Once Crank is sure that Jane is far away, he deactivates his personal cloaking device. He pulls the hood of his rain slicker securely around his face and studies the buildings around him. There are three nearby. A gas station, a post office, and a diner with half of the neon lights out. Instead of “Buddy’s Diner,” the sign appears to read: “Bud‘s Der.” Crank is familiar with this ooman word. To dine, is to eat. While ooman food is not exactly his first choice; right now, it is his only choice. Crank makes the difficult decision to go inside.

-

-

Silence greets Crank as he enters the diner. Only two other occupants are inside; a grizzled ooman that Crank assumes is the owner/manager, and a one-legged ooman with a stringy ponytail. Ponytail has his head down on the table and appears to be sleeping—a dirty blanket rolled up under one side of his face.

The elderly man wipes the counter with a dingy towel and beckons Crank over.

“Hey there, son?” the wrinkled ooman hollers. “Where’d you come from? I didn’t see the bus pull in here. Grab a seat. What you drinking?”

Crank finds the closest stool and plants himself there. He avoids looking at the ooman and pulls his hood down—pretending to be shivering with the cold brought on by the continuous rain.

“I’ll have whatever is best,” Crank replies in a calm voice.

A lot calmer than he feels. This situation has the potential to go very bad. So far so good though. His disguise, coupled with his brilliant scheming, has worked thus far. He’d survived in a major city for three days before making his way onto the main highway. Better not jinx it with negative thinking.

“That’ll be the Jiminy Cricket,” the old man says. “Want me to splash some honey and lemon in it? You sound like you’re coming down with one of them summer colds?”

“Sure,” Crank nearly croaks—jarring himself from his musing.

The grizzled ooman heads to the other end of the bar and Crank sighs with relief. At the table, the slumbering ooman snores loudly—scaring himself. Jolting awake, the inebriated ooman looks around frantically and hollers in a sleep-logged voice.

“Stop touching me! Who do you think you are?” the one-legged man roars, his ponytail swishing back and forth with the rapid turning of his head.

At the end of the bar, the old man fixes the ponytail fanatic with a stern glare. He answers ponytail’s holler with a roar of his own.

“Shut your mouth, Paul! Ain’t nobody touching you! It’s your blanket,” the old man says. “Now, go back to sleep!”

The ooman, whose name Crank now knows is Paul, looks down at his blanket and frowns. A single word escapes his drunken lips and he falls back onto the table. Asleep before his head hits the blanket.

“Oh.” Thunk. Snore.

Crank stares at Paul with disgust. Such a poor excuse of an ooman specimen. And such a waste. Aside from the missing leg, the Paul ooman is actually quite impressive in stature. Big broad shoulders, tall, with a trunk-like leg and thick arms. In another life, this ooman’s head might have made a wonderful trophy. In this life, the ooman isn’t worth the dirty blanket his head reclines on.

The roar of a loud engine interrupts Crank’s trophy dreaming. A Greyhound bus pulls into the nearby gas station and three figures descend the bus stairs. An elderly couple, supporting each other with entangled arms and wooden canes. Followed by a tall, slender woman dressed entirely in black leather. The leather is of a polished shine and rain slides easily down her body and onto the ground. She hands the elderly couple her umbrella, and they thank her profusely. Crank is unable to hear their words but he can gather that she is casually brushing off their thanks.

The elderly couple make their way to the nearby post office and disappear inside. The woman in shiny black turns in the direction of the diner. She appears to be debating whether or not she is hungry enough for roadkill and bitter coffee grounds.

Crank’s breath catches in his throat. He just wants to get his drink, his food, and leave. The more people in the diner, the more people he will have to field about just who—and what—exactly he is.

At that moment, the old ooman appears with Crank’s drink. The drink he called a Jiminy Cricket. He sets it gently on the counter and smiles.

“Here you go, son,” the elderly man says. “I’ll just need to see some ID.”

Crank’s reptilian blood runs cold. Why hadn’t he taken that ooman’s ID in the subway? That’s what the female had called it: an ID. It would have been so easy! The dead ooman was already down for the count. Why hadn’t he thought to take it?

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“Uh…ID?” Crank stammers. “I don’t have my ID.”

Crank thinks of a lie to tell, but nothing is immediately forthcoming. Again, he settles for a partial truth.

“I lost it,” Crank lies. “That’s why I’m out here hitchhiking. I don’t have an ID. I lost everything.”

The old ooman nods with sympathy and wipes the counter with his dingy cloth.

“Ah, I see. I was just kidding you, son. By the way, my name's Hector,” the old man says. “And you are?”

Crank thinks about everything he has seen over the last few days on Earth. Victor Frankenstein. Count Dracula. Larry the Cable Guy. Denzel Washington. Ulysses S. Grant. He settles for something a little half and half.

“Denzel Crank,” Crank hears himself say. “But you can call me, Crank! Everyone else does.”

Taking Hector’s offered hand, he is grateful for the glove separating their flesh. He wouldn’t want to frighten the ooman. Such a fragile looking ooman at that. Hector’s death would serve no purpose except to be dishonorable.

