by Matt Barrett 

The night you rob the local diner, you’ll take your date to eat there first.

You’ve seen Mrs. Doubtfire enough times to know how to do it. First, you’ll go dressed as yourself with your date sitting beside you. Then, you’ll excuse yourself to the bathroom where you’ll change into something else: a black coat with a black mask that covers your entire face. You’ll open the window above the sink so you can climb out and re-enter the diner through the main doors, demanding the hostess give you everything in the register. When she does, you’ll slip back out the entrance, hide the money and your costume in the bunker your father built (during that horrible time, when your parents stopped trusting the world), then slide back in through the window. After returning from the bathroom, you’ll explain to your date you aren’t feeling well. She’ll look at you with shock in her eyes, and you’ll ask if something’s wrong. This will trigger either one of two responses: anger, that you weren’t here to protect her in a time of need, or relief, that at least you’re together now. It won’t matter which because either way she’ll believe you, and with this, you’ll have an alibi and a bag full of money waiting for you in a place no one except you and your dead parents knows about, which you can access anytime, like a squirrel who buries a nut in the months before a frost.

You need the money, and this is how you’ll justify robbing from your favorite diner, the same one your parents took you to when you were young, the one you thought you’d work at someday when you still imagined work could be fun. It’s likely when you ask the hostess for money, you’ll know her name. The owner, who’s away on vacation, will probably weigh on your mind as you flee, and what you’ll remember, in the days and weeks that follow, is when she brought you chocolate mousse for free when your parents couldn’t afford it. You’ll remember calling her Mama G, which was the name her grandkids called her too while they waited for her in the far back corner booth. You will feel shame at times, that she’s the first person you’ve robbed, but you’ll also find a kind of comfort in knowing she’ll never suspect it was you.

Years and years and years from now—hopefully decades, if you’re lucky—you’ll admit that you robbed your favorite diner while lying on your death bed. Mama G will be long gone by then, and it’s possible no one will believe you. The amount you stole wouldn’t have made much of a difference in your life, other than to help you pay off debts that were pressing and immediate, mostly minor inconveniences that felt much larger than they were. You will tell whoever’s within earshot about the regrets you felt, the shame of taking in a time of need. You will assure them you never did anything like this again. That in a panic, you became someone who wasn’t quite you, that even as you ran, it was as if you were watching yourself from afar.

But what you’ll never admit is why you did it. You’ll convince yourself it was for money, and at times, when feeling introspective, you’ll believe it was for control. But you’ll often dream about your parents. When they were young and hopeful, despite the fears they shared of the world. Even now, you dream of them. When they led you down the bunker steps, to show you the walls they lined with canned food, the radios they wired with mismatched metal pieces. Underground, they convinced you the world was dark. That the monsters in your books were not just real, they were neighbors, friends, anyone other than you. You believed them in the bunker. That above you, your fears cloaked the world in shadows. Which made seeing the sun each morning so confusing. And Mama G’s kindness, a trick you couldn’t quite understand.

The night you rob your favorite diner, you’ll tell yourself nothing is as it seems. But the truth is, the lights will all be on. And the hostess will know you by name and guide you to your favorite table. At times, your date will take your hand, and you’ll feel a kind of warmth you can’t compare to anything else. Not a summer’s day, as Shakespeare said, not like soaking in a tub. The table beside yours will spend its evening laughing—literally, the table—the men around it howling so hard it shakes. When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you’ll pass countless pictures of Mama G, and one of you with a bowl of mousse the night you decided There is God and then there’s her. You will cover your face with a mask. You will exit through the bathroom windows, and when you do, you’ll wonder if you’ve ever felt this way before. When you took the time to notice the communal joy of strangers. You will hear them from outside. The men at their table howling, the steady murmur of those around them. A surge of energy will fill you. And while holding what feels like the world’s joy inside you, you will round the diner with purpose.

Image via Pexels by Phil  Evenden