The Stories of Misfits

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Moonlight Cafe was established by an insomniac, for insomniacs. The caption underneath the name even says as such. It was created by Devon Calhoun, a rich man somewhere in his forties, who was widowed and fed up with his pedantic lifestyle when he decided that the best thing to do with his money would be to create a place for him to spend his nights and learn something new. The idea of a restaurant came to him when his friend and brother, Mark Calhoun, lost his job as a cook.

Devon made the hours seven PM to seven AM, hired people he knew didn't have a regular sleeping pattern (such as his brother), and added his own kooky touches where ever he could (shown in the decorating scheme- cliché coffee shop with eighties band posters and figurines everywhere). The name didn't come to him until later, when it just 'kinda clicked'.

I got a job there the day I turned eighteen, a few days into the second semester of my junior year. I would have been a senior, but my parents had decided to hold me back in first grade because they felt my math and reading skills weren't up to par. When my first grade teacher refused to teach me again, they turned up their noses and brought me to a new school. When that school had the audacity to suggest moving me up to third grade instead, they put me in an elitist private school for 'special' kids. There, they could control my education as much as they wanted. All it depended on were the amounts of money they did or didn’t donate.

My insomnia started not too long after the start of my eighth grade year. For months I had been making lists comparing private and public high schools, trying fruitlessly to convince my parents to take me out of the private school system. It seemed to no avail at the time. And then, when my teachers began to throw obscene amounts of homework at us in addition to my parents’ insistence of needless tutoring and extra classes, I found that not sleeping became normal for me. Stress and the need to live up to my parents absurd expectations contributed as well.

I discovered Moonlight Cafe when I was sixteen and hopelessly looking for somewhere to go that wasn't my suffocating bedroom. I passed by it as I wandered through the town, and the sight of the boisterous Devon joking with his customers left an aching feeling in my chest. Almost instinctually, I wandered in, not even thinking about the fact that the only money I had on me was a handful of change my best friend, Derek, had thrown at me earlier that day. But by the time I realized that, it was too late and I was already standing inside the dimly lit restaurant.

Devon noticed me right away. "Hey, boy, you want a table?" he had asked. I stared at him for a few seconds, not really comprehending his words.

"No, it's fine, I don't even know what I'm doing here, anyway," I eventually responded. My feet had begun to head to the door, but Devon's words stopped me.

"Kid, have some pie. On the house. It's fresh, Mark just taught me how to make it," he said and the man behind the bar laughed.

"Taught you? More like I cooked and you ate all the ingredients," Mark said. Devon's booming laugh echoed throughout the tiny restaurant.

I smiled tightly in response. "It's fine, I should be getting home anyway."

"It's two in the morning. If you wanted to go home, you would be there already. Plus," Devon said, walking up to the bar, "nothing good happens after two. And the pie is good as shit.” Devon laughed again.

I opened my mouth to refuse, but instead found myself saying, "Okay," and walking over to the bar and picking the piece of cherry pie up off the sticky countertop. I stared at my fork for a few seconds. When I did finally take a bite of the pie, it was sweet, flaky, and tasted like home.

That was the first night in a long time I didn’t feel completely alone.

~*~

"Order for table Elvis," Mark calls out from the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder and see the plate of eggs sitting on the takeout/order windowsill. Dropping my wet rag in the soapy bin under the register, I grab the plate and walk over to where the trucker is sitting half asleep with a black coffee in his hand.