Annuity

The diner was dusty in the late afternoon light. The way the sun caught the mirrors you could see every grease spot and streak. Hank was behind the counter same as he had been for thirty years, give or take. The honey coloured light cut across him, bisecting his face into light and dark, etching each line deep. It made him look older and younger.

For a split second a shadow cut off the light then the bell above the door sounded and there was the squeal of wood on wood as the door eased back in its frame. Hank looked over. Even in sillhouette he could tell this fella was a stranger. The suit, the sleek leather case: no one round about dressed that way.



The man walked up to the counter. When he turned into the sunlight, Hank could see they were of an age. The stranger sat down at the counter. He nodded a greeting to Hank.

"What'll it be?" said Hank. The stranger quickly scanned the board up on the wall. His eyes were bright and still quick.

"Gimme a.. burger." For a second their eyes met and the stranger did the smallest of double takes, recognition or something. As Hank turned to cook up the order, the stranger lifted his suitcase up onto the stool next to him.

When the burger started sizzling, Hank turned back to the counter. The stranger was looking at him as though trying to work him out.

"I feel like I've met you before," he said.

"Can't say as I remember," said Hank, "We get a lot of people pass through here. Must have talked to a million people just about. I don't remember more than a handful." The stranger shook his head.

"It was a long time ago," he said, "and it wasn't here." He tapped gently against the side of his head. "There's a lot of memories up here," he said, "Used to be I could remember everything bout a person, how they looked, what they said, their clothes, the weather."

"You got one of those photographic memories, huh?"

"That's what they call it, only I don't see it like that. It's more like books on a shelf. I can take down the past and read it back any time I want. Handy," he said, "in my line of business."

"What'd that be?"

"I sell insurance, door to door, one side of this country to the other." He gestured vaguely from the shadows at the back of the diner, out towards the setting sun. "Never forgot a name, never forgot a face. Each of those books on my shelf, theres's a face on the front and a story inside. I told stories too. All of them different, all with the same moral."

"Better safe than sorry, right?" The stranger nodded.

"I had it all memorised. Facts and figures, with this way of dying or that way. You see them all stacked up like that, it kind of makes an impression on you. Takes a certain kind of person to see their fellow men as a whole heap of statistics. I..." He sighed and it made him seem much older "I gave it the personal touch. I'd meet with a man one year and we'd just talk: about his wife, his kids, job, life. And I'd just soak that up. I'd nod and listen and remember. Then the next year I'd come back and I'd use all that to sell him a policy. A policy's not what he was buying though, not really. He was paying for that sad story, so he'd own it and it couldn't hurt him."

"You still do that?" The old man shook his head. Hank loaded the burger into a fat sesame bun.

The old man looked at Hank "I know you," he said then took a bite of the burger. "Tastes good," he said.

"Thirty years flipping burgers and toasting buns," said Hank, "sooner or later you get good or you quit. I didn't quit yet." Something in that made the strangers face light up.

"You don't come from round here, do you." he said.

"I wasn't raised here," said Hank, "But I've been here going on fifty years. Grew up over the state line in Apoppanax county."

"Apoppanax," said the old man, "Well I'll be damned." His eyes sparkled. They flicked over Hanks face as though reading the numbers off a winning ticket just to make sure.

"You're Hank..." there was a pause, "Hank Greer. Hot damn. Sixty years but I never forget a face." Hank looked at him for a long moment, searching the strangers face. "I'm Ray Westerhouse," said the old man. No light of recognition in Hanks eye. "I don't expect you remember me. I left Appoppanax when we, were, what... twelve, thirteen. We'd hang out by the soda fountain in Louis' You and Rich and Al and me."

"Well, I'll be." Hanks eyes had started to gleam as if the light that cut low now through the diner put on them a deeper sheen. "There it is, clear as a bell: Ray Westerhouse." He searched the face of the old man in front of him for the traces of the boy he once knew. "The four horsemen of the Appoppanax. You know, it wasn't for years that I worked out where you got that daft name from."

"Had a memory even then." He took another bite of the burger. "Louis could have flipped burgers till the stars went out, he'd never have made a burger this good."

"Ain't that true. Didn't quit neither."

As the sun sank lower, the two old men talked on.

"Your dad was the first man I knew got killed in that war." said Hank. Ray nodded.

"Had himself insured though. My mother took the payoff, sold the house and moved back to her momma's."

"We weren't the horsemen without you," said Hank, "Do you remember that last night we camped out together, just the four of us. You promised us you'd come back and see us and godammit if you didn't make it." Hank laughed and Ray laughed with him and there were tears in their eyes. "Made a vow to the moon and stars," he said, almost to himself.

The sun was resting on the horizon now. Ray's burger was finished. "I've gotta go Hank," he said, "Can't seem to stop my wandering." He move to take his wallet out, but Hank shook his head.

"Burgers on me," he said. He looked out of the window and saw the first star high in the sky. "I guess this is goodbye," he said. "I couldn't never have said that when I was a kid." He came round from behind the counter and the two men hugged.

"Goodbye Hank," said Ray.

"Goodbye Ray," said Hank.

The last rind of the sun trembled on the horizon and the bar burned. He heard Ray's footsteps. The bell above the door tinkled, then the door squeaked shut. Hank got up and turned the sign on the door over from OPEN to CLOSED. He fetched himself a coke then stood gazing out the window. One by one the stars came out. He raised the bottle to salute them.

As the stranger drove out past the town limits, the milometer clicked over from 99999 to a line of zeroes. Already Hank was drifting back into a lifetime of faces and stories and Ray was going with him.