"Pyre"

Time is unashamed.

I had dirty fingernails for nearly four decades and slept like a baby on five continents. "Work" was the jolt I needed to fall away from the clean life I'd been groomed for. Every assignment was a new excuse for self-discovery. After thirty-eight heavy years, I had to accept that I was no longer the shadow that quiets noisy savages; I was a frail desk jockey, six days from a pension, too harmless to prove I existed.

I had a partner in my defeat. The Swan Dive was a 24/7 diner nestled between long, quiet stretches of Highway 51. In the times I spent confined to the States, I'd spend hours seated in the back booth, eavesdropping on anecdotes from lives I could've led. It was almost always the kind of boring, numb shit that would've melted me, but it was still fun to get a glimpse of how those I'd been "working" to protect were wasting their freedom. It helped me avoid the fear that I'd missed out on something special.

This place served as a litmus test for the strangers I'd auditioned for roles in my little timeout, and few were enamored enough by its aura to earn a part. One woman, whose name fills my mouth with ash, shared my fondness to an appreciable degree. She and I would go on to spend eight years pretending we knew each other before she found greener pastures with a real estate developer in Chicago. I kept her old seat across from me warm with substitutes over the years since, but over time I realized that each new entry was an invitation to an ending without closure. One day, I propped my feet up on that seat instead, and I haven't had need of anything more ever since.

There was an ashtray at every table up until the caretaker, Phoebe Swan, banned smoking after divorcing her chimney of a husband. The Swan Dive wasn't just Phoebe's livelihood - it was an extension of herself. Every square inch of this dump was another novella, and her devotion to its authenticity bordered on romantic. She aged with it, grew arthritic with it, all in the hopes that she would die on her feet, with this corner of nowhere standing as an eternal shadow.

Once she'd learned my usual order, I became another piece of furniture. In my hours-long sessions sipping coffee in the corner, I'd train my ears toward snippets of her conversations with waitstaff and other regulars. Over the years, I'd learned that despite our drastic lifestyle difference, we'd shared a common thread.

I pieced together that Paul, her lardass banker husband, skipped town back in 1998 without so much as a farewell note. Her daughter, Genevieve, was killed by a drunk driver back in 2006. Her dog, named after a high school crush, ran away in 2011. She'd learned the stark difference between an ending and a conclusion. When I'd ponder what inspired my own strength in the face of the hand I'd dealt myself, I'd recall Phoebe going into gory detail on the exact temperature she'd cook her bound, gagged husband.

Our paths were wildly different, but our demons were doppelgangers. In my "work," I played a small part in altering the fate of barbarians from all walks of life. I accepted the thankless nature of it for a long time, but that was replaced over the years with a desire for conclusivity. I didn't need to be the architect, but I wanted to help cut the ribbon. I was never able to pivot into a position more attuned to loud, final acts, so I remained an unfulfilled clock-puncher, hidden amongst a crowd of other unheralded shadows. Over thirty-eight years, I can't point to a single action from which I found autonomous inspiration that accomplished anything more than an inconvenience.

Living a rootless, thankless life provided me with a healthy pension, but robbed me of closure. I walked into The Swan Dive without expectations, and it tethered me to friendly dirt. By this stage of my life, it was the only thing that cared to hang on.

Over the last two years, the regulars had either found new haunts to creep into or aged out of public life. There were countless nights where Phoebe and I were alone here, neither of us bothering the other. Travelers still dropped by, but they were one night stands. I learned exactly how loud the clock on the wall ticked.

Last week, Phoebe and I shared one final conversation.

It was the first time we'd spoken in anything other than a professional, mundane manner since she'd noticed the newly vacant seat across from me back in 2007. I was taken aback as Phoebe hobbled over to my booth. I thought she was finally coming to discipline me for putting my feet up, until I noticed the far-away look in her eyes. She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a cigarette.

"Want one?" She asked, holding out the pack. I quit smoking years ago, but I would've felt rude not playing along. She lit my cigarette for me and exhaled.

"Gotta sell the buildin', friend."

