Pirotechnix
02-17-10, 10:03 PM
Mr. Mason is a series of short stories I will be writing, small episodic pieces focused around the title's namesake and his role in the lives of various people he comes into contact with. This is largely a practice in character creation, setting, and dialogue. Being cruel to my story would benefit me the most, so please, hit me with anything that seems off.
WARNING: This story contains objectionable language, sexual references, and drug use/references of a PG-13 level. If you do not wish to read this sort of content, please hit Back now.
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Monica exhaled deeply as she pushed the beaten-up storm door open and walked into the back alley. Pulling out her pack of cigarettes, she fished around in the deep pocket of her greasy and stained waitress’ apron, her fingers navigating through a mess of old pens, empty order pads and straw wrappings, until she finally found her lighter.
Only 45 more minutes until the end of my shift. I can do this.
Tapping the crumpled pack against her leg, she pulled on one of the cigarettes and stuck it in her mouth. After lighting it, she took a deep drag, her tensed shoulders relaxing a bit as the nicotine began to kick in. Before she took this job, she would have n ever been caught dead putting a “cancer stick” in her mouth; years of anti-drug program indoctrination had convinced her that smoking a cigarette was akin to giving your grandma the finger while you kicked her dog.
D.A.R.E. obviously never had employees who worked at Mighty Mel’s City Diner.
Slowly blowing the smoke from the first drag out of her nose, Monica leaned against the edge of one of the rusted dumpsters, absentmindedly observing the life in front of the diner as she took another drag. A couple arguing in the parking lot. Two drunkards from the bar next door singing loudly to some cheesy 80s arena rock song. The sounds of cars rumbling across the cracked road, the occasional horn honk and brake squeal punctuating the otherwise ambient sounds of the city at 2 am.
You know, now that I think about it a bit, I probably would have preferred homelessness to having worked here for a year and a half, Monica said to herself, mindlessly running her fingers through her greased hair and burning the remaining sliver of white on her cigarette before throwing it on the ground and grinding it out with her foot.
I’m nothing but realistic, though. I wasn’t expecting much of anything anyway. Jobs aren’t exactly falling out of the sky for a girl whose only qualifications were a half-finished English degree and occasional volunteer work at the local dog shelter. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason I have this job is because Mighty Mel was high during the interview.
It’s not all bad, though. Sure, the pay is horrible, but the tips in the early morning are pretty decent. It’s no way to make a proper living, but for now, it’ll do. So long as I persevere, things will turn out better for me tomorrow. Gotta keep chasing that sunrise.
“MONICA! A FIVE MINUTE CIGARETTE BREAK IS NOT A TEN MINUTE TIME TO REFLECT ON THE MEANING OF LIFE! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!”
…And here he is, ladies and gentleman. Mighty Mel, the voice that shatters dreams.
Sighing, Monica fixed herself back up as she walked back into the diner, her free hand grabbing her pen and pad and her face screwing up into what she hoped was a passable fake smile to the drunks that were littered around the various booths. Looking around, she saw no new customers since she had went on her break; most of the current customers were still attempting to drunkenly stuff their runny eggs and burnt steak into their mouths.
Making her rounds about the diner, she asked each of the customers the standard set of waitress questions. Many were too busy ogling her breasts to really care about the cup of ice where their last Dr. Pepper had been, but she had come to expect this out of the late night crowd, and usually didn’t shy away from flaunting them a bit. If it got her a better tip, she’d play the slut for 30 seconds.
“Monica, dear, you’re far too smart and pretty a girl to be playing the prostitute.”
Monica’s face flushed as she quickly straightened herself up and turned around from a particularly interested customer, spotting the well-dressed man sitting in the corner, smiling at her patiently.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Mason,” Monica replied awkwardly, deftly avoiding a pair of hands reaching for her backside as she walked quickly over to his table.
“Monica, you’re working the graveyard shift at a 24-hour diner. The only people that come in at 2 a.m. are drunks. If this isn’t some form of prostitution, I don’t know what is.”
“Alright, alright, you got me,” Monica said, rolling her eyes. “I’m a slut to food service, whoring out my talents for 2.35 an hour from my pimp behind the grill. The regular?
