I’m in a truck designed for four people with six of my friends packed in like the contents of a perfect breakfast burrito — barely holding everything inside. I should’ve taken my sweatshirt off before buckling in, but it’s too awkward to do it now. Shoes are squeaking in sympathy with the rain pounding on the windshield, sweat trapped under my poor clothing choices mimic that downpour, the smell of alcohol is much more apparent on one chum’s breath despite everyone already having something to drink, and the music is turned down so we can hear everyone talk. Critically, it is 2 AM.
Conflict has reared its hungry head, as food is required. Our party was not known for their dinner promptness, and all had not eaten until this point. A solution needed to be found. Suggestions fall as quickly as they are brought to the fore, the little passion propping them up doing no good for bolstering their defenses. That restaurant has zero pescatarian options, and that one closes at 9 PM, so does almost every other place around here, and we don’t really feel like eating pizza again.
Slowly, a silence falls upon the car. One restaurant plays upon our lips, the golden apple of late-night not-quite fine-dining. In fact, it would be more accurate to describe it as a diner, not a restaurant.
“How about Waffle House?” I narrow my eyes and my partner in the driver’s seat raises their eyebrows in excitement. A light jumps into our eyes as we gaily, furtively glance across each other’s faces. It feels like we were getting away with something. Breakfast at this hour? How scandalous! It’s clear we’re in agreement, but we vocally confirm it anyhow.
Like a flash, we’re there cascading out of the truck into the dark yellow glowing wrap-around of our messiah, the rain feeling less like an obstacle and now a setting for our journey. The door slides unnaturally as if it’s been lubed with bacon grease, revealing (although three-fourths of the building’s walls are windows) the wondrous interior. The dark yellow glow is replaced with a cheap white fluorescent diffusion from ceiling-hung large, spherical lamps, the smells of syrup and bread and coffee and cleaner and flame and just a hint of mold hit us as we walk in, the floor clings to our shoes, a modern touchscreen jukebox I’ve never seen used sits in the corner, and all the various appliances for making the actual food are stained four different ways and have been touched by melted waffle batter hundreds of thousands of times — including right now. It’s a magical sight to behold.
There’s a couple of other groups, and one person sitting at the bar. Plaid Guy looks up at our group, who are stuck in the momentous and paralyzing decision of which of the identical booths we should sit in, and tiredly tells us to sit wherever we want. Plaid Guy is Plaid Guy because one, he’s always working whenever I visit, and two, his apron is always some sort of plaid pattern rather than the usual black. I don’t really know if he’s allowed to wear it, but this isn't my monkey and it's certainly not my circus, so we dodge the wet floor sign placed defiantly one single foot from the entrance and squeeze, three on each side, into the booth. Our programs for the night — morning, my friend unfunnily corrects — are doled out, and I begin perusing the options while my fellows bond over how much they drank at the party. It’s a waffle and side order of bacon sort of night.
I can’t help but look around the diner as we wait for Plaid Guy to come over to take our order, idly sipping on the crisp glass of water that was brought out as I made my decision. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m the type of person to stare at strangers if I don’t think they’ll notice me. My eyes are almost immediately drawn to the man at the bar, a portly individual wearing the correct version of a Waffle House uniform, stark white of hair and beard, with thin suspenders holding everything together. He reminds me a bit of Santa Claus, but his face doesn’t match. The nose seems to be missing a chunk, making it look like it suddenly bends to the left then back again. He’s missing a canine, which makes sense seeing as all his other teeth are as yellow as I’ve ever seen. His eyes, surrounded by small warts growing where my bags are, swim in sadness. I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve met him before, but despite his utterly unique look I can’t put my finger on where I would’ve met this man.
Suddenly, a wall of plaid slides into my vision. Our waiter/cook/likely cash register operator/Plaid Guy has returned to harvest the crop of our orders, masterfully scrabbling down what we want in his yellow checkbook. In another life, he could’ve been a royal court stenographer. P.G. heads to another table of college kids, taking their orders too, then walks over and leans over into the ear of the old man who speeds up on the food in front of him.
I nervously press my fingernails into the red rubber which accentuates and cushions my seat, leaving a slight impression. If I don’t ask him now, I might never get the chance to learn where I know him from. Another thing about the type of person I am; I don’t talk to strangers more than I have to. I turn to my partner, who’s discussing something or other with a friend, and tell them I’ll be right back. I get a quizzical look but nothing more.
Approaching his arched back, my mouth feels dry, but my muscles are electrified. My breath catches on the excitement on a new experience, and my heartbeats seem to catch on something too. My finger, a quivering, boney protrusion of my will, reaches out and
Tap
Tap
Taps on his broad back.
As he turns, I imagine the scraping of stone against stone as a rare rock formation finally succumbed to gravity. I’ve disturbed the natural order of things.
“Hey, sorry to bother you, but I can’t shake the feeling I know you from somewhere. Do you know me?”
Those sad eyes intensely study my face. His voice comes out like it’s prerecorded, crackly and from a past age, “When you’ve lived as long as me, you’ll know a lot of people without actually Knowing them.”
I log the soft shut-down but pursue anyways. “Do you post online anywhere? Or are you an actor or – or something else like that?”
He chuckles, then taps a thoughtful finger on his chin. “What do you think?”
