On the Other Side of Nowhere

On the long, barren run of Highway 51, somewhere between the lakes of Wisconsin and the plains of Illinois, there’s a turnoff. It’s a narrow road, easy to miss, and before they put the sign there most people drove right on by. Those who take it find themselves beneath the arch of tall conifers which bend towards the sky, sunlight reaching through their branches like God’s fingers. After three miles or so, the trees thin out, and you’re there.

Nowhere, Wisconsin.

Named by its founder - a long-dead man with a depressing sense of humour - it’s too large to be a village, not large enough to be a town. The post office is right next door to the video store, and the tiny police lockup is just across the road. On weekends, the pub fills the main street with the laments of drinkers and gamblers alike. There isn't much to do in Nowhere.

If, by chance, you pass through Nowhere and continue on the other side for another mile or two, you’ll see what looks like an oversized trailer. A buzzing neon sign sits atop it, blazing the words ‘Al’s Diner’. Inside, the floor is sticky and the air carries the smell of stale cigarettes and coffee. The vinyl seats squeak and knives and forks scrape against plates. It’s hot and stuffy and the radio is always playing oldies, but for less than four dollars, you can order the best breakfast you’ll ever eat, the breakfast that changed my life.

Al’s All-Day Breakfast Special was (and still is) served drowning in oil. The grease lined my throat, allowing the fried bacon and eggs to slither down easily. I inhaled the food as if I hadn’t eaten in a month - which it felt like - and wiped the excess carelessly from my chin with a paper napkin. The coffee was black, lukewarm, and still bore the sour taste of the corpses of previous batches, yet I slurped it down as if my life depended on it.

“Slow down there,” a voice nearby said. It belonged to one of the waitresses. She was tall, slim and polishing a glass with a dirty dishrag. She wasn’t particularly attractive and yet I couldn’t call her unattractive either, though she moved with the assurance of someone who didn’t care much for appearances anyway. “Al doesn’t want any lawsuits on his hands if you choke.”

I blushed and tried to slow my eating to a normal pace. “Al?”

“He owns this place,” the waitress explained, moving a little closer to where I sat at the counter. “Where're you from?”

After I swallowed a slimy lump of egg, I answered, “Springfield.”

“Illinois, huh?” There was a faint Southern twang to her words. “We get a fair few of your kind through here.”

She smiled and I forced one in return. At the time, I wasn’t sure why I lied and said I’d come from the south rather than the north. Running away made me feel like a fugitive, I guess, and a fugitive needed an alibi. Springfield was mine.

“Headin’ on up to Milwaukee, are you?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.” Milwaukee was where I’d come from, I wasn’t about to return there in a hurry. I looked down at my empty plate and back up again, noticing the Help Wanted sign tacked above the coffee machine. “You hiring?”

Her eyes followed mine to the sign. “You lookin’ for work?”

What I was looking for was a plan, since I’d left mine in Milwaukee. All I had to my name right now was a car built three decades ago in the Former Soviet Union, a sleeping bag, and some fresh underwear in the trunk. A job in a diner on the outskirts of Nowhere wasn't much, but better to be in Nowhere with a job than with nothing at all.

“You got any experience?” the waitress asked. I told her I did - another lie. She passed me an application form and a short time later, I passed it back with the blanks filled in. Casting barely a glance at what I'd written, she folded the paper into a neat square and placed it in the pocket of her salmon-coloured pinafore. “Welcome to the Hotel California,” she said with a cryptic grin.

Confused, I blurted, “Does that mean I got the job?”

“That means you got the job,” she echoed.