I was driving to work, a routine I had followed for many years. This part of my commute was an hour-long journey on the turnpike when traffic was moving. It could also turn into several hours of crawling along in stop-and-go traffic for any number of reasons. When I first started with the company, it took me a few weeks to get used to traveling at ninety miles per hour with cars separated by only a couple of feet. Any more distance between vehicles always seemed to invite another car to cut in, something else I had to get used to. When I saw the brake lights come on half a mile ahead, I knew this was not going to be the one-hour kind of drive.
Several miles after getting onto the turnpike, traffic came to a complete standstill, going from ninety miles per hour to zero in seconds. I knew there was no easier way to get to work and that traffic like this would usually start to move again within an hour or two. When I started this job, I had looked at and mapped out several alternate routes, just in case. All of them would have taken me through small towns and along meandering two-lane back roads. Even under the best conditions, those alternate routes would have added an extra hour and a half. The turnpike, despite the occasional traffic tie-up, was still the most efficient route. Once traffic stopped, I turned on my cruise control and set it for stop-and-go traffic. This mode let me move when traffic moved without requiring my full attention.
The cruise control would beep once traffic started moving above ten miles per hour, telling me I needed to take back control. I sat back, relaxed, and began to enjoy the music. I had created the station just for situations like this, once I realized this kind of delay could become a regular occurrence, and it helped me stop thinking about the traffic. I was three miles from the next exit, not that I was considering taking it. Staying on the turnpike and listening to my music was the plan. Riding the shoulder for three miles to the next exit would have been risky, both because of the police and because of other cars trying to do the same thing. Once off at that exit, navigating the back roads through the small towns would have been more work than I was prepared to do. No, staying on the turnpike was the plan, and I intended to follow it. As the music rolled on and relaxed me, I settled back and began to enjoy the delay.
In the middle of the third song, traffic still had not moved when the car’s navigation system came online. Once it was on, the system told me to move to the shoulder and take the next exit. The sudden interruption surprised me, and I immediately turned it off without giving it a second thought. I was not about to give up my peaceful delay. Several seconds later, the system came back online and gave the same instruction. I turned it off again and made a mental note to have it checked for a software malfunction or an update. Several seconds later, it came back and was immediately turned off again. After the twenty-third time, I decided I was not going to relax, and my only way to quiet the system, at least until I got it fixed, was to follow its instructions. My first challenge was finding a way to work over to the shoulder on the right from where I was sitting in the left lane.
Traffic started to move, but only by a car length. That small movement opened a space to my right, and I immediately moved into it. Over the next several minutes, spaces somehow continued to open up until I finally made my way onto the shoulder. Moving carefully at a little over ten miles per hour, I followed it until I reached the exit ramp. Traffic on the turnpike still had not cleared. There was no traffic on the ramp, which was not surprising, since I knew it had been put there through the lobbying of a large company so its employees could get to work more easily. The location was in the middle of nowhere, which was how the company had acquired the land, and the tax breaks, at such a good deal. I took the exit knowing it would be a convoluted route to work. The navigation system, already online, directed me to turn left after the toll booth and then immediately take another left. Having no other real choice, I did as instructed. My route was now entirely in the hands of the navigation system. After half an hour and at least six turns, I had no idea where I was. But I did know I was in the middle of nowhere. I had not seen another vehicle since turning onto a dirt road.
I started to get bored moving at dirt-road speeds and staring at empty fields when I saw a sign that read, “The Time Merchant Café.” I slowed down—slower than I was already going—and after a closer look decided to pull into the parking lot and at least stretch my legs. I assumed the café was closed; there couldn’t possibly be enough business to keep it open. Then I thought about it again and realized I hadn’t seen a single car since turning onto this road. I looked back at the sign and noticed it wasn’t hanging crooked by one corner, the way I would expect from a rundown roadside stop—it was clean. Beneath the logo was a phrase: “We serve only one coffee, the best coffee of any time.” An interesting phrase, I thought. I read it again and wondered if the café might once have had good coffee in its prime. But then I realized the road it sat on had probably never been heavily traveled. Why was it here in the first place? It would make for an excellent internet search when I finally got to work. This café was undoubtedly interesting.
Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a man impeccably dressed and carrying two cups of coffee walked toward me. I was transfixed by the scene and simply sat there. The Waiter placed one cup in front of me and took the chair opposite mine. He took a sip and, with the calm assurance of someone who had done this many times before, waited for my surprise to wear off and for the usual first question.
I looked at the coffee, momentarily forgot I was in the middle of nowhere, and asked, “Can I get some milk and sugar?”
