illiam         

 

My name is Tom and I’m a long-distance truck driver. I run four states delivering my company’s produce to McDonalds distributors in Pittsburgh, Harrisburg and York Pennsylvania, plus one last stop in Vineland, New Jersey. I leave there at two am and go to a truck stop/diner in Penns Grove, N. J. It’s a typical “shiny” diner with red booths and counter seats trimmed with chrome. They dot the east coast from Boston to Philadelphia at almost every exit. I crawl back into the sleeper of my Kenworth and snooze for three hours, then get up and go have breakfast. I do that every Tuesday and Friday, the days of my regular run. But last Friday something happened. I don’t know if I was dreaming or not, but it felt so real and I’m dying to tell someone about it, and it looks like you’re it. 

I got up, splashed some water that I keep by my seat in my eyes and wipe them with a paper towel to dry off. I entered by the back door to see the waitress wiping the counter off. Her name is Viola and she’s head server, sometimes cook and always the boss of the midnight to eight am shift. Vi, as we regulars call her, was a very nice-looking middle-aged woman who has a pleasing personality as long as you don’t piss her off. I’ve seen her escort more than one unruly driver out the door with instructions to “keep on moving past MY place.” Needless to say, they don’t come back. When I walked up to her she moved her head to the left and showed me someone I’d never seen before. He was kinda pale with long well-groomed hair and wearing the strangest clothes I’d ever seen. I had him pegged for an old Hippie until Vi whispered,

“The dude’s English—you know, from England, and he wants to talk to someone.”

I looked left and right and realized I was the only other one there. I walked up and said hello, and he reciprocated then pointed to the empty seat at that booth. I sat down and told Vi I’d like a coffee and the man requested tea. I started to chug my beverage, but he sipped his quietly with his little finger pointing away from the cup. Finally, I got up the nerve to speak.

“Sir, my name is Tom, and my friends call me Tommy. What’s your name, pal?”

“It’s William. William Shakespeare. It is a pleasure to meet you, Thomas.”

“Ah, please don’t call me Thomas. Whenever I heard that my mom was mad at me and yelled that name. if she threw in my middle name too, I knew I was deep into the brown ooze. Ya’ know what I’m saying?”

“I have a fair idea, yes,” he answered with a weird look on his face, like he didn’t understand me.

“Can I call you Bill?” I asked as I stirred my coffee.

“What is a Bill, if I may be so bold to ask?”

I had to think about that. Maybe surnames weren’t shortened back in his day. Maybe we Yanks just do it to piss the Brits off. I mean we’ve been doing that since what …1776?

“Nothing really. Can I call you Willy?”

“That’s sufficient, if I can address you as Tommy.”

“Yeah. No biggie.” I said, getting his same gaze. I was at an impasse. I wanted to talk to him or maybe ask some questions. He must’ve judged the lapse of talk because he started.

“Have you ever dwelled into any of the classics?” he asked.

“Ah no, not the written stuff, but my old man loved the classical music. He’d play some Beethoven over and over again every Sunday. I heard Fur Elise so many times right after me and my girl did the nasty for the first time I got up humming that tune.”

“What, may I ask, is a ‘nasty’? he asked, looking very puzzled.

“Well, let me think. My grandma was a card-carrying Baptist and she had a name for it. It was…lemme think…oh, fornication. I think that what it was. Ever hear of that?”

“Allow me to remind you. I knew King Henry the 8th. Need I say more?”

“Nah, I get the gist of that. Oh … I gotta go and hit the can.”

Willy looked at me funny again.

“Think…urination. Not an EU nation but…something else. I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Then go and do what thou must do,” he said with a hint of sarcasm and a wave of his right hand.

I mean how could I explain pissing on porcelain and make it sound Victorian? I grabbed my phone and headed for the Men’s Room. As soon as I could I googled “What kind of questions would you ask of William Shakespeare if he was alive today?” the page came quickly and the first thing I thought was This looks like a shitload of questions. So, I breezed through a few and went back to the booth, determined to say something intelligent if I could. I sat down and let out a sigh because something was happening to me. As Willy looked me right in the eyes, I had a new feeling come over me. I found myself wanting to talk…decent? Did I even know how? Trucker- speak is all I knew. I’d just had a brain fart. Grandma Phillips used to make me read the King James Bible every Sunday and I was pretty sure this dude wrote it. Maybe I can remember some of the lingo.

“What, in your estimation, is your favorite play?”

Willy looked up, then down and said,

            “I would have to say Hamlet.”

            “And why do you say that, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

            “Because of the other worldness of it all. Hamlet’s father was murdered and came to his son as a ghost many times. That did peak my interest,” he said.

            “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

            “Most certainly. There is this side of life,” he said, pointing downward, “and there is the other side,” he added, pointing skyward. “When we serve our allotted days on this planet we, or our spirit, traverse somewhere and we then may be allowed to go to and fro from that magical plain. It all depends on our Creator’s will for us. To maybe finish something admirable that we have started or to make things right for the people we have wronged. Do you agree?”

            “Oh, pretty much. I guess I’ve never thought about it. Yet, who supported you in your early days?”

            “It was hard to become rich in my time under Elizabeth 1’s reign. Writing for theater paid well then so I concentrated my talents there. After all, a man has to eat, do you not agree?”

            “Most assuredly.” I answered. “Hey Vi,” I yelled. “How ‘bout two bacon cheeseburgers and a refill of your most delicious beverages?”

            Viola gave me a look that kind of look that said Him too? but she refilled our cups and put the order in. I put my cream and sugar in and stirred it while Willy just drank his like a man; nothing added.

            “William, where did you get your inspiration for all your plays and sonnets?”

