Chapter 6

The Last Day
11:00:01 p.m.

The neon that outlined the diner took a few seconds to respond after the loss of power, then flickered back into service. The darkness probably lasted between four and eight seconds, depending upon whom you asked.

At the Last Chance, diners had barely realized they were in the dark before battery- powered emergency lighting had come on, only to be quickly replaced by the restored power supply. In the Last Chance Diner, one digital appliance flashed 12:00. It flashed steadily. Almost like a warning.

The counter timer served to remind the wait staff of how long food sat on the pass through, from the kitchen before it was picked up and delivered to the table.

It was a fifties style diner, complete with jukebox and faded, framed photos of old cars, old movie stars, and old menus. People who loved the Last Chance Diner did so in large part because it never changed. They could depend on old-fashioned ambiance and sensible meals. The patrons on that last night were the same patrons who filled it every other night.

“I thought it might be the end of the world coming,” proclaimed the cook, noticing the flashing numerals and inadvertently starting another rousing debate about the history of the Last Chance.

“You know that 2012 nonsense.” That drew a laugh and some unkind commentary about the Mayans and those who believed the story.

“If it is the end, I want a ringside seat,” shouted one diner, as he paid his check, left a stingy tip, buttoned his coat, and got ready to face the storm. “Nothing like a little excitement to top off a truly terrible meal.”

“Thanks, Matty,” he shouted to the cook. “If I get food poisoning AND the end of the world on the same night, I might set some kind of record. Don’t you think?”

“Shut up and be off with you,” the overworked cook replied, as he scrambled a batch of eggs. “You never had no luck and tonight won’t be no different.”

“Ohhhh. You shut your own bad mouth,” came the rude reply. “It’s just like they say, you always hurt the ones that’s the nicest to you. See if I care. My feelings ain’t hurt.”

As he bundled up, another diner spoke. “The Mayans, or Incas, or maybe it was the Aztecs—one of those old, dead people—predicted the end of the world on December 21, 2012, you moron. It’s three days late! I doubt the end of the world got held up by traffic. Like all those other stupid predictions, this one was a huge nothing, but it gave the papers something to write about.”

“Don’t nobody believe that end of time nonsense no more?” another offered. “Remember Jeanne Dixon? She was always picking weird dates and claiming stupid stuff. It gets them TV time, that’s all.”

Power failure forgotten, things at Last Chance got back to normal. The faded sign on the front door proclaimed, “We Never Close.” Those inside knew it was the truth: they had filled the stools and booths on Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving afternoon, and New Year’s Day for years. The regulars were joined from time to time by others who dropped in, spent an hour and a few dollars, and then went on their way. But those relative strangers sat alongside the hearty souls who’d invested thousands of dollars over the course of decades on meals, coffee, and the daily dessert special and now faced eternity together.