What do I think? What sort of response is that? I glance back to my group, who are distracted with their own revelries, then back to the gentleman in front of me. I try to force my eyes to study him as deeply as it felt he scanned me. The way he sticks his tongue out to meet the food on his fork reminds me of my grandfather, his rough hands mimic my partner’s, his hair is like mine or my mothers, his voice sounds a bit like the accents of a few of my professors, and in fact his nose seems to be an exact copy of an online friend’s I no longer speak to. Everywhere I look I find evidence of a relationship of mine. A voice in the back of my mind pipes up, notifying me I never took note of his skin or eye color. A voice in the front of my mind is alarmed to find I can’t tell. I blink, and he’s gotten up and has placed his dish in the sink but… he’s not really a he anymore? They've got their locs tied up, a tattoo of a cartoon cat on their bicep, and dark brown lipstick. How I know this is the same person or how to properly refer to them is the least of my concerns, as my brain falls upon the only solution it can possibly think up.
“You’re… God, aren’t you?”
The stillness that comes with a big question lands on the both of us. They've begun working on the other order, cracking a few eggs onto the stove — through my stupor I note that not a speck of egg white is caught on their fingers.
“I mean, you have to be, right? You’re everything, everyone. That’s the only thing you could be.”
Without looking up, they say, “If that’s what you’d like to believe.” I see their crow's feet tighten while they look away.
I ponder the invitation, watching the grill master at work. I'd like to live in a world where something extraordinary could happen at any old place in the world, even a Waffle House. So I suppose I will believe it, for now.
“Why do you look like this? Like me?”
God is pouring the chunkiest batter I’ve ever seen used into the waffle iron, drowning the many cast iron crosses metalworked into the appliance. They, wait, no — she, turns to look at me again with those same eyes, but brushes her dark red dyed bangs out of her eyes and adjusts her glasses. The voices of my friends, the others eating their food, the low hum of the jukebox, the passing of cars outside, the pounding rain on the roof all begin to wrap around my head, imperceptible now but like an echo, forming a cone pointing towards God. The light at the end of the tunnel.
She answers. “In the land where I placed the highest peak on my kingdom and where Lord Buddha faced Māra, my descendants celebrate a holiday called Kukur Tihar. The day is spent honoring their faithful canines, adorning them in tilaka and flower garlands. The greatest honor a human can bestow is an attempt to raise an animal or object to their level. Personification is your greatest gift, narcissistic, yes, but somewhat admirable. Insignificant animals, who "God" placed onto the Earth to serve you, are instead offered a name and etched into your histories.
“I wish to be a dog, the horse pulling a carriage, a sacred cow. For one such as I, there is only one name that can be found at the church down the road. What new names could I find here instead?” The grilling food calls their attention again, so they turn and bring that attention in the form of a plate. The eggs are cooked perfectly, the toast is burnt.
I’m briefly left to think as they serve the other college kids, but before I can form some coherent interpretation they’re back and they’re holding up two fingers — two questions left.
“Why here of all places?”
Flowers bloom across God’s face, hands melt into pure color, and clothes shift patterns in a display of beautiful food safety violations. It answers me once more, “Recall July 1st, 2017. It was in Hyde Park - London, England. On that day I could hear voices ring out as one, about sixty-five thousand lungs belting out a song. Bohemian Rhapsody, not played by a band or prompted to do so, just a simple recording played between sets, but those people chose to make that moment. There is a reason why individuals dub profound moments of community akin to religion. That was the point, after all.
"Or maybe, I'm here because it is odd. I should not be here. You should not be speaking to me. It is not in our nature. Maybe, you are speaking to me because it is odd. That could be the point, after all."
It stops, approximating a soothing smile the best it can as it continues to deform. Don't think about how there is no mouth to smile. Questions about life after death, sin, denominations, unsolved mysteries of the world, and more attempt to jumble to the tip of my tongue, but I’ve already decided what to ask.
“How do I find that community?”
God is refracting now, bits and pieces of her, it, them, she held in stained glass panels made of solid air. The ever-present white fluorescents have shifted to the dark yellow of the outside and they are getting darker yet brighter yet darker. A presence whispers into my left ear.
"1909. Theodore Roosevelt is set to leave office, with William Howard Taft taking his place. Toymakers across the country fear that the teddy bear will fall out of popularity.
The hot breath of the presence on my left is still there, its breath smelling of hashbrowns. Another appears on my right, mouth sticky with syrup. "Billy possum is invented, a drab little floppy stuffed animal inspired by Taft's diet of opossum. The toy quickly failed — American consumers were largely uninterested and the teddy bear has remained supreme."
The beeping of the waffle-makers interrupt God. The original old man strolls out from the back to get them. He doesn't look at me, doesn't notice anything happening. Both voices speak now, overlapping words. "Still, hundreds of children received billy possum that very Christmas before the company collapsed. For a time, the toy was real. For a time, it was part of that child's life.
"The child will buy a teddy for their child. But the mark of the opossum will always be there."
In a snap, he’s gone. Everything returns to its natural state of the unnatural state of a Waffle House. The laughter of my friends bust through the tunnel vision. I am sitting next to them, like I never moved. I won't talk to one after this very night, the others will move on within the year, but of course, I don't know that. P.G. just walked up with our food. I smile, and crack a joke.
Everything stands at the grill, ready for the next order.