and his companion. The latter jerked his head to the side, gesturing to the parking lot.

Nodding, the man in the scarf and coat and his also left, following the eclectic entourage that was gathering outside in the rain. My eyes trailed after the last of the visitors, and I sighed wearily. I called out to my sister who was in the kitchen to meet me up front, and I ran out back to the office to grab my coat. Looking around, I decided that I should probably grab my lighter and swiss army knife before grabbing my phone off the charger. As I walked out of the small office, I was patting my pockets and I realised that I had forgotten my wallet and keys.

I rustled around in the first drawer of the desk to find them before coming across something that I had thought I had lost years ago. It was a small fob watch that had the jolly roger on its front. Although the battery had long since died, I attached it to my pants anyway. I had gotten it for my mother on my school Japan trip. I had been meandering around Akihabara with some of my friends when I saw it, and even though it wasn't my only impulse buy that day it was the only one that I did not regret.

It had served as a good luck charm for her, and the tiny little superstitious part of my brain that I had constantly, consciously tried to squelch down thought that I might need it. I had read enough books and seen enough television and movies to know that nothing good was coming, because this is how most epic tales begin. On a dark and stormy night, with a rag-tag group of adventurers meeting in a "tavern".

I looked up and was roughly eye-level with a photo of my parents taken shortly after they first had me. They looked so happy, if exhausted. They told me once that I had been an awful labor that had started, and stopped, and started again before lasting almost the entire night. On a rare impulse, I picked it up, and lovingly traced around the edges of the frame before setting it down. More to myself than my parents, I whispered "don't worry, we'll be fine," and carefully set the photo back down.

Before leaving, I turned around and looked at the cluttered office, filled with sentimental whosits, watchamacallits and thingumajigs that I could never bring myself to throw out. On a vase filled with dusty silk roses there was the very first friendship bracelet that I had made. It was lumpen and the weaving was uneven, and the blue had faded to gray. There was one object in particular that really caught my eye, however. It was a Moleskine journal that my mum bought me for my birthday one year. It was leatherbound, and as I flipped through it the pages were yellowed with age, but still bare.

Tucking it into the breast pocket on the inside of my coat, I went to leave the office, this time, not looking back. I met my sister up the front of the diner, gave her a once over and jerked my head to the side, ushering her out with a gesture. She nodded, a curious expression on her face, but buttoned up her coat nonetheless.

I hastily locked the door to the diner, praying silently that my sister remembered to turn off the grill. I really didn't want to have to come back from an epic adventure to an astronomically exorbitant gas bill. I also, halfheartedly, prayed that the pilot light on the grill would go out and slowly fill the diner with gas for the old sparky, the fridge, to ignite. I stepped outside into the night, with not the faintest idea of just how long, and strange, an adventure would fill the pages of the journal held close to my heart.