The wind rushed out of me. "What?"

Phoebe lit her smoke. "Some fella from Atoka put up an offer, n' it's... time, y'know?"

I searched for a response, but my mouth just hung open. I was offended. After a few beats, I blurted out, "Is it money? If it's money, I can-"

I was muted by an outstretched palm and shaking head. Phoebe was the only person that could silence me that way.

She went on to tell me of the developer's plans to convert the property into a jewelry store. Apparently, he'd been eyeing the location for a few years, but Phoebe stood her ground. I should've known that the sparse through-traffic would lead to this, but I had embraced the timeless echo of this cozy carcass. After sharing some musings about the fate of the building, she fell silent, staring off toward the kitchen.

"Thanks for..." She trailed off. I let her grapple with the moment, sensing there were no more words to come. I wouldn't force her to search.

"You, too."

The tabletop was coated in ashes by that point. Our pride kept us from looking at one another. I had many questions hanging on my tongue, but they wouldn't let go. Once Phoebe had reached the end of her cigarette, she extinguished the cherry and left the butt atop the table. Had any of her customers done something like that over the years, they'd have been chopped into little pieces. Phoebe stood and pointed to my empty coffee mug. "One for the road?" There were scattered regrets in her voice, but I left them alone and replied with a simple nod. She gathered my cup and walked back toward the kitchen.

In the few moments between her departure and return, I couldn't take my eyes off that cigarette butt. I was enamored by Phoebe's defiance. Time was stealing timelessness from both of us, but she had the nerve to throw a fit. After a few moments, she returned with the cup. I was hoping she'd join me again so that I could stretch this last hurrah out a little bit further, but she wasn't up for it.

I took my time with that last offering. I watched Phoebe as her eyes canvassed the place. There was no doubt that each of her fleeting glances was a snapshot that she'd committed to crystallizing so that she could rebuild her shadow elsewhere. Once I'd run out of sips, I resigned myself to gathering my coat and retrieving my wallet. I extended my hand to offer a $20 bill, but I was met with her outstretched palm again.

"Leave it on the table."

There was something so haunting about leaving that $20 bill amongst all those ashes, but I complied. I stood to leave and looked over to her again, aching for a farewell. Unfortunately, she was locked in another daydream. I quietly moved to the door and exited, the bell ringing to wish me safe travels. That night, Phoebe and I shared one last ending without closure.

Yesterday morning, I found myself at a gas station within sight of the now derelict Swan Dive. That final encounter between Phoebe and I had reignited my love for nicotine, so I slipped inside to grab a pack of L&M Reds. Having to look upon that corpse again after what should've been a perfect goodbye was a bitter pill.

I imagined that this would be a similar feeling to watching that awful woman hold hands with that real estate developer in Chicago.
The marriage of that biting moment with the smell of gasoline called me to a dark place. I slid into a daydream in which I gathered some fuel in my gas can, drove across the way to The Swan Dive, and burned it to the ground. It had been abandoned since the night of my final conversation with Phoebe. I convinced myself that an action as bold as this could prove cathartic after thirty-eight years without a decision to my name. I became fascinated by the image of a monument to timelessness, defeated by time, howling one final howl before evolving into ash.
I was returned to Earth by the ringing of a bell on the gas station door as I exited. And just like that, the memory of that final exit from The Swan Dive returned. It was a pill so bitter I nearly gagged.

While my eyes still drifted toward the gas can in the backseat, it became apparent that my catharsis would have been a selfish act. Sure, I would earn my closure, but it would be at Phoebe's expense. She'd removed herself from time in a way that I'd never learned to, and had earned her happy ending. A better solution, I realized, was to take alternate routes to "work," keep my eyes on the road, and do my best to forget that The Swan Dive and its honorable mother ever existed.

It hurt to know that the monument would go on standing, but I just chalked it up as another expression of the shamelessness of time. I was one day shy of its next strike, but I committed myself to discarding its jab like a pile of ashes on a tabletop.

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Pub: 05 May 2025 18:55 UTC

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