“Yes, though I want half-and-half instead of whole milk creamer. Trying to cut back on the calories, you know.”
“Alright, fatty. Two cups of coffee, coming right up.”
Walking back to the coffee machine behind the counter, Monica grabbed two cheap ceramic mugs and a handful of creamer from the basket on the table. As she poured Mr. Mason’s coffee from the pot, she glanced over at his table, seeing him staring intently at the notebook. His eyebrows were deeply furrowed as he flipped through multiple pages. Every night, he always came in with this same notepad, furiously scribbling down God knew what as he sipped at his coffee. She had never asked what he wrote down in the notebook, because most of the time she was too busy cleaning up some drunk’s mess at the table to really think about it. When she wasn’t busy, she still avoided the topic, because he seemed so strangely obsessed with whatever was written in there. Tonight, though, she was struck with a strange desire to be nosy.
I’ve got to know what he’s writing in there.
Monica walked quietly over to his table, purposely going slowly so as to not alert him to her presence. As she predicted, Mr. Mason was too absorbed in his notebook to notice Monica set his two coffees and creamer down, and jumped slightly as the cups clinked against the table.
“Jesus, Monica, don’t scare me like that!”
Monica laughed. “You were the one who has his nose firmly pressed in that damn notepad of yours. Just what kind of stuff do you write in there, anyway?”
Mr. Mason retained his serious demeanor as he peeled open a lid of one of the creamers and poured it into his coffee. “I’ve been coming here for four months straight, doing the same thing every single night. I sit in the same booth, drink the same two cups of coffee, and tip the same amount every bill. Yet, it’s taken you until now to ask about the notepad?
Monica glowered at Mr. Mason. “Look, I’ve got a bunch of drunks I’ve got to whore myself out to each night to cover your lousy tipping. The notepad’s just never been something that’s interested me much.”
“Relax, relax, Monica, I’m only teasing,” Mr. Mason said, doing a quick stir with his spoon and then taking a sip of his coffee. “Alas, I can’t share the contents of this notepad; it holds what some might consider very ‘secret’ and ‘private’ information. I do appreciate your lack of nosiness – it warms my heart to know that there still exist fair maidens in this day and age.”
“So complimentary you are, Mr. Mason,” Monica said sarcastically. “I bet you’ve pierced countless a fair lass’ heart and virginity with that smooth tongue.”
“I’ll say it again, Monica: crudeness such as this does not suit a fine lady like yourself,” Mr. Mason fired back, setting his emptied coffee mug down and staring at her with awkward intensity. “A madam such as yourself should be holding herself to a higher standard, above the influences of the common man and certainly above such work as a waitress at a diner. I can save you from this.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “ The white knight routine doesn’t suit any man who doesn’t have a valiant steed at their side and a kingdom to save, Mr. Mason,” she said, grabbing the coffeepot from the counter-top and refilling his mug. “Look, I appreciate the kindness, and this job is shit, but it barely pays the bills, and that’s a hell of a lot better than not paying the bills at all.”
Mr. Mason sighed as he drained the second cup of coffee in one gulp. “It’s a shame you view things that way, Monica. It never hurt anyone to inject a little bit of idealism into their lives. You seem perfectly alright with your lot in life, though, which is rather unfortunate. Check, please?”
Monica worked hard not to roll her eyes. This isn’t the first time he’s done this. Just smile and nod, and maybe he'll be nice and leave more than a few pennies this time.
“Sure thing, Mr. Mason. Just leave the exact amount on the table when you’re done, and have a nice night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Monica laid down the battered leather book on the edge of the table and walked away to check on the other customers. When she finally got a chance to turn around, he was gone.
Walking over to his table, Monica noticed that the checkbook was placed at a strange angle, almost like it was being propped up by something. Curious, she picked it up.
She recoiled in mute horror as she discovered a trigger that had just been released.
---
Mr. Mason didn’t even flinch at the large explosion that happened behind him. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out his notebook and, grabbing a pen from the other pocket and ripping off the cap with his teeth, flipped pages until he found the entry for Mighty Mel’s City Diner and put a checkmark by it.
