The Pink Envelope, Confrontation, Acknowledgement, Resolution [Part 7]

"What the f*ck is he doing here?!"

Although Ryan was only whispering, the sound of his voice was like a roar in my ears. Maybe it was his expressive tone, maybe it was the surprise in his voice, maybe it was fear. But Ryan had just seen something in the Easy, something that wasn't there before, and to let us in on his brand-new observation he cranked his head behind the bar and into the kitchen; and he jabbed his thumb in the direction of...the corner booth.

It was Mr. Frank. It was Mr. Frank at 10 in the PM. Breakfast at the Easy is served 24/7, no? Who could deny the man his breakfast, even if he decided to have it 9 hours earlier than normal?

The first thing that came to mind as I hunched over the bar--flicking the pink envelope between my fingers, eyes stabbing the clock (Why is he here at 10:27?)--was not "Who is Mr. Frank?" but, "How do I know that that is Mr. Frank?"

I mean, I had heard plenty about this man, and every bit of it was extravagant. But seated before me was no dynamic counter-terrorist, he was not the sage, surely not a monster, no killer, no romantic. This was..Mr. Frank, the commonplace norm of a man who no one knows. His life is private. Why should we know his labels?

But I need to know him! Why do I need to know him? Is it my job--24 hours on waitstaff at the diner? The voices in my head were circling to the point that I started to become dizzy. The mystery, the suspense; it was unnerving.

Thank the lord that Ryan took his order, as always.

I think Frank caught a glance at me a few times as I waited on the patrons at the bar, but I would have discarded his looks anyway. I was pretending he wasn't there, and the envelope in my apron was burning into my waist. I was getting hot and nervous, and I worried that Marcy would come back to the diner like she does on some of her 'lonely' nights. That would be the last thing I needed: more confusion and more Mr. Frank. Yes, Marcy would bring with her a damp reminder of the white-hot letter in my apron.

"Do you need anything, Gabe?" I said to the serene man at the end of the bar.

Gabe always liked to spend some time in the Easy; alone, with only a book. Today was one of those days. When he looked up from his newspaper, he gave me a comforting smile and made a passing gesture with his hand.

The Easy was going easy. I wondered why the crowd hadn't come in yet. On any other night--10:30 PM--this place is normally on fire with hipsters, skaters, drunks, and under-age smokers. But not tonight. I kidded myself--"When they saw Mr. Frank walk in they flew the coop."

Must be.

--

The warm green bathroom door was weightless as ever (Is this maple wood? What is this?) when I pulled it open. It always feels like you'll rip it off its hinges if you aren't careful. The door swung open and before me was the men's bathroom--sinks, then urinals, then stalls, as usual. I made it to the urinal before my bladder could explode. Serving coffee all day usually means you'll be drinking coffee all day; and drinking coffee all day doesn't just keep you awake..

Before I could zip up, the stall at the end--which was occupied, unbeknownst to me, at the time of my entrance--let out a flushing noise, and its occupant made his way (slowly) to the sinks. My head cocked to the corner stall. It was Mr. Frank coming from the stall! Mr. Frank coming towards me to the sink. How could I have missed him in the corner booth? Surely, something like Mr. Frank wouldn't go unnoticed in my eyes. Well, that must be it; you see, I never saw him in his booth on the way to the urinal. Why would I go to the bathroom if I had the slightest hint that he might've been there?

My urination stopped. Cut short. It felt, too, as if I had a tight, thin rope around my neck. There was a hot and prickly sensation traveling up and down my back. I zipped up and pulled the flush as Mr. Frank passed behind me. He was going to wash his hands. I seriously debated the health code policy of employee hand-washing. I couldn't wash my hands next to him. I couldn't even exist next to him. I needed to get out of there. So I paced quickly to bathroom exit.

"Excuse me. Could I see that?" It was Mr. Frank's voice. It sounded friendly enough; otherwise, I would've ran out and slammed the door shut (probably knocking it off its hinges). But I turned around. He was pointing to my apron. The letter! I could feel the blush in my face. I swallowed.

"There's no paper towels here to dry my hands on." added Mr. Frank.
Of course. The napkins! He just wanted napkins! The relief brought upon me a cool sweat. The nightmare was over..or was it?
I reached into my apron to retrieve the napkins and almost instantly withdrew. The letter bit me. It actually bit me. I don't think I screamed, but a suffocated yelp managed its way out of my throat. I tried again.

"Here, sir." He took the napkins with a thank you.

--

The sizzle of eggs and hashbrowns hypnotized me. Eduardo, one of the cooks, was making a smoke run, and I told him I'd help with the food, me being a former cook and all. Besides, the Easy was practically empty. So I stared blankly at the grill thinking of the letter as the food cooked. It was time to make a decision--what to do with the envelope? Marcy's little love letter. I was fixed on the grill. My fingers snuck into the apron and slipped the pink envelope from its pocket. I held it to my face. Frank. That's what it said.
I let go.

The envelope sank to the grill and began to sizzle with the eggs and hashbrowns--an orchestra of buzzes and sputter, a team of rolling snare drummers.

I snapped awake and, understanding now what exactly i was doing: understanding that the postage that Marcy had entrusted with me--she trusted me--was, for a brief approximate of 8 seconds, cooking with the rest of breakfast; now that I understood, my arm shot out for the spatula and I began to scrape the envelope from the searing grill plate. I tugged upward and, as if I were removing a band-aid, the envelope peeled off the grill.

It's safe. It's still alive.

I walked to the bar and stuck my head out. There was Mr. Frank, as before: finishing up his meal and sipping coffee, too. I withdrew backwards into the kitchen and came to the garbage pail. Pressing firmly and swiftly, I made three rips to the envelope and disposed of the remains.

It was done. And I was happy because I knew.

Marcy didn't know Frank. I knew this. I ripped the letter because I couldn't deliver it, quite actually and metaphorically. The Frank to which the pink envelope was addressed does not exist. At least not at the Easy.

Mr. Frank--We'd got him all wrong. There was no definition for Mr. Frank that I could have gotten from the diner, from anyone. No one knows this man. I've asked all the patrons and employees; it's like I've asked the diner itself. Mr. Frank, ultimately, will never be revealed from these sources.

So whoever Marcy was writing to could not have been Mr. Frank, as much as she would hope it to be.

The letter can have no meaning-- it's null, it's obsolete; unsubstantiated, tenuous, non-existent; it's out of place. It shouldn't be there. And now that the letter is done I understand.

I now know that I can know nothing.

Unless...
--

The track ahead of me was like a tunnel and at the end was the light, Mr. Frank. From the bar to the corner booth, with and empty house on either side of me, I dragged myself to the finish line, thoughts storming through my head. Prickling ideas and headstrong ambitions. Mr. Frank, here, today, right now--Mr. Frank was mine. The only way for me to know is to connect. To confront Mr. Frank.
Everything began to fade around me, and we were alone. I had only three or four more steps and I was there, standing upright beside the very real Mr. Frank in the corner booth.

10:59. He had to be here for a reason.

"More coffee, Mr. Frank?" I said. I didn't have the coffee pot with me. I just couldn't think of anything else to say.

He looked at me and answered, "Hello."

And in that moment, I felt an assurance, a pure sense of comprehension, or at least the start of it. I felt the air being knocked out of me, and at the same time I felt my lungs fill up to the point where I thought they'd burst. This was it.

So I sat down. "Hello," I answered, nodding.

I smiled because I knew. This was Mr. Frank. This quaint dawning of a conversation, was the basis of my description of the mythic Mr. Frank.

And no source could beat this.