On the Other Side of Nowhere

Nowhere was a town behind the times. Broadband internet was considered a fantasy of the future, the only way to get cell phone reception was to drive out to the highway, and CDs were still yet to replace cassette tapes. Aside from going to the pub, there wasn’t much to do. Being under twenty-one, I wasn’t even afforded that option, so I found other ways to pass the time between sleep and work.

The Rewind Store was exactly that – a rewind back to the time before DVDs. Its shelves were stocked with the blockish, hard plastic cases of videos. The store smelled of dust, and great swirls of the stuff puffed out of the carpet with each footfall. Behind the counter sat Bernie: mid-thirties, balding, with a great gut full of orange soda and a round head full of useless movie trivia.

He didn’t look up when I pushed the door open and slipped inside; too engrossed in the television set suspended in one of the top corners, like a spider perched in a web. The screen reflected off the thick glass of his spectacles and for a moment I watched the mirror-image, mesmerised.

“What?” Bernie grunted, not taking his eyes off the screen. He wasn’t a particularly sociable creature.

“Can I renew this?” I held up the movie in my hand: Casablanca. Bernie and I had bonded over it when I first borrowed it, both enthralled by the majesty of the black and white film, the effervescent glow of the actor’s faces and the sharp one-liners delivered by Bogey. Some days, when I looked at myself in the shapeless, pale salmon pinafore I wore at the diner, I wished the world were black and white and grey: at least those colours were vaguely flattering.

Bernie rolled his eyes dementedly, taking the case from my hands and typing the barcode number into the ancient computer. “Why don’t you just buy it already?”

I shrugged. Buying it was definitely the logical course of action rather than renewing it every week, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A small part of me enjoyed the brief, weekly contact I had with the moleish man who ran The Rewind Store. “Did you hear about the surveyors?” I made a feeble attempt at conversation and to my surprise, Bernie responded with wide, interested eyes. Encouraged by his sudden attention, I continued, “Someone’s buying the land near Al’s.”

His expression narrowed shrewdly at that. “Government,” he muttered. “They’re always looking for new places to conduct top secret experiments.”

Suddenly I was reminded why I didn’t usually push for conversation with the antisocial man who lived behind the counter. Bernie needed to get out before all the conspiracy movies fried his brain. I changed the subject, glancing back up at the television. “What are you watching?”

Bernie shifted and the stench of stale sweat and crumbs skated off him. “The Day the Earth Stood Still,” he said snottily, adding, “the original, not that garbage remake with Keanu Reeves.”

I nodded but we both knew I had never heard of The Day the Earth Stood Still, the original or the remake. Exchanging my coinage for the re-borrowed movie, I turned to leave, giving a wave of goodbye to Bernie which he pointedly ignored.

In the doorway I was held up. Just as I was exiting, another body was attempting to enter, and we engaged in a clumsy dance as we each tried to get around the other. Left shuffle, right shuffle, repeat. My eyes were at level with the person’s brown cardigan and when I noticed the naked ankles under the rolled cuffs of his jeans, I realised that I was currently waltzing with none other than French Toast.

“You go-”

“No you-”

“Okay, I’ll just-”

“Maybe if I-”

We both smiled awkwardly. A houndstooth newsboy cap squashed his brown hair down onto his head but did nothing to hide the redness of his ears; I knew my cheeks matched. Our eyes met and I had to look away, embarrassed, to the video in his hand. My eyebrows raised at the multiple Xs splashed across the cover, too many to be a Vin Diesel film.

French Toast noticed where I was looking and began stuttering. “It’s not – I’m not into – I wouldn’t-”

I nodded dazedly, gave him a tight, close-lipped smile, and slipped past him to the street outside. All the way home my face burned.



Today was a crossword day. All week had been novel days, but this morning, French Toast sat at his usual table by the window, put a pencil between his teeth, and set out a crossword puzzle in front of him. His breakfast was pushed to one side, barely nibbled at. But that wasn’t unusual; he was always a slow eater.

I had deliberately avoided serving him after what transpired yesterday afternoon. Catching a boy with pornography had rendered me childish and cowardly. Even though I’d had nothing to do when he came in, and he’d tried to get my attention twice, I pretended not to notice. Finally Shauna took his order; she wasn’t happy about it.

“He needs a refill,” she ordered icily, jerking her head towards French Toast. I gulped but did as I was told, not brave enough to openly disobey. Shauna didn’t usually get snippy with me; though I’d seen her snap and snarl when her patience was wearing thin, usually her annoyance was directed at Natalie. It wasn’t a position I envied.

Walking towards his table felt like walking to the guillotine, although I don’t think the French did it with a pot of sludgy brown coffee in hand. French Toast sat stiffly in his chair, chewing his pencil and concentrating intensely on his crossword. My wrist trembled and some of the coffee splashed on the tabletop. I wiped it brusquely with a napkin from the tin holder before swiftly escaping to the other side of the diner.

Behind me, French Toast’s ears glowed.

For the next half-hour I avoided so much as a fleeting glance at his side of the diner. It wasn’t hard since Shauna kept me busy, ordering me around. I wondered how long she could hold a grudge. Curiosity finally got the better of me when I was restocking the straws and I chanced a peek in French Toast’s direction. My eyes met his and I was caught like a rabbit in headlights. He lifted his index finger – the universal sign for ‘check, please’.

I would have pretended I didn’t see – I wanted to – but Shauna’s managerial gaze was burning a gaping hole in the side of my face, so I did what I had to: I took a deep breath and forced my boneless legs to carry me across the room.

“Finished?” It was a pointless question; his plate and cup were both empty. But if he was going to insist on formalities for once, so was I: usually he left his money on the table and exited without a word.

French Toast nodded, and I caught the ruby-coloured edge of a pair of suspenders underneath his cardigan. He waited until I’d gathered up his used crockery before speaking.

“It wasn’t mine.”

I nearly dropped the cup but managed to catch it on my pinkie where it teetered dangerously. “What?”

He lowered his eyes and scratched behind one of his ears which had gone from a delicate pink to a searing crimson. “I’m not some kind of…”

“Porn fiend?” I blurted, nearly clapping a hand over my mouth as soon as the words were out, remembering at the last moment that I needed both of them to hold breakables.

The rest of his face followed the same route as his ears. “Pervert,” he murmured. “I’m not some kind of pervert.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Of course I do,” I lied.

“It wasn’t mine. I was returning it for someone else.”

“Sure.”

“It was my boss’.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I work at the pub.”

The conversation kept getting weirder; I didn’t understand why he was so adamant to convince me. “Alrightie, then. I have to go, French Toast.”

“Wait! What’d you call me?”

I stopped in my tracks, cringing, glad my back was to him so he couldn’t see my face all constipated. I wasn’t supposed to call regulars by their nicknames. “Nothing. I have to go,” I repeated hastily.

“Dylan,” he called behind me. “My name’s Dylan!”

If I’d had the guts to turn around at that moment, I’d have seen the ghost of a half-smile cross his face.