by Sepp van Waes
The sea of fog drifts gently over rolling green fields of produce. Workers in their wide-brimmed hats and bright jackets are mere flashes of red and orange as I drive past, another smear of seafoam and rust just as ephemeral in the muted gray dawn.
I twist the radio’s left dial, sifting through layers of static. The stations along the central coast only broadcast in Spanish, brassy tunes brighter than the occasional ray of sunshine perforating the thick cloud cover. An endless cycle for miles and miles. A low, rumbling car with no CD player and a broken cigarette lighter cutting through the emptiness.
The music once again drowns in static as I pull into the nearly empty parking lot of a small diner. I pick up my wallet and examine its contents. Assorted change. I dig through the cupholders, shoving aside crumpled receipts and faded wrappers. A few more coins. I check under the seats. A wrinkled bill in a small denomination. There should be enough. There’s always enough.
The fog settles on my car as the engine’s heat fades.
It is almost unpleasantly warm in the diner, the air heavy with the familiar scent of old grease and fresh coffee. I sit at an empty booth in the corner and look out the window. Tarmac, a wire fence, and gravel. The view is quickly swallowed up by the morning grayness. In the blurry mirror of my shadow I see a waitress approaching. We exchange the usual pleasantries, just as we are expected to, and I place my order. I watch her return to the kitchen, her smile fading with each hasty twist of her portly hips.
The salt and pepper shakers on the corner of the table are coated in a thin layer of dust. A bottle of ketchup with a lid caked in dark red paste hunches over them, dented by an overenthusiastic patron. The napkin dispenser is empty. Its steel shell boasts the scars of its long tenure.
An old man and woman sit in a booth near the entrance, the only other customers here. They chew silently, their forks shaking in their hands and their jaws awkwardly snapping upward in the strained manner of the aged. They must be regulars. They have a solid place in the world. A guaranteed existence.
The waitress brings a steaming tray to my booth. She quickly places the meal on the table and retreats once more. It’s the wrong order, but I eat it anyway. It tastes like a typical diner breakfast: soaked with oil and bland nevertheless, just as unremarkable as the forgotten corner of the world it came from. Another location that I will never return to or think of again. And it will forget me too.
I have a few coins left over after I pay my bill. The receipt is waxy in my hand and curls over my fingers. I shove it into my pocket along with the change.
One last look before I leave. The old couple sipping their coffee, the kitchen oozing steam, and the fluorescent lighting declaring that there are no more secrets left to be had. A forsaken piece of heaven, infinite and immutable.
I step outside, the jingle of the door’s bell bidding me off on my journey like a bronze gong. The sun has already chased the fog from the fields, conquering the night and the ocean in its ceaseless cycle. Somewhere beyond the horizon the black Pacific crashes in protest against unyielding stone, urging its cold zephyr further inland. Onward, bitter warrior. The faint taste of salt lingers in its wake, an intimation of its origin.
Beads of water have collected on my car’s windshield, as delicate as the dew on a dandelion growing out of a crack in the cement. A piece of hope in this barren expanse.
The rustle of paper, the clatter of coins, and the murmur of the waking engine are sharp, almost as if they could cut away the blood weighing me down. As I accelerate down the empty stretch of highway, the thought of stopping never crosses my mind. I am going on forever. I am endlessly falling toward what surely must be my end. I am a shadow in a beautiful world that I can no longer see the beauty in.
The sun is blazing at the edge of nowhere, a perfect celestial eye coming to scorch the land and free it from its temporal restraint. It’s a bright, coherent dream. I have been cut loose. I have come untethered from the ghostly remnants of a world I once knew. The sea of fog has lifted.
About the Author
Sepp van Waes is a freshman at the University of California Santa Barbara. Despite being a STEM major, they've entered many art and writing contests in their life, and often wonder what they're really doing. They want to reflect that uncertainty in their art, to portray a blurred sense of identity and an ever-shifting sense of self. All-said, they don't quite consider themselves an artist, but hope to at least pass the readers' time in a fulfilling way.