            “Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales certainly influenced me. Plus, there were three poets that I read extensively. Chaucer, of course, Cymbeline and Boccaccio. There were two hundred years before me, but their genius with words inspires writers to this day. Would you not agree?”

            “Whole heartedly,” I answered, not knowing didley shit about those guys, but I’ve been told I have a B.A. in B.S. so I went with that axiom.

 “Do you prefer to write tragedies or comedies?”

            “I have written eighteen comedies and ten tragedies, so you can take a guess. I would much rather see people laugh than cry, although in the world of my time there has never been a proper balance and may never will be.”

            “Sir, I know exactly what you are talking about. Things haven’t changed that much. To me, history is like a door. You are watching it and someone says ‘Knock knock! Who is there?’

            “Yes, I see what you mean. That knock knock phrase is very good. Could I borrow that from you someday?” he asked.

            “Be my guest, William. I think we can learn from one another.”

            Just then Vi showed up with supper. They were her award winning—to truckers—sandwiches that felt like a full meal when you were finished. They were so big she brought two steak knives and Willy cut his in half after he watched me do it. The phrase I’m thinking here is “We pigged out,” but I didn’t say it out loud. Anyway, we wolfed down those burgers and sat back to relax. I grabbed an ash tray of my pocket because it was 2020 and the whole world was a non-smoking section. Vi didn’t care as long as nobody complained because she’d sneak a few herself from time to time. I lit a Camel filter and Willy just looked at me. Next thing I knew he brought this elegant looking leather pouch and pulled a most beautiful pipe out of it. It was solid white and looked like a piano key. I’m thinking ivory. There was a face carved on the front and I just had to ask.

            “William. Where did you get that exquisite pipe?”

            “My barber does that. He is not only proficient with scissors but a carving knife too.”

            “Have you ever had writer’s block? I have read this happens to a lot of authors.”

            “Oh, mercy yes!” he said boldly. “We all have our moments of total solitude. I have them every so often.”

            “How do you end it? I mean you keep writing. What is your secret?”

            Willy sat back for a moment, and it looked like he went into deep thought. Then he reached into his satchel, where he kept his pipe, and pulled out a beautiful bottle of some red liquid. He finished his tea, signaled me to empty my cup, and popped the cork. He poured the bubbly into my cup and then his. From the smell, I knew it was wine. He bought his cup up and I di mine and clicked them in a toast. I was never much of a wino, but this stuff was absolutely delicious.

            “Does this help open the gate?” I asked.

            “Most certainly,” he answered with a smile. “This vintage is from France and it is called Sack. I will have one, maybe two, oh what the hell, three or maybe the whole bottle.”

            We both laughed at that. The name of the wine gave me another brain blast.

            “So, you keep the Sack in your Magic Sack?” I asked. We really started to laugh, and Viola even chuckled a little.          We killed the whole fifth and I got the kahonies to ask the ultimate question.

“So, tell me William. Do you know a man named Francis Bacon?”

Within a matter of seconds his whole demeanor changed, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. The look he gave me was chilling my brown ooze, and I became very quiet. 

“Let me tell you something, Tommy. I sense you have the gift of conversation about you, and you converse with people rather easily. I see you doing this again and again. Within that timeframe you will learn what questions to ask and you also learn,” he stated as leaned forward, “what questions to never ask. Be that as it may, I must leave you now and retreat to the boudoir of Miss Hathaway, my very special friend.”

“Can I ask you one more special question?” thinking What the hell.

“If you insist.”

“How special is this lady?”

Willy gave out a sigh. “She helps me at times with my sonnets concerning love between a man and a woman. I will sneak up on her, put one hand on her lovely waist and with the other hand brush her shining, red hair from her shoulder and gently kiss her neck. Then after we pleasure each other, we may do something that may please you immensely.”

“And what on Earth could that be?” I asked, totally shocked.

“We may sit and write a sonnet which I will entitle ‘The Erotic Pleasures of Nastifacation’.”

I just about fell out of the booth I was laughing so hard, but then everything started to fade away; Willy, the booth, the coffee cups and all. The next thing I remember is sitting straight up in the sleeper of my truck, sweating from every pore. I dove out of my chamber to the driver’s seat and rolled down the windows. The thirty something air cooled me off quickly and my mind went berserk on me. Was all that a dream? I asked myself. I settled down, cleaned up a little and walked into the diner. It was entirely empty but I sat in the booth of my dream.

“Tommy. Wanna coffee?” Vi asked.

“Nah. Lemme have a cup of tea.”

Vi brought over a cup of hot water, a tea bag and a question.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked.

“I dunno. Just thought I’d try something different, that’s all.”

“That’s the second cup of tea I’ve served this morning,” she said as she put down a spoon and a napkin. “Some freaky-looking old man was just in here and left in a huff.”

“What pissed him off?”

“He hated the tea, but I just chalked it up too him being a Limey and nothing here pleased him.”

“What’s a Limey?”

“He’s English, you know the accent and all. My old man was in W W 2 and that’s what he calls them. He had long, stringy hair and was wearing some funky looking clothes. I had him figured as one of those Woodstock perverts, so when he called my tea some twenty-dollar word I told him to take a hike and he did.”

“What was the word?” I asked as I sipped my tea.

“He called it atrocious. So, I googled it and that means it tasted like shit, so I kicked him out.”

I was holding my breath to keep from laughing because sometimes Viola was a real comedian and didn’t know it.

“Well, I’d say this tea is stupendous. Google that?”

“If its anything meaning stupid, you’re outta here.”

So, Vi left me with half a smile and I had time to think. Was this really a dream, or did I slip into the Twilight Zone? I just interviewed a celebrity in a diner. Should I call this, Dinerviews?

I decided to relax and reflect for a while.  If it was real, I knew one thing for sure.

I couldn’t wait till next Tuesday.