The waiter walked down the red carpeted aisle making his way to each of the sparsely populated tables. Refilling water glasses, nodding politely, doing everything in his power to assure the best possible experience for those who, for a brief time, depended upon him to furnish them with the most basic substances of life.
He was a handsome young man, tall, tan, and of muscular build. He'd never planned to be a waiter, life just led him that way as it had so many others. He didn't mind too much though. The work kept him busy and the pay was good. Well, in the daytime at least. The kind of people who patronized the dining car at that ungodly hour wanted little and tipped accordingly.
At the first table sat a rather tense looking fellow who'd been staring at nothing in particular in the same general direction for some time. By the waiter's count he was on his third gin and tonic.
“Good evening sir, is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps another drink?”
“No.”
“Well then perhaps a light snack? We serve a crème brulee that's simply fantastic.”
“No.”
“Very well sir. Should you need anything just let me know.”
“Okay.”
After a few silent moments the waiter decided to move on to the next occupied table.
It's sole occupant was a man no more than four feet tall with an extravagant mustache, who sat passed out in front of a large, empty beer mug. One of the waiter's jobs was to try and prevent that sort of thing from happening, mainly by kicking out any and all patrons unlucky enough to find themselves in that poor dwarf's position. But the little fellow was doing no harm to anyone, so the waiter let him be and moved on to the next table.
“Good evening madame. Might I be of service?” he asked as he took subtle, brief glances down the low-cut of the woman's deep blue evening gown. .
“No, I'm fine for now”
“Are you sure, perhaps you'd like another glass of wine?”
“No thanks. I don't plan to be here much longer.”
“Very well.”
The waiter couldn't help but feel excited as he made his way to the car's last table; one occupied by an alarmingly thin, pale looking man who sat staring at a pad of paper with nothing but a single indistinct word scrawled upon it.
“Is their anything you need sir. More milk?”
“No I'm fine for now.” He said as he put out a cigarette.
“Very well.”
Having completed his bi-hourly rounds he turned about and headed back towards the galley.
As he made his way to the other end of the car he glanced at each of the lonely strangers who, as they sat engrossed in whatever menial thing it was that they'd decided to give their attention to, paid no mind to him.
In little time he'd reached the double doors at the back of the car. He pushed them open, and for a brief instant turned away, blinded by the overwhelming flash of bright light that always accompanied the passage from the subdued and dingy earth tones of the dining car into the alarming sterile whiteness of the kitchen.
After his eyes had stopped throbbing from the shock He looked about for the head, and only, chef who, for the moment, was nowhere to be seen. Satisfied by this absence he casually strolled over to the nearest window and lit a cigarette.
He inhaled
Then exhaled
Inhaled
Then exhaled, rhythmically drawing the red hot tip of his cigarette closer and closer to his lips, as it pushed everything in between straight into his lungs, one slow beat at a time.
The strange dance between man and fire kept moving along in steady rhythm as boredom forced thoughts into the waiters head. Melancholy thoughts of dreams abandoned that echoed languorously back and forth across the white walls of the kitchen, diminishing more and more with every iteration.
While the waiter sat engrossed in his own reflections another man quietly made his into the kitchen. So lost in his own thoughts was the waiter that he neglected to detect the presence of this new man until he was practically upon him.
“Jesus,” the waiter said before pausing to catch his breath, “you scared the hell outta me.”
“Sorry,” said the man as he reached behind himself and began to untie his conspicuously stained apron, “You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What?”
“Well, I’d just finished making a Manhattan for this lady over in the dome, then right after I sat it on the bar the train turned real sharp like, and the damn thing spilled over right onto the bar and then onto my damn crotch.”
“I suppose that explains the dirty apron.”
“Yeah. I was outta towels too so I figured I had a good excuse to head this direction,” the bartender said as he pulled off the apron and tossed it into a basket, thereby getting rid of the one thing that had, to that point, disguised the near ghastly thinness of his frame.
“You gotta smoke I could bum?” he asked the waiter.
“Let me check.”
Sure enough the waiter had three left. Just enough, he figured, to provide for one in need while reasonably ensuring his own future satisfaction. So he handed a cigarette to his companion and the two proceeded to stand about and smoke in silence as the sound of the world outside whistled past the open window.
As the waiter gradually moved ever closer to the end of his cigarette, or rather moved it closer to him, he began to notice a strange presence that seemed to hang about the bartender; nothing that could be called supernatural or even ephemeral for that matter, just strange.
As he continued to glance it occurred to him. Whereas his own tone, both in color and in shape, contrasted rather starkly with the startlingly white interior of the kitchen, that of the bartender did not. In fact, it did not to such a degree that, as he leaned back against the white wall behind him, the border between his own pale skin and that wall seemed less and less distinct. White placed against white, then absorbed by it.
“Take a picture sailor, it’ll last longer,” said the bartender with a smirk.
“What?” replied the waiter, shocked and embarrassed.
“Nothing. Where should I put this when I’m done?” the bartender asked as he waved his cigarette about.
“Just toss it out the window.”
“All right.”
Two puffs later, he did just that.
“Hey, what are you doing? You still had half a smoke.”
“I know. But I figure it’s about time I got back to work.”
“Huh. I suppose you truly are a man of discipline.”
“I do my damnedest,” replied the bartender, as he moved to grab a fresh apron and some towels from a shelf near the door. “Thanks for the smoke, I’ll get ya’ back sometime.”
“Think nothing of it.”
