Jack

10/16

Hmm. I never kept a journal before. Throughout my childhood to my teen years, it never crossed my mind to own one. I wish I did so I can read the chronicles of all the shit I pulled over the years and laugh at them the older I get. I could be like the stereotypical older man reminiscing of days past and leaving the days of my youth to my grandchildren and so forth about the legacy I left behind. Well, it's such a shame I didn't write them down the last few years, but I still remember most of the mischief I caused even to this day. I guess it's a good a time as any, even at the tender age of twenty-three.

Maybe I should christen you with a name? The very thought of writing "Dear Journal" redundantly has me cringing at how cheesy it would sound. Let's see. How about Twinetender, but Twiner for short? Yeah, I'll go with that. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Twiner. I'm Jack, your writing buddy. (God, that sounds awful).

Where should I start? Hmm. How about a place? Currently, I'm sitting in this diner on Moonlit Valley Road in Storyville, IL, hundreds of miles from my home in Burgess, MI. It was Nick's idea for me to move here and an even bigger push from Mom to stay away from the gossip back home. Mary, my little sister, of course, was upset about my departure. I didn't want to leave her unprotected from her bullies in Burgess Middle, but I agreed with Mom that my leaving was for the best. I couldn't find a job for a year after searching for months, and I didn't want her to be the sole provider after Dad was gunned down four years back. Unemployment in Burgess was high, and commuting outside to the neighboring towns for work was out of the question as I didn't have a mode of transportation. So, I did what I did in desperation to provide for my family, and it didn't turn out so well in the end after three years.

I didn't know the man Nicholas St. North, but he knew my dad. From what he told me, he was an old friend back in the day. He loved my old man, and the news of his passing hit him hard. According to Mom, he would care for our family because we were like his own. However, my mom was a prideful woman, refusing any form of help until that day when I was sitting in a cage. Mom called Nick, and he drove those hundred-plus miles along with the best suits his money could buy. Did I mention Nick was loaded? Yeah, he's old money.

Though not scot-free, six months was better than a nickel I would've served for my stupidity.

Back to this diner, it's small. It's not the compact establishment with a half-a-dozen tables and counter sitting like the one back home on Prairie View Street, but still not as big as the IHOP a few streets down. For the last month, this has been my go-to place for breakfast. The walls are of a mint green or robin's egg blue with white trimming, decorated in nicknacks, license plates from the fifty states, and potted light fixtures. Chrome napkin dispensers, syrups, sugar dispensers, and salt and pepper shakers laid on the clean white surface of the tables like these people meant business in keeping the place sparkling. Live plants were a nice touch than the fake ones. The windows decorated in spiders, webbing, bats, and pumpkins to celebrate Halloween also were great as I hadn't come across any other place in the area sharing their love for the holiday. A Happy Halloween topper atop the silver-covered upholstered booth confirmed my suspicion that the owners must love Halloween. Did I mention they have a Sam prop sitting on the last stool at the counter sitting?

One thing I like about this place is the drip coffee. They only do fresh beans and grind them on their own, bringing out the flavors that you don't get from instant. I like my coffee black just so that I can savor the richness of the dark roast I'm currently sipping on as I write this. Very nice indeed. Breakfast consists of a power bowl, for I'll be at my place of employment for twelve hours or more. Though I have no prior experience in management, Nick taught me the art of business after the last one quit because of some guy Faraway & Co. called "Pitch Black." Word from the investors, he's a sadist, but a necessary evil for he gets the job done and very well. Nick, given my history with Roy Garland—whom I was previously under the employed with for a few years and a notorious asshole—I knew how to deal with someone like that Pitch fellow.

The files in the manila folder to my left contain the face of a grumpy brute with brown hair. Ralph was his name. He's a big guy with notes on his evaluations the last few years of his employ. Hard-working, easy to anger, and written in all caps was POSITIVELY DON'T CHANGE HOURS. I'll keep that in mind. I rifle through the files, memorizing the names and faces used on their identification badges, so I get it right the first time. Now, Twiner, I admit that there are some pretty cute girls under Faraway's employ, but the next one was the one that took the cake.

The picture is of a girl a bit younger than me—nineteen from the date of birth in the next column. Gorgeous platinum blond hair tied back, her pink lips curved in an awkward attempt at a smile. Cute. But Twiner, it's those striking blue eyes that did it for me. They were as blue as a cloudless sky. There's, however, something about them that I couldn't pinpoint. It's as if there's a mixture of shyness, happiness, and worry all rolled into one. By looking at this girl, I don't know how she's not in movies or modeling. The name on her file reads Snow, Elsa. Scrawled in red ink was about her evaluations of the years she was employed there. Customer engagement needs improvement, but friendly. Socializing with associates needs improvement. Exceptional in her duties but requires improvement as a team player.

I guess this Elsa Snow's a bit of a loner; I take it. Maybe she needs a confidence boost or something. Hey, I'm pretty good at people relations. How else did I keep a sizable clientele back in Burgess. Damn that Roy Garland.

Okay, so it's about fifty-plus degrees outside, and it's beautiful today! I love the warm comfort of the diner, but it's the cold that I love more. Writing or typing (whatever) you on my phone, I spot someone with that same platinum-blond hair as Elsa Snow. My curiosity is one of those things that turn out to be my downfall, but to hell with it.

I'm close to her now as I'm typing this. It is Elsa Snow. How do I know this? I pretend to ignore her as she sneaks an obvious glance—to her might've been inconspicuous— at me. How cute. She's reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury since the cover is facing me. I'm not fond of classics, preferring something from Chuck Palahniuk or Joe Abercrombie (a weird combination, but, hey, I like variety). If you consider my halfway done of And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie as a classic, then I guess my fondness for the classic literature has to be in the genre of crime fiction. How fitting, eh, Twiner? I still prefer movies over books, though.

Back to Elsa Snow. The little blue number she's wearing is something I wouldn't consider appropriate for the October weather, what with being in the fifties this morning. Her upper arms prove my point with her pale skin covered in goosebumps, yet the cold's not bothering her as she flips the page in her book. Guess it's a good a time as any to introduce myself, don't you think.

So, I think I scared her off, Twiner.

Sorry, I'm trying to stop laughing at the interaction as I'm typing this. I keep backspacing a lot.

Ah. Okay, I stopped. Where do I begin? Well, I asked her if she was cold, you know as a concerned citizen in this here town. She answered in a few simple words, and may I say that her voice is nothing I expected. I assumed, because she's younger than me and that innocent look on her face in the file, her voice would be higher in pitch, but no. Twiner, there's a tad of huskiness that sent me chills in a good way.

I indicated to Miss Elsa Snow that her skin betrayed her, what with her goosebumps. She disagreed, comparing the cold from outside to Faraway, which I agree with her. Faraway, in the cold months, it seems from what Nick said that it's harsher. I then asked her place of employment before I properly introduced myself, and then it happened Twiner. Elsa Snow, brows knit and face and ears red from offense, called me a jerk like a swear word. I wanted to laugh so badly, but I controlled myself. I told her who I was as soon as she boarded the bus, and—I shit you not—the color on her face drained when I said I'm the new Assistant Manager at Faraway.

After her bus left, I busted out laughing. I swear that people that passed by me thought I was nuts. But Twiner her face. Ah, I'm gonna have a great day at work today. I found my primary target for my pranks. Maybe that'll help with her socializing. It's extreme and overly childish, but we'll see how it turns out.

—Jack