This story is now published as part of the anthology ‘Loyal and True’.
This story has found a home please go here to read it……
If you cannot be bothered reading the story you can listen to it here, read by the author…….. me.
Other stories you can listen to:
The Robin and the Red Thread.
There has not been a ‘Rosie’ at Rosie’s Diner for a very long time.
Legend has it that the original Rosie started the place during the Civil War but that has been hard to verify.
I’ve spoken to a few old timers and they reckon that there has been a ‘Rosie’s’ on this site since at least the 1920s.
Council records were destroyed in the fires back in ’68 so all we have to go on is local knowledge and say so.
No one is more local and more knowledgeable than Jake.
There used to be two Jakes and it got kinda confusing when one of them would pop up in a conversation but these days there is only one since the other Jake stepped in front of that sixteen wheeler that was on it’s way up the Hume Highway.
The driver said that Jake looked right at him and said something in the split second before the tyre-screaming truck bore down on him.
We’ve all speculated as to what it was that the other Jake said in that mortal moment.
The truck driver thought it looked like “Forgive me”, but Josie, who owns Rosie’s said she thought it was probably, “Get that fucking truck out of my way.”
We pointed out that that was way too many words to utter in such a tense moment but she just said that it sounded like the other Jake, so that’s probably what he said.
I thought he most likely said, “Fuck me”, which seemed like a reasonable thing to say under the circumstances.
Jake said he thought that he was just trying to clear his throat in preparation for a long conversation with St Peter.
At this enlightenment a silence descended on the diner.
Jake really was wise and local.
For some reason people would drive from all over the place and park really old, really cool cars out the front of Rosie’s place just in case a famous photographer drove by, which seemed to happen quite a lot.
The food at Rosie’s is the kind you can’t get anymore.
Basic food: hamburgers, chips, sausages, eggs, good coffee. And the very best of all: pie.
Rosie’s sells eleven different types of pie, but the cherry pie will kill ya.
Not really kill you, I just mean that it tastes great.
No one knows where Rosie’s gets their pies.
They never run out, even if a busload of hungry Hungarians turns up. They definitely don’t stockpile the pies because they are always fresh, so they must be made locally and the maker must be very obliging.
Jake surmised that the pies must be delivered in the middle of the night as none of us has ever seen a delivery during the day.
Rosie’s is only closed between 2am and 6am, which means that Josie gets about four hours sleep which explains why she often falls asleep behind the counter.
Until we did the Maths we just thought she was narcoleptic.
Rosie’s is a second home to most of us.
I’ve written all my novels while sitting at the booth at the end.
Many of the regulars are characters in my books.
I eat way too much pie and I drink way too much coffee but I don’t care.
You have to die of something.