The Moonlight Oasis

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Moonlight Oasis

A gust of wind came barreling behind Damian Jourdan as he fit his key into the lock. It brought on a shiver as it threaded past the book tucked under his arm and through his old down coat. The coat was older than him by at least ten or fifteen years, but he couldn’t reason with putting out money for a new coat. Not when there was so little of it to go around as is.

Damian twisted the key and pushed open the large door. The cold followed as he entered the old rest stop. It looked like snow, he thought. Of course it would fall on a Friday, when he couldn’t take advantage. Who was he kidding? He never took a day off as is. 

The neon light proclaiming “Moonlight Diner” peered through the darkness, its stars flickering and moon winking. The smell of the late-night cleaning crew couldn’t cut the familiar scent of french fries and burgers. The random car passing under the oasis cast light through the giant glass windows looking down at the Illinois Tollway; the oasis was a giant glass prism suspended over the highway. 

The Moonlight Oasis was the last stop before drivers left the Illinois Tollway and entered the state of Wisconsin. Built in the 1950s, the oasis catered to Chicago’s families headed up to the lakes of Wisconsin and beautiful Door County peninsula. The oasis hearkened back to the heyday of American family motoring. But unlike its counterparts, Moonlight Oasis was a time capsule.

Damian had worked at the Diner longer then he cared to admit, starting on the old Star commercial griddle, coax out eggs, toast, and other staples the diner had been serving for years. These days would rarely see Damian flipping and dicing at the grill, unless Chuck couldn’t convince his ‘71 Polara to start up. 

Charles Smits, also known as “Chuck” or “Chuckles”, had started working at the diner around the same time as Damian, but a penchant for herb and a notoriously unreliable car had kept Chuck chained to the griddle while Damian had risen to manager. Maybe it was the weed, but Chuck never resented having his best friend as his boss. Likely because Damian would always reliably pick up the slack. Covering a short fall was the way he had grown up, but it was easy to help Chuck; the affable stoner never meant anyone any harm, and Chuck could always be relied on if Damian found himself in a pinch for the natural green.

Chuck would likely show up today, as it was payday. He hadn’t missed a payday in the nearly ten years they had been working at the Moonlight Oasis. Damian couldn’t fathom the hours they’d spent flipping burgers and oogling girls, or count the nights they had been snowed in at the diner, sliding on boxes down the hillside near the highway. They had grown up together at the oasis. Or, at least, Damian had.

Growing up seemed to mean first on, last off, and an annoyingly stiff upper lip. The diner never had enough business, and rarely enough employees. The other oases along the Tollway had encouraged modern growth, allowing in fast food chains and tourist shops. The Moonlight, on the other hand, looked the same as the day it opened in 1959. Inside was the eponymous diner, Daul’s Cheese and Sausage shop, and a seasonal farmstand. On the East side was the a Gulf gas station with mechanic bay. Only the diner’s neon still worked; the rest had spotlit signs dark on this winter’s morning. 

Damian had set the coffee to brewing, the griddle to heating. Arriving at 5:30 AM meant the coffee would be ready when Chuck and the other oasis employees arrived. If he could prep everything and get the griddle hot, maybe he could steal a few moments alone with his well-worn W.H. Auden tome. Another trip through The Age of Anxiety was just what the bitter winter blues had ordered.

Damian rubbed his hands together, then snatched a frying pan, filling it with water and a dash of vinegar while grabbing eggs from the fridge. Spinning on his heel, he flipped up the bread box and peeled off two pieces of whole wheat with one hand. He palmed the eggs, reached for the bottle of oil and drizzled a bit on the hot griddle. He bucked and weaved, still with the skills that used to delight the summer travelers. Tossing the toast down, he turned back to his simmering pan and cracked the two eggs into it. Satisfied, he poured himself a cup of coffee and took the eggs off heat, covering them for a poaching.

“Oh gee, hope you’re making enough for two.” Chuck’s Wisconsin accent was thick as clover honey. 

“Well, I wasn’t expecting Miss Chicago to show up until later on in the day, and I figured you’d have the desserts made by then.” Damian couldn’t resist a jab at Chuck, who once had dated a Miss Illinois but screwed it up with one too many Polara breakdowns.

It was 5:46, fourteen minutes to opening. Maryann, the elderly proprietress at Daul’s, and her mechanic husband Dale would be walking through the door in about four or five minutes, ready for a cup of hot coffee. For now, the toast and eggs were ready, and he passed them over the counter on a clean but crackled white plate, decorated with a winking blue moon. “Here ya go, Chuckles.” Chuck grinned and pulled a fork from the mason jar next to the cake dish, excitedly cracking the poached eggs open.

Damian spun back and threw down his own rye toast and eggs. Of course Chuck showed in time for breakfast. It was payday, after all. 5:49 and Damian’s eggs were over easy, his toast was ready. He didn’t have to glance at the clock, this routine so ingrained into his being that Damian was perfectly capable of unlocking the doors at 6:00 AM if the power was out and he forgot his watch.

Damian shoveled his breakfast down, hearing Chuck clattering around in the background. Today would be quiet, like most days. The widower truckers would stop in for breakfast on their way down from Wisconsin to Chicago and for dinner on their way back up to their homes along the lake shore. Chicagoans fleeing Lake Michigan’s harsh winds in favor of their country cabins would visit for lunch and blur over into the dinner hour, their children pursuing pancakes at dinnertime.

Damian heard the wind blowing around the suspended oasis and felt its cold kiss as Maryann and Dale swept in the front door. 5:51 and he poured their coffee. Maryann had been drinking black for a while, giving up sugar in favor of sneaking cheese curds from the sample bin. Dale would take two creams and three sugars, still thin and weathered as an old fence post. Maryann had tried everything but straight lard to fatten him up; she always forgave him a piece of yesterday’s pie as breakfast. A man ought to have at least one vice, she would say. She must have been ignoring the Marlboro Reds he was sneaking in the garage and the post-shift Schlitz with Chuckles out back.

The couple seated themselves on creaking red leather stools, setting their bags on the silver-swirled Formica counter. No greeting, no acknowledgement, until the caffeine hit their bloodstreams. Damian slid a big slice of Dale’s favorite, the Hoosier Sugar Cream, along the counter with a clean fork. 

“Roads were bad” said Dale over his steaming creamy mug. “It’ll be a slow one today.”

“Put your tire chains on?” asked Damian.

“Naw, we drove in the Scout.” Dale’s pride and joy, besides his wife, was his 1973 International Harvester Scout II. He’d used it for hauling the products from his future father-in-law’s cheese factory, and for driving his future bride to and from their job at the Moonlight Oasis when they were young. Maryann realized much later all those cold mornings and thirty minute drives into work brought Dale an extra hour and a half out of his way. But he’d seen the cheesemaker’s pretty daughter one time and that was enough to justify the time and the energy.

5:57 AM. Damian walked out from behind the counter towards the front door. He peered into the darkness beyond the great glass windows, the freshly fallen snow barely twinkling. His eyes adjusted and could see fresh tracks rising over the hill that he and Chuck had slid down as teenagers. At the top, a silhouette in the disappearing moonlight, was a young ten-point buck. 

But, when the sun his beacon red

Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,

The deep-mouthed bloodhound’s heavy bay

Resounded up the rocky way,

And faint, from farther distance borne,

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

He stared, almost certain the buck was staring right back at him. But with a blinding flick of the overhead lights, the buck blinked from his view. It was 6:00 AM, and the Moonlight Oasis was open for business.