Hector smiles widely, revealing flat yellowing teeth. Crank nearly draws back with revulsion. How did these oomans eat with such blunt teeth? Hector begins to spin a yarn as he watches the woman in black finally make up her mind to come inside.

“Ah, the old military style nomenclature? Crank it is, then. I lost everything once…When my wife left me. Only thing she left me was this bar. It was a diner back in the day—when we were together. Was always overflowing with customers. But all those big restaurants moved in up the highway there—at that damn exit—And all our customers just wandered away, one by one. When she left, she said she always hated this place. I think she just said that to hide the hurt of seeing something she loved go up in smoke. I still love the old girl. We talk from time to time. But she won’t come out here anymore. I don’t really blame her. I may see ten—fifteen people come in here a day. If I’m lucky. My busiest days are the days when the bus runs through here. I suppose that other couple will make their way in here once the rain stops and they complete their business. Put my customer count up to seven people today.”

The door chime sounds, and the woman in black cautiously enters. She makes her way to the bar, the heels on her tall boots clicking noisily. Plopping down on a stool, she offers Crank a casual salutation.

“Hi,” she says, barely looking at him.

“Hi,” Crank answers in like manner.

The woman points to Crank’s, as yet untouched, drink with a fingertip coated in black polish equally as shiny as her clothes.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she says with a slight smile. “Make that two. In fact, I might be here a while.”

Hector gives the woman in black a concerned glance but moves to fulfill her order. The woman turns in Crank’s direction and crosses one leg over the other.

“I gather, you’re not from around here either? Just passing through?” the woman inquires, tilting her head slightly to one side.

The gesture is so similar to what he has seen others of his kind do so many times. Crank almost forgets that she is ooman. Almost.

“Nope,” Crank says simply.

The woman laughs and tries to get a better look at him, angling her stool to try to see under his hood.

“No, what? No, you aren’t from around here? Or no, you aren’t just passing through?” she prods.

“I am not from around here,” Crank says in as much of an imitation of an ooman voice as possible.

“Oh,” the woman says. “That’s nice. Where you fr—“

Just then, Hector places two cups on the bar. Crank is thankful for the interruption. He continues to watch the strange ooman female using his peripheral vision.

“Your drinks, Ma’am. Cash or card?” Hector inquires.

“Card,” the woman says.

She unzips a small zipper on the sleeve of her leather jacket and extracts a plastic card. With a large grin, she politely hands the card to Hector.

“Hold on to it," she says with an energetic wink. "Like I said, I may be here a while.”

Hector grows even more concerned than before. He places a hand on the young woman’s and looks into her solemn hazel eyes.

“Is everything alright, Ma’am? Is something the matter? Do you need help?”

The woman shakes her mane of curly black hair, and laughs, in an attempt to appear braver than she really is. Red color seeps into her light-brown skin. Crank is positive that if he were wearing his infrared mask, her color spectrum would be all over the place.

“No…I mean—Yes, everything is alright,” the woman in black says. “And no, I don’t want any help. What I want—is a few strong drinks. Let’s just say, I’ve had a streak of really bad luck lately…And I just want to forget. I’ll have a few drinks…Wander over to that hotel down the road…And sleep it all off. Just let me have a good time today. Please, Sir?”

Hector takes the card, nods, and leaves the woman to her drinks. She downs both of the glasses in record time. Crank stares at her the entire time. She is a curious specimen to be sure.

Another four drinks down the hatch and the woman decides she has had enough. She pats the counter to get Hector’s attention. Hector approaches her with apprehension written all over his wrinkled face. She offers him a drunken smile, swaying on her stool.

“Check please,” she slurs. “I think I’m finished here. Whatever’s in those drinks…It gets the job done.”

Hector simply hands the plastic card back. He slides his eyes warily over to Crank. Crank keeps his head down, but also observes the now inebriated ooman female.

“I’ve already ran it, ma’am,” Hector says. “Do you need some help getting to the hotel? I’m sure this young man here wouldn’t mi—”

“Will you stop calling me, ma’am?” The woman manages to say. “My name is Simone. Simone Collins. I’m—I was…A school teacher. Now, I don’t know what I am. However, I think I can manage to walk a couple of blocks to the only motel in town. I haven’t totally taken leave of my senses.”

As if to prove this, Simone uncrosses her legs and attempts to stand. She nearly falls on her face. Crank’s lightning quick reflexes are the only thing that saves her from a sprawl on the floor. She falls heavily into his arms. In an unconscious action, Simone throws her arms around Crank’s waist. She looks up into his face, in order to thank him, and freezes. Her mouth falls agape and she only stares. After a brief moment, her eyes become narrow slits and she grins drunkenly. Not quite sure that what she is seeing isn’t a product of having too much to drink.

“I’ll say…You’re not from around here—,”Simone says before passing out. Crank hefts Simone up into his arms and turns toward the door. Hector calls to him from across the bar.

“How you gonna get her a room if you have no money, son?” Hector muses.

Crank considers this for a brief moment. He looks down at the sleeping ooman female, her soft breathing matching the slow rise and fall of her armored chest. The answer comes to him, and he replies confidently.

“I’ll tell them to use her card,” Crank says.

In the next moment, he is out the door and back into the rain.