Pressure felt as though it were building up behind Jeremy's eyes – headache part deux? It didn't matter to him then, he just wished that it would go away. Go away and leave him alone, like the old crones that sat behind him.
The old man continued, speaking more slowly and in a more thoughtful manner than he had spoken in before. “Lemme tell ya guys, it smells really bad to me, and it should to you guys as well."
After that, thankfully, the conversation had all but died down behind Jeremy, but the damage had already been done. Unable to stop himself from doing so, his head lowered into his hands, his elbows resting on the cheap table top. His body shook uncontrollably, his breaths coming in in gasps.
He didn't know how long he sat there, but he was roused out of his shock by a hand shaking his shoulder gently. Looking up, Jeremy realized that the waitress had finally come over to him. She looked to be his age, which surprised him, because in his memory, the waitress who worked in the diner had always looked to be somewhere above forty whenever he had come to eat.
She was pretty; if Jeremy had been in a better mind, he might have tried to pull himself together so that he could make a good impression on the woman. Instead, Jeremy hoarsely asked, "I thought the waitress working here was a bit older."
The waitress had been frowning down at him, and his words only seemed to pull her lips down further. "You alright? You were worrying me."
Jeremy's mind grasped onto a weak, pliable lie, and he said it aloud. "I had a hard morning."
"Sorry I didn't come over earlier. There was a problem in the kitchen - are you sure you're alright?" Jeremy nodded weakly, and it was enough for the waitress to continue talking. "So, uh, you know what you wanna order?"
Jeremy ordered a coffee and took a chance by ordering the special, having not asked what it was and having no clue what it could be. After five minutes of waiting, staring blankly out of the window, and staring equally as blankly at the laminated piece of paper that was the menu, Jeremy kept glancing over at the salary man that sat facing him.
Jeremy stared rudely, trying to read the man's features and gait, but the man did not seem to take notice - or care - about Jeremy's staring. He looked tired, still shell shocked. It took Jeremy a moment to appreciate, darkly, the mirror image of himself who sat in the other booth, wearing a heavily creased and wrinkled suit, staring down at his mostly still full plate of food, taking a bite of it every once in a while. Jeremy supposed that every one his age wore a similar wrecked, tired expression as he and the salary man wore then. Even the waitress had looked haggard, near breaking in her own way.
It took a bit of self control to stop himself from turning around to face the group of old folks that sat behind him. He knew that the old timers wouldn't be looking haggard. It was as though their age groups had switched personas, general moods. The old man who had spoken last before still resonated in Jeremy's memory. His words struck a supremely bad chord in his mind, about how the rich and the old - and, soon, even the old and the poor - had a lot less to worry about than they ever had, historically. The fountain of youth existed, and the oldest were to be rid of their oldest enemy. And, what's more, he thought, darkly, hatefully, they were rid of less usurpers every time a batch of their beloved drug was produced.
The food, and the waitress, came by, dropping off his food. She was about to turn on her heel, when Jeremy's hand snaked out as fast as it could and grasped onto her slight arm. She turned around, looking shocked by the fact that Jeremy had actually touched her. Jeremy thought, quickly, of a way to begin talking to her, and he settled on a safe little question to begin the conversation. "What's your name?"
Looking a little nervous, but not simply a little annoyed, the woman pointed down to her chest. "I am wearing a name tag..."
"Can you tell me your name? Tell me it yourself?"
"Megan. "
"Megan. What happened to the last waitress?"
Megan yanked her arm back from Jeremy's grip, and said, "She got into a wreck, it messed her leg up bad, so she couldn't come back to work. She's still in the hospital, but she agreed to quit before she left."
"So she was getting old?"
Megan gave him a look that should normally have withered him on the spot. "She was in a car wreck, she was not getting old. Everybody here's gonna miss her, from what I hear."
Jeremy's mind spun. He tried to place a face and a body to his vague memory of the ex waitress who had served him his lunches before he had stopped coming to the diner. Black hair, always tightly bound, with streaks of silver.
Jeremy, all of a sudden, realized how rude he must've seemed to the waitress. And what's more, he also realized that he was being stared at by some of the other tables. His face reddened as he thought of other people eavesdropping on him.