The Waiter simply pointed to the sign and said, “Good coffee does not need milk or sugar.”
I was surprised by the comment—not by the words themselves, but by the calm, self-assured way he stated them, as if they were a well-known fact. I lifted the cup, looked at its contents, and carefully took a sip.
It was indeed delicious.
Despite not having milk or sugar.
I looked at the Waiter and said, “It is delicious.”
He nodded once, as though the universe had returned to proper order.
I took another sip and asked, “How do you manage to keep this place open? There are no potential customers anywhere in the area.”
“You are the only customer I am interested in, Ron.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
“Do you think being here is an accident?”
Every instinct I possessed began suggesting that I leave immediately.
“What does that mean?”
The Waiter took another sip before answering.
“It means I have something I wish to share with you. Something I believe you will find interesting.”
Now genuinely alarmed, I stood, pulled whatever money I had from my pocket, tossed it onto the table, and started toward the door.
The Waiter spoke calmly behind me.
“Do you think your navigation system guided you here by accident? You turned it off twenty-three times before finally surrendering and following its directions.”
I stopped.
I had not counted.
But twenty-three sounded disturbingly plausible.
I turned back slowly.
“Are you hacking my car? Are you stalking me? What exactly do you want from me?”
“Ron, please sit down. I mean you no harm. And your coffee is getting cold.”
Somehow convinced by his tone—and unwilling to waste truly excellent coffee—I returned to my seat.
Enjoying it, and now oddly calmer than I should have been, I asked, “Why am I here?”
The Waiter stood.
“Wait here.”
“I hope you’re bringing back more coffee.”
He smiled faintly and disappeared into the back.
Several seconds later, he returned carrying a fresh cup and two leather-bound journals. He set the coffee in front of me and placed the journals beside it.
“What’s in the books?” I asked.
“Take them with you. Read them. These are a few of my favorite stories—accounts of people like you who have visited my café. Most are reasonably current. Some go back a few years. Others considerably farther.”
I rested a hand on the journals.
“What exactly do you want me to do with them?”
The Waiter folded his hands.
“I have been informed that my stories are worth telling. I disagree with the necessity, but the opinion was offered with enough persistence that resistance became impractical.”
“By who?”
“A woman named Helen. She has been with me since the beginning of time and has made herself quite impossible to ignore.”
That answer raised more questions than it resolved.
“And this affects me how?”
“Helen wishes the stories told. I require someone to tell them.”
I blinked.
“You want me to write books?”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
“That’s absurd. I’m an engineer. I write proposals, technical documents, and emails explaining why people should stop pressing buttons they were specifically told not to press. I am not a writer.”
The Waiter studied me for a moment.
“That is precisely why you are suitable.”
“That does not sound promising.”
“Helen desired a chronicler. I required someone of adequate writing ability, modest ego, and minimal likelihood of attracting dangerous levels of attention.”
I stared at him.
“You chose me because my writing is adequate?”
“Entirely adequate.”
“That may be the least inspiring compliment I have ever received.”
“Helen gets what she wants,” he said with a slight shrug. “And I do not have to concern myself with hordes of people attempting to locate me.”
“So your grand plan is to entrust immortal secrets to a mediocre author?”
“To an adequate chronicler,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
I looked down at the journals.
“And what exactly would I be writing?”
“You will read my journals. You will choose the stories you find most compelling. You will put your spin on them, disguise them as fiction, and publish them for those inclined to believe they are merely entertaining nonsense.”
“And if people believe they’re true?”
“They won’t.”
“You seem very confident about that.”
“I selected you carefully.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.”
Despite myself, I opened the first journal and began skimming several entries.
Within moments, my skepticism gave way to fascination.
“These are incredible. You have quite an imagination.”
The Waiter’s expression flattened.
“These are not the creations of my imagination. They are records of actual customer visits. There are many more than what you hold. Those journals merely contain some of my favorites.”
I flipped through more pages, eyes widening as the dates changed.
“How can these be real? They span—”
“Thousands of years,” he finished. “Yes. The older entries are included largely for your personal amusement. History is more flexible than most people realize.”
He allowed me several more moments to read.
“Study them. Then go to libraries, archives, old newspapers—wherever you must. The stories that touched history left traces. Once you know where to look, you will find them.”
I looked up slowly.
“And when I confirm they’re real?”
He lifted his coffee and took a measured sip.
“Then, Ron, you will finally understand why Helen was so insistent that they be told.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on. Who—or more to the point—what are you?”
“I am immortal.”
Your journey continues here:
→ Enter the Café