Returning his notebook and pen to his pockets, Mr. Mason shrugged his jacket closer to his body and continued walking down the street.
WARNING: This story contains objectionable language, sexual references, and drug use/references of a PG-13 level. If you do not wish to read this sort of content, please hit Back now.
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Monica exhaled deeply as she pushed the beaten-up storm door open and walked into the back alley. Pulling out her pack of cigarettes, she fished around in the deep pocket of her greasy and stained waitress’ apron, her fingers navigating through a mess of old pens, empty order pads and straw wrappings, until she finally found her lighter.
Only 45 more minutes until the end of my shift. I can do this.
Tapping the crumpled pack against her leg, she pulled on one of the cigarettes and stuck it in her mouth. After lighting it, she took a deep drag, her tensed shoulders relaxing a bit as the nicotine began to kick in. Before she took this job, she would have n ever been caught dead putting a “cancer stick” in her mouth; years of anti-drug program indoctrination had convinced her that smoking a cigarette was akin to giving your grandma the finger while you kicked her dog.
D.A.R.E. obviously never had employees who worked at Mighty Mel’s City Diner.
Slowly blowing the smoke from the first drag out of her nose, Monica leaned against the edge of one of the rusted dumpsters, absentmindedly observing the life in front of the diner as she took another drag. A couple arguing in the parking lot. Two drunkards from the bar next door singing loudly to some cheesy 80s arena rock song. The sounds of cars rumbling across the cracked road, the occasional horn honk and brake squeal punctuating the otherwise ambient sounds of the city at 2 am.
You know, now that I think about it a bit, I probably would have preferred homelessness to having worked here for a year and a half, Monica said to herself, mindlessly running her fingers through her greased hair and burning the remaining sliver of white on her cigarette before throwing it on the ground and grinding it out with her foot.
I’m nothing but realistic, though. I wasn’t expecting much of anything anyway. Jobs aren’t exactly falling out of the sky for a girl whose only qualifications were a half-finished English degree and occasional volunteer work at the local dog shelter. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason I have this job is because Mighty Mel was high during the interview.
It’s not all bad, though. Sure, the pay is horrible, but the tips in the early morning are pretty decent. It’s no way to make a proper living, but for now, it’ll do. So long as I persevere, things will turn out better for me tomorrow. Gotta keep chasing that sunrise.
“MONICA! A FIVE MINUTE CIGARETTE BREAK IS NOT A TEN MINUTE TIME TO REFLECT ON THE MEANING OF LIFE! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!”
…And here he is, ladies and gentleman. Mighty Mel, the voice that shatters dreams.
Sighing, Monica fixed herself back up as she walked back into the diner, her free hand grabbing her pen and pad and her face screwing up into what she hoped was a passable fake smile to the drunks that were littered around the various booths. Looking around, she saw no new customers since she had went on her break; most of the current customers were still attempting to drunkenly stuff their runny eggs and burnt steak into their mouths.
Making her rounds about the diner, she asked each of the customers the standard set of waitress questions. Many were too busy ogling her breasts to really care about the cup of ice where their last Dr. Pepper had been, but she had come to expect this out of the late night crowd, and usually didn’t shy away from flaunting them a bit. If it got her a better tip, she’d play the slut for 30 seconds.
“Monica, dear, you’re far too smart and pretty a girl to be playing the prostitute.”
Monica’s face flushed as she quickly straightened herself up and turned around from a particularly interested customer, spotting the well-dressed man sitting in the corner, smiling at her patiently.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Mason,” Monica replied awkwardly, deftly avoiding a pair of hands reaching for her backside as she walked quickly over to his table.
“Monica, you’re working the graveyard shift at a 24-hour diner. The only people that come in at 2 a.m. are drunks. If this isn’t some form of prostitution, I don’t know what is.”
“Alright, alright, you got me,” Monica said, rolling her eyes. “I’m a slut to food service, whoring out my talents for 2.35 an hour from my pimp behind the grill. The regular?
“Yes, though I want half-and-half instead of whole milk creamer. Trying to cut back on the calories, you know.”
