Having stowed and secured my belongs safely in my room, I drove back to the diner Id drove in past
Or at least I thought I did. Either I took a wrong turn somewhere or it was a different diner, but the road that went past it back out into the night, curled into nothing but two tire tracks, and then just fields of corn.
In fact, it was a most unusual location for a diner. I turned right into the small car park outside into the final space empty, climbed out and wandered in.
It was a perfect picture of small town America, like an amalgamation of every small town diner Id been into along the journey, and like the son of every diner that ever was.
The round stools bolted along the front of the bar. The jukebox in the corner. The plush red seats, swept around a shiny metal table, almost gleaming like a mirror.
I could imagine the menu. Thered be bacon, sausage, and egg. Thered be a number of pies. Thered be hot coffee and hot chocolate. Thered be milkshakes and cream sodas.
And so it was, like the American cliché you think is reserved only for films.
The man behind the counter, was exactly as I would have described such a worker. His dark, greased back hair, over a pair of flat eyes, and lips that curled up in the middle and at the edges.
I think I know you sir.
I smiled, as reservedly as I could, not wanting to look like a grinning loon. After all it had been many weeks since Id been recognised, and once you got used to it, going a long time without it happening kind of felt like sliding off the face of the earth.
Chuck.
I said, smiling at my own Americanising of my own name.
Charles Bromwell. Im a big fan of yours sir. Actually, maybe you could sign one of my copies of your book.
He tucked the pencil hed produced to take my order back behind his ear and turned towards the back room.
No one try anything while Im gone.
I smiled, thinking how unlikely it would seem for anyone in a place like this to try anything as ludicrous as leaning over the counter and helping themselves to pie.
They seemed a quiet sort, and for some reason, the traffic buzzing past bothered me... before I could place why, the door opened and the man ambled out with three well thumbed books.
My first three books. The Night is Long. The Pleasance of Nothing. Stars of the Morningchild. All perfectly original and all perfectly different. Yet all stamped with a style so very much my own I knew they were mine.
I wrote them all before I got published of course, and had forged successful franchises out of the three very different worlds encapsulated in these obviously much loved tomes.
The writing in them was a little creaky, and the plots and characters not as well developed and thought out as my later works, but it was hard not to feel fondness for the 3 sparks of inspiration that had forged my career.
Of course, I felt lament for the ease of which Id written them, now that I was struggling to even open a new document to start work on. Nearly petrified by the blank page.
Indeed, I stared at these pages for a while before my fingers began to flow over them
but my motivation for this
is so different to it was for those.
He handed me the pencil behind his ear, and though pencils normally make me cringe as they scrape across paper, I signed my signature below my name on the first page of all three books.
Who shall I make it out to?
No one, but the names Norm. Your signature is mighty fine by itself. Youre quite an author. When do we get a new book Mr Bromwell?
I half laughed, but only I knew about the half part.
Youve read all my books then?
Of course, theyre all here arent they? Youve kept us waiting a long long time sir.
My mind bounced. I knew my books had been published in America. Many of them New York Times best sellers. Id toured America before for promotion. Id signed copies of my later books.
I dont mean to sound rude Norm, but Ive written quite a bit more than these three books.
And then he looked at me. A look of mistrust. As if he didnt believe I was me anymore. As if I was lying.
No Mr Bromwell, Im fairly certain these three are all youve written. I dont mean to be rude myself, questioning you and all, but Ive been waiting your next novel for twelve years. You dont think Id have missed it if you publish even so much as one?
Another car buzzed past and my stomach turned, reminding me that I was hungry, but confusing me as to if I should eat.