Fiction: The In-Between Diner

by Shannon Bond

Bernie flipped the light switch, and a soft yellow hue filled the diner. Red booths lined one side, and the old bar-top gleamed across from the other. Not a speck of dust floated in the air. Not over the black and white tiled floor or the red vinyl-topped bar stools. The chrome fittings on the coffee machine gleamed. With economic grace, he lifted the hinged section of the counter and stepped behind the bar.

After scooping grounds into a coffee filter and sliding it into the machine, he leaned back and patiently watched the dark liquid stream into the pot. The rich smell of roasted Kona beans filled the air. Once the final drop had fallen, he picked up a tan mug and filled it. Steam curled lazily up as he lifted the cup, and the warmth in his palm made him feel alive, as if it was all really happening. But he knew that the moment he turned, today’s customer would be sitting at the bar, and it would be time to begin. Reaching over with his free hand, he pulled the string on the open sign and slowly spun around. As the bold red glow flickered to life behind him, he said, “How about a coffee, Claire?” He smiled slightly as he set the steaming cup down in front of a woman with birch brown curls and a round face. She wore a light sundress, and her cheeks were flushed.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“You’re waiting for your ride,” he said.

He had skimmed her activity file, the one generated when all humans died, and was intrigued, but most humans intrigued him. Of course, he couldn’t access her thought files. The inner life of humans was reserved for the creator.

“Where am I going?”

Her voice was music, and her eyes were the deep blue sky. She had been a beauty in her youth. During the war, she had worked in a factory. After that, she was a private detective for a stretch in San Francisco. Years later, after life had handed her a few hard knocks and tough lessons, a man had shown up on the front porch holding her youngest son at gunpoint. Without a second thought, she had knocked that would-be burglar out with a baseball bat. Bernie shook his head and chuckled.

“You were a pistol.”

“What?”

“When you were young. San Francisco. The burglar.”

“A lifetime ago.”

“Not so long.”

After years of crochet and family dinners, as her body gave out, she had given up. Half blind, she sat in her recliner for years with the sound of soap operas and talk shows to keep her company. Roger, her charismatic but abusive husband, died of heart failure years before. Bernie reached into his perfect memory and found that he was not the one who received Roger in the In-between. He walked to the end of the counter and lifted a glass lid, sliding a piece of cherry pie onto a small plate. He wanted to imagine what the old diner smelled like to someone who had lived through the 1950s in the American Midwest, but he was not created to imagine things. He placed the plate on the counter next to her coffee.

“Pie?” he asked.

“Cherry is my favorite, and the coffee-”

“-Kona,” he said.

“My favorite.”

“I know, try the pie.”

Claire didn’t move.

“How did I get here?”

“The usual way,” Bernie said.

“What does that mean?”

Bernie sighed. He wished they didn’t ask so many questions.

“You’re just passing through,” he said.

She lifted her hands to her cheeks and said, “My skin is so smooth. Do you have a mirror?”

“Everyone asks for a mirror.”

She looked at him with large blue eyes.

“It just makes it harder,” he said.

“Do you have one?”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Please, let me see.”

He pulled a small beige hand mirror out from behind the counter and handed it to her. She looked at her reflection and gasped.

“I’m young.”

“You are what you need to be,” he said.

“I’m dead,” she said.

“The dying is done.”

“Where-”

“You’re in the In-between.”

“Dead,” she said, staring into the mirror.

“You were a beauty,” he said. If he had the ability to imagine, he knew he would be thinking of her in 1960s San Francisco, tracking down a cheating husband or a jewel thief. But he was an Ancillary. Imagination was a cornerstone of the human condition, not his.

“You had a good, long run,” he said.

“I did?” she asked, looking up at him. “I sat for so long. Wasted so much time.”

“But the years before,” Bernie said with a kind smile, “that was adventure. And your kids, and their kids.

Dinners, and holidays, and crafts. You had a good run.”

More confidently, she said, “I did. And now I’m in between what?”

“You are in the In-between.” She looked at him with a blank expression. “Think of it as an organic computer.”

She stared. “Sorry, wrong generation.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the transfer man here to help you across.”

“To Heaven?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re an angel?”

He sighed. “If that helps.”

“How long will I be here?”

“As long as it takes.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a remote control.

“Take this.”

He slid it across the counter. It was an old-fashioned remote from the 1990s, something she would be comfortable with. The television hanging from the wall above the coffee machine was a big block of old technology, too.

“I think I’ve had enough television,” she said with a shudder. “For years I…”
“It’s different here. Here you learn.”

“About what?”

“Yourself. When you’re satisfied, you’ll move on.”

“How will I know when I’m satisfied?”

“You’ll know, she’ll help you.”

“Who?”

“The creator.”

“God? God is a woman?”

“Sure, don’t you think so?” he said, knowing that she secretly did. He recalled the file on her youth in a southern Missouri town. Every time she had sat in the pew of the small country church as a young girl, Claire whispered to God, a woman to watch over her. Her nine-year-old hands trembled as she clasped her fingers together, willing her creator to save her from an aggressive father and two brothers. Claire’s creator was not vengeful, but she would strike down their wandering hands and still their wicked tongues. And on occasion, God, to Claire, looked like her mother, whom she had never met.

Bernie conjured an image of Claire’s personal creator and fed it into her mind through the application program interface. Every human was unique, especially on the inside, so he could tailor his imagery, but he kept many different images ready to call up for this purpose. An old bearded white man on a cloud, Buddha, the Goddess, Jesus, Odin, even Mujaji, the South African rain goddess. The more specific the image was, the more comfortable the human was. This made the life review and transfer more pleasant. A smooth transition helped them live a better life when they downloaded into the physical again.

Claire’s eyes widened as the personal image of God filled her mind. It was a dusty relic from her distant past, but it resurrected a feeling of safety and hope. “What do I do?”

“Turn on the television, drink your coffee, and eat your pie.”

Claire nodded, pressing the remote button before lifting the coffee mug to her lips. Bernie watched her relax as her deep blue eyes locked onto the television over his shoulder. He didn’t look at the screen, knowing that if he did, he would only see the cosmic static. This show was just for her.

“Good journey, Claire,” he said, patting her hand. He reached over and pulled the string on the open sign.

The red light flickered once before going out.