Dispatch #0

There’s something about walking up before dawn that makes the world different. When it’s still dark out and your eyes are still groggy, not accustomed to being open so early. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it’s how quiet it is. At least that’s what I think while I pull on my clothes in the dark. I don’t turn on the light even though there’s nobody else here to wake up. Outside, it's the same. It’s dark and quiet and the street feels less alive. I swear those lampposts look different early than they do late. Everything does. Like it’s a different world than the one I fell asleep to.

It feels like that as I pull the car out. As I turn onto the familiar roads that are one shade less familiar right now. Of course, I know nothing’s changed. Same streetlights, same research campus on the right, the same place they’re building that burger chain on the left; nothing’s really different than in daylight. But it all looks different. Feels different. Like my car is driving through some sort of wormhole into the noir dimension while hitting the same potholes as it always does. It really is different. The highway is too. I can hear how quiet the traffic on it is compared to the middle of the day. I don’t get on it. Instead, I use the frontage road that was designed for a much smaller city to pull into the parking lot at Jim’s.

I don’t think more than 50 people in this city know Jim’s exist. It’s not hidden. There’s a giant sign that looms over the building, promising the people on the highway:

Coffee • All Day Breakfast • Open 24hrs.

The sign, like the building, looks maintained but old, weathered, and a little less “nice” than everything else in town nowadays. You couldn’t ask for a better hiding place. As I pull open the door that had to be on its hinges 50 years ago, I’m greeted by even more evidence that I’ve gone somewhere and sometime else. The interior is a least 30 years out of style. A giant paper map of the city hangs on the wall, woefully out-of-date as well. This town has gotten a lot bigger since then. The tile and thin carpet are cleaned daily but I can tell that hasn’t stopped years of grime from seeping into them. On my left is the big open dining space, tables, booths, and bar facing into the kitchen. It’s all lit as dimly as it can be without looking closed. I’ve never been able to glimpse into the kitchen through the pass over the counter. As far as I’m aware, there might as well not be one.

I walk by the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign hanging on the podium. Nobody bothers. There’s never more than then a few people here at once. A table or two has a few blue-collar guys catching breakfast before their shift starts. They chew in silence. Only two waitstaff walk back and forth from tables refilling coffee mugs. Mario waves at me as I enter his line of sight. I raise my hand groggily in reply as I make my way to a small booth beside one of the large windows. There’s an old man sitting there with his back to me. He’s reading a book as I walk up to him. Thin, weathered skin shows more wrinkles around his blue eyes than you could count. He looks lively for his age and yet paler than you would expect.

He looks up as I slide into the booth opposite him. His smile is slow and sly as though he’s impressed, but not surprised, that I made it here. Mario comes over to ask if I want coffee as I lay the folder I’m carrying on the table. I agree and thank him, eager for caffeine to drive the blurriness out of my vision. There’s a familiar gleam in the old man’s eyes as I turn back to him.

Soren isn’t his real name. You’ve got to be careful about names and identities, especially with things like this. Which is why we meet here now. Nobody to overhear. Better yet, nobody cares enough to overhear. This place is like that: overlooked but still here. I look out the window at the light rain starting to fall. The haze the water in the air makes in front of the streetlights. I feel serene. Might as well be on another planet.

Soren keeps his hand close to his body as he sticks a finger towards the file holder sitting on the table. His expression asks the question rather than his words. He’s excited to get started. I rub my tired eyes before undoing the catch and reaching inside. Mario lays a mug and saucier on the table as I pull out the first page. He’s gone again right after the ‘thank you’ leaves my mouth. I smooth the paper out in my hands.

Soren speaks verbally for the first time.

“So, these are you?”

“Some of these are me. But some are just stories. You know…” I test the temperature of the coffee. It tastes awful. This is no precisely-measured, altitude-corrected, in-house hipster roast. This stuff has been sitting in a metal pot on a hotplate since God knows when. Somehow I love it. Fancy coffee, good coffee, doesn’t belong at Jim’s. “… I’m calling them ‘dispatches.’”

“So they are you?” Soren gets a little snort out of me with that one. He can cut to the heart of things with a sentence. Where’d he get that power?

“Sure.” I concede. “but I’m calling them dispatches. Ready?”

The old man leans back as I start to read.