Chapter 1
Curt Mane had never seen the diner before. He had been down this road many times, building up the nerve for what he would do tonight. It was such a desolate area that he wondered how he could have missed it.
Something about this experience was giving him goose bumps. This must be what happens when your joy disappears; you don’t even notice things right in front of your face. Even wealth and success meant nothing to him anymore. He had lied about stocks and bonds, and had ruined so many lives that even he knew how morally empty he was. Funny how it all had seemed so important when he had allowed it to destroy his marriage and his life.
The diner was like his ex-wife’s new hair-do, or her clothes. He hadn’t noticed all the things she had done in her quest for his attention. Oh well, it didn’t matter anymore. His wife was gone, and his life would soon be gone too. Still, something deep inside was tugging at him. It was his very soul, but he had lived such a soul-less life for so long that he’d have probably told you there was no such thing. All Curt Mane knew at that moment was that it was the part of him that felt emotion. It was like a small spark, a small jolt of life - something he hadn’t felt for a long time.
He had his car up to 125 mph. The top was down on his 1970 Dodge Challenger; its 425 horses were on the final furlongs of a journey ordered by helplessness. He was depressed, despondent, on a suicidal mission to fly through the guard rails and into a ravine, a very deep ravine on this deserted road in this deserted section of California.
When had this diner been built, and how could he have been so blind? He blew past the diner, then braked heavily and evenly several times. He pulled off the road, swinging the car around at a screeching 60 mph. He drove the half mile back and stopped in front of the well-lit eatery.
He could see the customers through the two front windows, but he saw no cars in the parking lot. The people inside seemed to be having a good time. Curt hadn’t had a good time for ages. Tonight he felt empty and dead inside.
If you feel dead on the inside, then why not just be completely dead? suggested a voice Curt was used to hearing. He turned the car around. Enough self-pity and speculation. Let’s end this now.
With his mind made up, he slammed the accelerator to the floor, but the engine shut off. He pushed the clutch and turned the key. It wouldn’t start. Impossible, he thought. The Challenger was almost full of gas. This engine was tuned and tweaked to the max, and I just punched it to 125 mph; now it won’t even start? This kind of luck that had followed him for years. Why not now, when he was so close to ending his misery?
He leaned back and stared at the diner’s windows. A young couple, maybe seventeen - maybe younger- laughed and giggled as if the night was theirs and theirs alone. Did I ever felt that good, that free? He could vaguely remember a warm summer night.
He looked back at the windows, and through the second one, he saw a man sitting alone, a cup of coffee in his hand. A waiter carried a pot of coffee to the table and poured a refill.
Curt’s eyes were slowly drawn upward to a neon sign flashing on the roof. When his car had stalled, he was turned around, so the car was off the road and parallel to the diner. He could see the sign in its entirety: pink with yellow letters. The sky was darkening, and white clouds seemed to fly by, unveiling twinkling stars and then covering them again.
He looked back at the windows and noticed more people sitting at once empty tables. He looked at the side parking lot. No cars. No busses. Nothing. He looked up and down the road he was traveling and saw no traffic or lights.
A warm breeze caught his hair and gently caressed it as a girl’s hand might touch it. The breeze brought with it a wonderful fragrance. Soft and sweet, it caused a delicious empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was a familiar smell, and as his mind evaluated it, a song came flowing from the building. Only you can make this change in me… The Platters filled the air and sounded just as beautifully haunting as it had when he was a teen.
Suddenly, a door in his memory started to open, and he remembered a girl. He saw her face in front of his. (Of course, the thing to remember about opening doors that have been long closed is that with the good memories, ghosts also want to come out.) Her eyes looked into his as they slow- danced together, and his heart fluttered at the thought. The same smell as the one he was now mesmerized by had wafted from her skin as he held her close. "For it’s true, you are my destiny…" Suddenly it was 1963, and the smell of Ambush perfume made him tremble. Do they still sell that brand? It had been his favorite, and she had always worn it for him. A single tear ran down his left cheek.
His reunion with the past was disturbed by the crackling of the neon light snapping him back to reality. A cup of coffee? Why not? He could smell the fresh brew too. Now Curt Mane was more than curious about this place that dispensed memories with the chow. He’d have some coffee, listen to some oldies on the juke box and then call Triple A on the pay phone he knew would be in the diner. He hoped the car could be fixed tonight. That ravine was calling his name.