He murmured something to the waitress akin to an apology, and he tried not to take her glare so personally that she gave him before she walked away stiffly.
I'm like a fucking nut case, Jeremy thought bitterly. What the hell is wrong with me, lately?
That was, of course, a false question, for he knew what was wrong with him. He had lost his appetite for the second time that day, and he did a lot more drinking from his glass than eating from his plate, and even then, he usually only took another bite after he played with his food with his fork. He kept trying to put a name to what it was that he was eating, but he couldn't quite stay focused enough to do it. Omelete? Pancake? It didn't really matter; he couldn't keep his eyes on the plate and its contents long enough to care what it was, any more than he couldn't taste what he was shoveling into his mouth.
He was grateful to leave; the waitress only returned long enough to drop the check off.
Jeremy picked it up gratefully, fished in his wallet for a while, and withdrew a five-dollar bill, which he slapped onto the table as he walked over to the cash register. He figured that she had done more than her job, dealing with his insanity.
After paying the old man working the cash register (oh, how Jeremy had to force his eyes down and then away from his hands, as the old man counted out the change from the money that he had given him, and how disgusted he felt as he felt those old, leathery hands touched his, even momentarily) Jeremy was out on the street outside of the diner, feeling delirious from lack of sleep. He had hoped that eating at the diner would clear his head, but if anything, he felt more muddled, awful. He was regretting skipping work, and he was at a loss for what to do for the rest of the day.
He had lost a whole day of pay, and now he was not even in the mood to enjoy playing hooky.
The thought of seeing a movie was discomforting - all of that dark, and he wasn't fully certain that he could even remain awake, even during an action movie, he didn't want to show up to work, already so late in the day for it, and he didn't want to be so out in the open any longer.
He suddenly felt fragile, near broken as it was, and he wanted, he wanted -
Jeremy looked over and saw a bus sign across the street. he walked towards it, and even though he dreaded a similar experience like the bus ride that he had dived off of earlier that day, the thought of being home and out of the agoraphobia-inducing streets comforted him.
He nearly fell asleep, resting against the sign, and was awoken when the bus driver herself was yelling at him, ordering him to tell her if he was going to be a fare or not. Jeremy got off of the bus a few blocks from his apartment, and he was grateful to be in a less bustling part of the city. He very nearly ran home, grateful to be so close to his home.
When he got home, he staved off sleep as long as he could, and when he could no longer help it, he regretfully slid into a long nap, managing to crawl back to his bed. It had been six at night when he had fallen asleep.
He awoke at eight the next day, shocked awake by the sound of incessant buzzing. When he checked his alarm clock (seeing the time turned him as pale as paper) he realized that the noise that had awoken him had been his living room home phone.
Nearly tripping over a sheet that was wrapped tightly around his legs, Jeremy made it out to the living room and had grabbed onto the phone before the other end of the line could hang up.
Before Jeremy could ask who it was, a curt, somehow memorable voice spoke up. "You didn't come into work yesterday. You're late now."
Jeremy swallowed hard, and leaned over so that he could see himself in his living room mirror. Despite what he thought had been a sound sleep last night, his eyes spoke differently. He must have been so out of it that he had no memories of the nightmares that must have awoken him several times the night before.
"Yeah, I know, I was just having some difficulty -"
"Do you need to speak with your supervisor, when you come in today?"
Jeremy felt like he could finally breath, like a great weight had been lifted from him. "Could I?"
The other voice chuckled sardonically. "That could be arranged, Mr. Cutter. When do you think that you could come in, at the soonest?"
Jeremy didn't know why he felt bold - maybe it was the day at work, maybe it was his curiosity, but he spoke up, "Why are you so worried about me?"
"Mr. Cutter, I hope you've been aware of how difficult it is to keep staff lately. We have had to resort to keeping tabs on our employees, when they exhibit signs of emotional fatigue. Are you emotionally fatigued?"
"When can I see my supervisor?"
"...Whenever you come into work today. He should be in the work area. Just get ahold of him, he will have been alerted to your situation, prior to you coming in."
Jeremy said a polite good bye to the voice, and he placed the phone back in its cradle, and then began to joyless process of getting ready for work.
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