Scent of Sanity

A short story showing how some chapters in life seep into others, and remain forever imprinted on a persons mind.

The smell of gun powder was unmistakable. The young man noticed it as soon as he sat down in Sabatinos’ diner.

      Where was it coming from? He wondered.

      He glanced around the brightly lit café where he sat alone in a booth that had long lost its padding.

      It shouldn’t be coming from the kitchen. . . Through the opening behind the bar he could clearly see a young server giggling with the fry cook. The only smell from that direction was steak and eggs. A dish prepared so perfectly that the rough seating and crumbling walls of this place melted away before the masterful combination of breakfast and dinner.

      Was it emanating from among the patronage? He allowed his eyes to run over the handful of people who, like himself, enjoyed what lay under the surface of such a place.

      His eyes fell first on an elderly man with deep wrinkles who sat all alone. There was a presence about him, a shaping of the shoulders perhaps, that gave off an air of importance. He had the look of someone who took care of himself, but then allowed time to slowly slip through the cracks in his frame, turning a Lion into a Labrador. A ring glimmered on the old man’s left hand, and although it shined in the near blinding lights of the diner, it too appeared to have lost some of its glow and stature.

      ‘That doesn’t make sense either,’ the young man whispered quietly to himself, allowing his gaze to drift to another member of the small club of people who had fortunately stumbled upon this dirty, wonderful little place.

      The young man’s sight settled next upon a middle-aged couple. The man sat slouching, his weight resting unevenly on his bones; even seated, he appeared smaller than normal. His face held happiness in it when the fork touched his lips. He had the look of a man who had just won a prize, minor as it was, a moment of serenity. His appearance shifted, however, when he peered across the table at the woman sitting on the other side of the booth. The glow turned into shame that he had allowed himself to be caught in such a moment.

      She sat rigid and robotic, the mirror opposite of the man who was in front of her. Although the young man could only see her from behind, he could tell she was assertive, her every movement seemed calculated. He could feel her eyes burning into her partner, criticizing and hating every move he made. She was like many women the young man had encountered before, cold and uncaring. Her design in life was to bury whomever she was with in a pile of guilt and worthlessness.

      Your average happy couple, the young man thought, with a slight internal smile. He saw no good reason why they should smell of gunpowder.

      ‘Refill’? The pretty waitress asked, as she slid a steaming plate of steak and eggs in front of the young man.

      ‘No thank you,’ he replied. He had barely heard her over the evaluations running through his mind.

      The gunpowder smell was still lingering, even over the freshly delivered plate, and was becoming quite an annoyance. The young man began to chew on his fingernails subconsciously as his eyes now darted to the last occupied booth in the room.

      The first thing the young man noticed about the last patron in the diner was, like himself, the bearded man sat with his back pressed firmly against the filthy wall. He could only assume this was to clearly see all the exits, and everyone else in the diner.

      A lit cigarette hung in an ashtray at the center of the man’s table. The smoke rose and created a cloud that lingered just above his head. He wore a coat, this bearded, smoking man, a long coat, made of a thick opaque material that concealed whatever was underneath. It seemed an odd time of year to wear such a thick coat. The leaves outside were beginning to turn, but the weather was quite pleasant, and easily allowed for comfort in a simple t-shirt.

      The combination of a thick beard and long dark coat triggered something in the young man’s subconscious. There was only a coffee mug in front of this ill-dressed, bearded, smoking man, and his movements when he shifted in his seat had a strangeness in them that the young man did not like. He mentally cursed the elderly man and the middle-aged couple for not noticing these things as he did.

      That is where the smell’s coming from, the young man decided. ‘Has to be,’ It was a combination he had smelled many times before, in what now seemed a lifetime ago, but was in reality only a few years.

       Something awakened inside of the young man at this point, and he began to tremble. This bearded man with his bulky coat who nervously sucked his cigarette all the way to the filter was up to something, and he was onto it.

      When the young man first sat down in his favorite diner this warm fall morning, he instantly realized that smell - even though it made no sense in such a place. The powder was just a trigger that brought other realizations into his mind. It smelled of buildings he had entered in another lifetime, buildings that contained manure, chemicals, and, of course, gun powder.

      As memories began to seep into his mind like a dam slowly losing its hold, beads of sweat started to form on the young man’s brow. What significance did this hold? Had they found him? How could they have? He was not important enough, for sure, yet here was this smell, this cursed scent now all around him.

      He watched the smoking man’s movements very closely. Watched where his eyes went. How he looked at the pretty young server, the old man, and the hapless couple. The young man knew without knowing: this smoking man had a bomb under that large coat. He no longer wondered if the smoking man would strike, just contemplated when.

      Adrenaline began to coarse through the veins of the young man. He felt like he hadn’t felt in years, since he was trained and indestructible, the defender of right and good. It was his time again. He knew it would be up to him to stop this madman.

      It unfolded vividly in his head. No doubt the smoking man would rise and tear off his coat revealing an intricate vest that would kill everyone in sight. Grasped tightly in his hand would be the trigger. Using fear and surprise, he would wait until the perfect moment to bring the lives of the elderly man, the couple, and the wait-staff to an end in a fiery display of cowardice and destruction.

      Fearing that this was drawing near, the young man began to devise a plan. Today will not end this way, not again, he told himself. His hands began to shake.

      When the smoking man rises, I shall rise simultaneously. As he unleashes his hands to show the world his deadly contraption, my hands shall find purpose. Feeling the cold steel, and knowing the weight of my weapon precisely, I will aim for center mass and put an end to this forever. Twenty eight chances to save their lives. I will fire before the smoking man can set off his wave of destruction.

      By the time the smoking man began to stand, the young man was steadfast in his task, undoubting what needed to be done. Not taking his eyes away for a second, the smoking man stood, and so did the young man.

      Bang! Squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away for what he feared were his final seconds, the young man only felt regret that once again he had not acted sooner. Time slowed to a standstill, and after what seemed like an eternity he slowly dared to look.

      Five pairs of widened eyes stared back at him as though he were from another planet. In his haste to exit the booth, the young man had knocked over his plate. Steak and eggs littered the floor. The young waitress was crying on the ground where she too had been knocked over, the fry cook holding her with a look of bewilderment.

      The young man swung his head around to face his assailant. What he saw was a smaller bearded man, looking no more harmful than a kitchen mouse, staring strangely back at him. In the young man’s hands rested not a rifle, but a fork, gripped so tightly his veins were trying to escape through his skin.

      The now small, inoffensive bearded man passed by him as he stood still as a statue, fork in hand. Trying desperately to figure out where and when he was, the young man glanced at his wrist. On it sat a bracelet stamped with a few names. . .followed by the Letters “KIA.” Afghanistan.

      Slowly allowing his mouth to form the words, ‘I’m sorry,’ the young man turned and quickly exited the diner. He sucked in a deep breath of warm air, and turned to shuffle back to his apartment. As the sun began to creep over the horizon, he noticed a man walking up quickly from behind, and an uneasy feeling washed over him. . .