Young Writers Society

“What are we doing here?” asked Maeve. She was an AI and could only speak to Frankie through an earpiece. Maeve knew what they were doing here; she always knew more than she let on.

“It’s a diner. We’re here to eat,” said Frankie. He turned to a waitress who was staring at him all confused and pointed to his ear.

Oh, she mouthed and gestured for him to take a sit. He walked toward the far end.

“Do you still have the keys?” Maeve wanted to make sure. They left their time machine — it looks like an old Buick from the outside, an Audi on the inside — in an alley behind the diner.

Frankie pulled the keys out of his pant-pocket, held them to his ear, and shook them. The keys clanked and jingled.

Maeve sighed, finally assured.

Frankie picked the corner table and sat with his back to the wall so he had a clear view of the other customers. His eyes darted around, scanning for a specific individual.

“He isn’t here yet,” said Frankie.

“Are you sure we’re in the right diner?”

“You’re being paranoid again, Maeve.” Frankie held his hand up trying to get a waiter’s attention. The same waitress from before responded and asked him what he’d like to have. “Do you guys serve shawarmas?” Frankie wanted to know.

“We don’t, actually,” said she, reluctantly.

Frankie sighed in disappointment and peered away for a while, thinking. “Okay, just coffee then.”

The waitress nodded and went on her way.

It had been ten minutes now since they entered the diner. Frankie was sipping on his coffee but his attention was fixed on the doorway. The diner was beginning to fill up with more people now. Still, there was no sign of the man he was here for.

“Are you sure we picked the right year?” Maeve asked again.

“Of course we did!” Frankie was starting to get frustrated and it showed in his voice. He realized this. "I'm sorry."

"It's cool."

1982, Frankie thought. Pete’s Diner, Susquehanna. This is the time. This is the place.

For a long while, Frankie stared at the entrance. As he waited, he spun the empty cup on the table, continuously, like a defective faucet. The waitress had already asked him a couple times if he wanted to order anything else. Each time, he said, “No, thank you.” Each time, the waitress smiled awkwardly and left.

Finally, a man walked into the diner who made Frankie’s heart skip a beat and hastened his pulse rate. Maeve must’ve sensed it.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said. “The writer.”

Frankie nodded, forgetting for a moment that Maeve couldn’t see him.

“Frankie?” Maeve asked.

“I’m here, I’m here,” said Frankie. “And yes, it’s him.”

The individual’s name was Jeff Brown. He was a man in his forties, wearing a black leather jacket, and his face was clean-shaven, his hair all disheveled. Jeff Brown was going to die in a road accident in about an hour.

Alright, Frankie thought. Time to save a life.

“Hey, Frankie?” said Maeve. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Seriously?” asked Frankie, quite irritated at Maeve’s indecisiveness.

“What are you going to tell him?”

Frankie was about to say something but stopped. Okay, maybe I didn’t think this through.

“Frankie?”

“I’ll tell him I’m a time traveler,” Frankie finally said.

“He won’t believe you,” said Maeve.

“Then I’ll show him the car.”

“It looks like an average Buick.”

“Then I’ll show him the interior,” said Frankie. “Hell, I’ll kidnap him if I have to!”

Maeve sighed. “What if,” asked she, “your intervention caused the accident in the first place? Could you live with that?”

That’s a good question, Frankie thought.

“You’re breaking serious laws as it is, traveling through time unsupervised,” Maeve argued.

Frankie shrugged. “I mean… I have you for supervision, don’t I?”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t count as supervision if I’m lacking vision.”

Frankie chuckled but caught himself, noticing that some customers were giving him a weird look.

“Think about it,” Maeve warned again.

Frankie peered out the window. He could see the red, bulky motorbike parked outside. It was Jeff Brown’s valued possession. It was also his doom. A part of Frankie wanted to steal the bike and run away with it, one way of saving the writer’s life. Unfortunately, the vehicle was out in the open and it would take too long hot-wire the damn thing anyway.

“Have you decided?” Maeve asked.

Frankie didn’t reply. He noticed the waitress walking towards him, again.

She is definitely going to ask me to leave this time, Frankie thought.

But she just asked, “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Okay,” Frankie snapped. “Why are you being nice to me?”

The waitress sighed and said, “To tell you the truth, we are all wondering if you are a food critic or something. Otherwise, Pete would have made me ask you to leave.”

“Why would I be a food critic when I haven’t even ordered anything?” Frankie asked.

“That’s what I told Pete!” said the waitress. “He thinks you’re fishing for poor behavior.”

“I know someone who’s just as paranoid. It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

"Screw you too, buddy!” Maeve screamed into his ear. It tingled at most.

The waitress laughed. “I’m glad you can relate. Anyway, can I do anything for you?”

“Can you bring me some paper and a pen?” asked Frankie.

She brought him a pink ball-point pen and a receipt paper, freshly torn off a pad.

Frankie wrote: Thank you for everything. He folded the piece of paper and said to the waitress, “Can you deliver this to the man out front? The one wearing a black jacket?”

“Uh… sure,” she said. As she was leaving with the note, Frankie stopped her.

“Wait! Do it after I leave." He slid off the bench, straightened up and coughed. “I wish I could explain—”

“It's okay,” said the waitress.

Frankie finally glanced at her name tag. “I owe you one, Mary.”

He walked past the tables, feeling dejected, and as he passed Jeff Brown, he tried his best not to steal a look. He failed, of course. Jeff had just taken a big bite on his burger and was chewing with great relish. He looked thoughtful at the same time, probably creating or tinkering with a scene or a dialogue strip in his head, totally unaware that he’d never be able to get it down on paper.

Frankie sighed, held back his tears and walked outside. “I’m useless, Maeve.”

“Not necessarily,” said she. “Thanks to you the last thing he will ever read is a note of gratitude. It’s kind of beautiful.”

“I guess so,” he said and sniffled.

“Are you crying?”

“No.” He sniffled again, brushed off the tears and walked around the diner.

“You did well, Frankie,” Maeve consoled. “You did well.”

—x—