Curt stepped from the macho interior of his Challenger, “Purple Beast”. He had named the car, and paid premium bucks to have that name painted on its trunk. It had been his dream car, and he thought how nice it would actually be to have something to dream about again. Right now, Curt just wanted to not exist; he wished that he had never seen this place – that he had never slowed down.
At the same time, in the back of his mind, he felt that something had drawn him here. The thought of dying hadn’t fazed Curt Mane, (The truth of Hell would have terrified him, but the blind can’t see.), and yet this diner with sounds and smells that didn’t belong here in 1993 had Curt Mane shivering on an eighty-two-degree evening. It was the same apprehension that precedes a panic attack. He was no stranger to those, with the pumping heart, breathlessness and dizzying nausea that came knocking on your door as an unwelcome visitor, seeking to destroy you. He noticed that his mouth was dry as he started up the diner’s steps on shaky legs.
Chapter 2
As Curt Mane reached the top of the diner steps, he stopped to read the sign on the door. He came closer to get a better look. The Refuge Inn. He opened the door and walked in, somewhat aware of the other worldly atmosphere. He headed for a table by the juke box. As he seated himself, he felt the slightest bit of longing in his heart.
Somewhere in that heart, just the tiniest corner, was a spark of life. He wondered about the meaning of his feelings. It was like the name of a movie or old song that was on the edge of your mind where you couldn’t grasp it. Everyone has a memory that overwhelms the mind. It might be an old song that smacks you in the stomach in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s the unexpected sight of an old flame, or an experience you hadn’t thought about for years. Everyone knows the feeling. It pulls at your gut or whispers at your heart’s ear, and lets you know that no matter how much you think about it, you can never go back to that place or time.
Everyone has been tortured by these feelings, but when Curt Mane sat down at that table, he was smacked with a dose of the memory blues that made any previous feelings of depression seem tame. Whack! The smell of Ambush perfume and Jade East cologne permeated his senses and blended with the odor of homemade pie and …She’s Venus in blue jeans, Mona Lisa in a ponytail…peeling back the layers of selfishness from his heart and bring tears to his eyes. His heart palpitated so hard that he couldn’t draw a full breath. He was confused; he glanced around to see if anyone was watching him, but he was alone… Where had everyone gone? Why aren’t there any cars outside?
Someone had left a newspaper at the booth. Passing time before ordering, Curt read,
National Guard called in to seal off city of Despair.
Prostitution, venereal disease, drug use, and murder devastate the city. Police are afraid to intervene.
He had just started to wonder about the date, July 11th, 1993 – tomorrow – when suddenly he heard a voice.
“Hello, Mr. Mane. Can I take your order?”
He looked up to see the man he had watched serving customers through the window.
“Been waiting for you a long time,” the man said.
The man’s look was not threatening - if that could be said of a man who knew his name in a diner that wasn’t here a week ago.
Curt’s heart was tap dancing in his chest. About an hour ago, Curt had climbed in his car, set on extinction. Now he was frightened, feeling as if his heart was going to explode. His knees started shaking and a strange guttural sound tried to escape his lips. A full blown panic attack was approaching, and he couldn’t move.
The man looked straight at Curt and spoke. “I’m not here to cause you harm, I’m here to offer you a second chance, but once you’re dead, it’s too late. … It’s your call. I just want you know that if you say ‘no’, that will be tomorrow’s headline.”
“But what is this?” came from Curt’s trembling lips. “The newspaper, the smells, the music, the disappearing people, I saw them sitting here, but they’re gone….Where did you come from and how do you know my name? Please help me not to go crazy!” he cried.
“Well, Curt,” said the man in blue jeans and a black t-shirt, “you’re not going crazy. You’re suffering from what I like to call self-appreciation burnout. That’s what we call it when people get blessed with material things, but can’t appreciate anyone but themselves. It drains your battery until you don’t feel alive. Your soul is like a battery. You can charge it or drain it. God charges, and the devil drains. Your battery is dead, Curt.”
Before Curt could even gasp, the man continued, “Curt, every man makes mistakes in his life. Unfortunately, one of yours was a whopper --Cindy Moyer . Remember her? A really sweet girl. That baby would have looked just like you.”
“Baby!” Curt exclaimed. “She told me she got her period, that there was nothing to worry about!”
Curt’s mind drifted back in time to a night, a night bathed in memories of Ambush and passion. He and Cindy Moyer were in the last row at the Neon Moon Drive-In Theatre. If you wanted to make out, you parked in one of the last rows.
What a stupid ritual, he thought. It wouldn’t have mattered what row you were in. No one could have seen through those steamed up windows.