“Alright, fatty. Two cups of coffee, coming right up.”
Walking back to the coffee machine behind the counter, Monica grabbed two cheap ceramic mugs and a handful of creamer from the basket on the table. As she poured Mr. Mason’s coffee from the pot, she glanced over at his table, seeing him staring intently at the notebook. His eyebrows were deeply furrowed as he flipped through multiple pages. Every night, he always came in with this same notepad, furiously scribbling down God knew what as he sipped at his coffee. She had never asked what he wrote down in the notebook, because most of the time she was too busy cleaning up some drunk’s mess at the table to really think about it. When she wasn’t busy, she still avoided the topic, because he seemed so strangely obsessed with whatever was written in there. Tonight, though, she was struck with a strange desire to be nosy.
I’ve got to know what he’s writing in there.
Monica walked quietly over to his table, purposely going slowly so as to not alert him to her presence. As she predicted, Mr. Mason was too absorbed in his notebook to notice Monica set his two coffees and creamer down, and jumped slightly as the cups clinked against the table.
“Jesus, Monica, don’t scare me like that!”
Monica laughed. “You were the one who has his nose firmly pressed in that damn notepad of yours. Just what kind of stuff do you write in there, anyway?”
Mr. Mason retained his serious demeanor as he peeled open a lid of one of the creamers and poured it into his coffee. “I’ve been coming here for four months straight, doing the same thing every single night. I sit in the same booth, drink the same two cups of coffee, and tip the same amount every bill. Yet, it’s taken you until now to ask about the notepad?
Monica glowered at Mr. Mason. “Look, I’ve got a bunch of drunks I’ve got to whore myself out to each night to cover your lousy tipping. The notepad’s just never been something that’s interested me much.”
“Relax, relax, Monica, I’m only teasing,” Mr. Mason said, doing a quick stir with his spoon and then taking a sip of his coffee. “Alas, I can’t share the contents of this notepad; it holds what some might consider very ‘secret’ and ‘private’ information. I do appreciate your lack of nosiness – it warms my heart to know that there still exist fair maidens in this day and age.”
“So complimentary you are, Mr. Mason,” Monica said sarcastically. “I bet you’ve pierced countless a fair lass’ heart and virginity with that smooth tongue.”
“I’ll say it again, Monica: crudeness such as this does not suit a fine lady like yourself,” Mr. Mason fired back, setting his emptied coffee mug down and staring at her with awkward intensity. “A madam such as yourself should be holding herself to a higher standard, above the influences of the common man and certainly above such work as a waitress at a diner. I can save you from this.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “ The white knight routine doesn’t suit any man who doesn’t have a valiant steed at their side and a kingdom to save, Mr. Mason,” she said, grabbing the coffeepot from the counter-top and refilling his mug. “Look, I appreciate the kindness, and this job is shit, but it barely pays the bills, and that’s a hell of a lot better than not paying the bills at all.”
Mr. Mason sighed as he drained the second cup of coffee in one gulp. “It’s a shame you view things that way, Monica. It never hurt anyone to inject a little bit of idealism into their lives. You seem perfectly alright with your lot in life, though, which is rather unfortunate. Check, please?”
Monica worked hard not to roll her eyes. This isn’t the first time he’s done this. Just smile and nod, and maybe he'll be nice and leave more than a few pennies this time.
“Sure thing, Mr. Mason. Just leave the exact amount on the table when you’re done, and have a nice night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Monica laid down the battered leather book on the edge of the table and walked away to check on the other customers. When she finally got a chance to turn around, he was gone.
Walking over to his table, Monica noticed that the checkbook was placed at a strange angle, almost like it was being propped up by something. Curious, she picked it up.
She recoiled in mute horror as she discovered a trigger that had just been released.
---
Mr. Mason didn’t even flinch at the large explosion that happened behind him. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out his notebook and, grabbing a pen from the other pocket and ripping off the cap with his teeth, flipped pages until he found the entry for Mighty Mel’s City Diner and put a checkmark by it.
Returning his notebook and pen to his pockets, Mr. Mason shrugged his jacket closer to his body and continued walking down the street.