He and Cindy had argued. She was crying, and he was acting like a seventeen-year-old boy who was selfish to the core. This diner he sat in was making him see much clearer, which hurt. He had threatened to break up with her if she wouldn’t do more than kiss. She had cried even harder, telling him she loved him so much it made her heart feel full. He took that as a sign of willingness. In truth, he had never planned on going all the way. He had planned on some light petting. It never occurred to him that Cindy would give up and let him do it.
A voice brought him back to the present. “The devil loves sparks, because he knows sparks lead to fires. And in the end Curt, it wasn’t what you expected…. Sin never is. Ninety seconds of awkward, fumbling pleasure for all that guilt and worry, and all the Hell you caused that girl.”
“I didn’t plan it, and I shouldn’t have to pay for it,” Curt replied.
“Oh, Curt,” said the man, “you couldn’t pay enough. But you have paid. All the selfishness and sin in your life has run straight from that night into this place. You felt guilty, but to ask forgiveness of Cindy or God would have meant giving your pride away, and Curt Mane has always needed total control. But hey, there’s not much to control anymore, is there? You’re not strong enough to fight off all the demons tearing your mind and soul apart. But Cindy’s paid for years. Mentally, spiritually, and, Curt, you should have seen her throwing up. She had cramps, and her tears flowed like a river. You should have been there the nights she wanted to die. You would have seen angels of mercy at her sides. She belonged to God, and, even though she failed Him, He wasn’t about to fail His child. God’s a lot different than parents down here, huh Curt?”
“You, on the other hand have no place to turn, because you, Curt, are spiritually dead. That sweet little girl trusted you and believed in you. Cindy loved you from the bottom of her heart. You got her pregnant, broke her heart, and ruined her life. She worshipped the ground you stood on. She had dreams. She wanted you to love her, to give her affection. She wanted someone to talk to. She wanted someone be friends with. You were more than happy to say the words, Curt. That’s why you’re guilty. You lied to her to get your own way, so never say you didn’t plan it. You’re in enough trouble. Remember that last night with her? You sure turned those dreams into a nightmare.”
Curt wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. His heart was pounding even harder as he was taken back once more. There she was-- her face and body as fresh as a summer breeze, her voice full of love, her perfume a lasso that pulled him into her arms.
“Let’s go get a milkshake,” said Cindy.
They were dancing. Her body was pressed against his and her fragrant hair brushed his lips. She had brown hair and her 5’ 7” frame was solidly lovely. Curt was 6’ 3” with the same brown color hair as Cindy. They were both naturally muscular and looked great together.
She didn’t care about other guys, but he chased skirts like a pro. Cindy would do for now.
He considered her request for a shake, but dismissed it as a boring idea. He had more exciting things in mind. The disappointment in her eyes had been instant.
“Cindy,” he said, “being loved in someone’s heart isn’t like having it shown to you. I really need to touch and kiss you, nothing heavy.”
Cindy responded emotionally, “Curt, every time we kiss and pet a little bit, I have to push you away to make you stop-- usually more than once. It’s not a good feeling when I’m trying to do what I believe is right, and feel like I’m always making you unhappy. I love you so much, but the guilt trips you lay on me are tearing me apart. You’re the first guy I’ve ever cared for, and I pray every night that someday we can get married. Do you think I never think about sex, or that I don’t need you as much as you need me? I’m seventeen years old. I’m a woman, but I’m a girl too.
“I know making out isn’t always bad, but how about what it can lead to? Every time you want to go further, I get a little weaker. I don’t want something wrong to happen with us, because it would break my heart to lose you, and that’s what’s happened to every couple I’ve known who went too far. The guy walks away, and the girl gets hurt. I wish you could know how I feel. I wish you’d have accepted Christ that last night of summer church camp. Then you could understand me better and how much I hurt sometimes.”
Her words had stung Curt, and he verbally retaliated, “Yeah! You and those other kids that went forward. But I’ve heard you cuss, and I’ve seen your ‘holy’ friends fight and get really mad.”
“Curt, I’m not perfect, and neither are my friends - but we want to be. We’re saved by faith in God’s son. He keeps changing us till the day we die. That’s the difference, Curt. …We’re truly sorry when we do something to hurt Christ, or any living thing…. Are you ever sorry, Curt? Do you ever care when people are hurt by your actions?”
“Absolutely not, do you, Curt?” said the voice, yanking him back to the present from a journey traveled many years ago.
Curt stared at the man who seemed to know his every thought and action. The man now seemed to glow and shine.
