Yuri’s Diner

The station schematics for Deck 4 left a vacant area near the restrooms and far from the waste disposal facility. It was abnormal, as the AFLSB (Association For Labeling Schematics with Brevity) had long been eradicated in this sector, but the absence of labeling was not incredibly significant. In fact, the OFS (Official Finders of Significance) have rated similar events within the importance range of 7-12, which is only moderately less significant than whether or not a groundhog decides to see its shadow. Despite the schematic’s ambiguity, the space had been filled for quite some time by a diner owned by a lifeform named Yuri. Yuri’s Diner catered to a very particular subsection of the station’s community, but it also drew from a wide variety of the station’s community. The diner’s patrons could be thought of as a cross section of the population.

Jarr-Lax was not the kind of person who wanted his coffee effendehbulated, and if there was one place that would not put whipped eleflorg phlegm in your drink, it was Yuri’s Diner. After a long day of supervising the WH (Waste Hose), Jarr-Lax and some of his buddies from DT (Disposal and Treatment) would sit around and eat a slice of jargleberry pie, which paired well with a cup of black coffee and a steady stream of conversation. It was during this time that Jarr-Lax transitioned his mind from supervising the WH to supervising the conversation, along with the lumps of pie he was shoveling into his mouth. He could be quite the boisterous man by himself, but in this company he would often just sit back and open his valve only when the conversation grew stagnant, keeping it tightly closed to tone it down during the group’s most obstreperous sessions. His art was balance and flow. Keeping the WH flowing was how he kept his checkbook balanced. Keeping the conversation balanced would guard the flow from the interruptions of nosy outsiders and angry diner employees. Keeping the coffee flowing into his mouth allowed him to balance it out later with a sufficient amount of Marscral Ale.

Finishing his pie, Jarr-Lax decided that before he left the diner for the bar, he needed to tend to his own WH. As he approached the REY (Room for Emptying Yourself), he noticed that the digital sign on the door, normally marked either HE (Hatch Empty) or HI (Hatch Indisposed), was marked HOU (Hatch Out of Use), signifying that there was some repair work being done on the sophisticated components of the REY. Jarr-Lax began to worry. They are both connected by pipes, but the fields of DT and RBR (REY Building and Repair) are quite different. They shared at least one characteristic: they both took their sweet time.

On this day, Jarr-Lax was in luck. Bob the space plumber emerged from the hatch with his tool, Frankie, in hand. The three nodded to each other, Bob changed the sign back to HE and then walked over to the counter. 

Intercepted by a waitress, roughly humanoid, stretched wide nose, ears pointy (downward). “The usual?” Her face wrinkled into a contextual smile.

“Yes, please,” Bob answered, but she turned around again as if he had not answered completely, “And, black, please,” she heard, nodded her neck, and walked away.

Bob sat Frankie down in the chair next to him. Frankie the wrench, a highly evolved entity, was one of the greatest inventions ever dreamed up by OUT (Overtly Useful Tools). Such innovation was not an easy process. Even with acceleration technology, it took nearly half a century to fabricate one wrench, and the process for construction began with the destruction of an entire planet. Well, not quite destruction, but the “smooshing” of the planet into an incredibly dense point. This method gained wide usage when OUT marketing research put out an article finding that most sentient creatures were incredibly dense. Creating tools that buyers could relate to seemed sensible, and thus, the PID (Planetary Immediate Densification) method was born. PID wrenches were incredibly sought after in their time, but OUT eventually ceased constructing them for several reasons, enumerated as follows in a statement to its shareholders: 

1. The price of planets, even junky ones, is at an all time high, straining profit margins.

2. Under the current process, two out of every seven wrenches are defective, wasting planetary capital and half a lifetime's worth of labor.

3. The post-PID construction of the wrench involves a species of eel that has recently been hunted to extinction.

4. There are cheaper methods of creating crappier wrenches.

5. AND If sentients are denser than a planet, they are dense enough to buy a worse wrench for more money. 

Of course there were also ethical issues, but these were never taken seriously. The motto of OUT’s parent company, INY (Income Never Yields), is “Money over morals, lives for profit.”

While PID wrenches were expensive from their inception, OUT’s pivot from PID wrenches to INED (Imaginitory Nespaculant Extra-Dimensional) wrenches made the PID’s value go through the roof. For obvious reasons, Bob did not have the kind of money needed to obtain one of these wrenches; he happened upon Frankie by other means. Frankie owed her existence to the second reason enumerated above. She was defective by company standards. Her defect was quite the rare one, as it occurred during the process of PID. During planetary “smooshing,” the planet goes from the stage of whooshatoushuhuhshshush to ksdukskduskdusnknsnnnnnnnnnne. Due to the death of a veteran operator during PID, Frankie’s “smooshing” only went from the whooshatoushuhuhshshush to the hugnugnergunksdukskdsdk stages, resulting in a less dense core. This lack of density allowed Frankie to obtain some interesting abilities. 

“Comfortable?” Bob asked Frankie. Frankie’s chrome buttons and linings glinted from exposure to the artificial ceiling lights. A tentacle-headed man coughed in the back of the room.

“Frankie, you know, ‘teams gotta talk,’ you remember that day of company training. We’ve got to have open communication. C’mon.”  

The waitress approached. She gave Bob his coffee, his pie, and a weird look. Then she quickly walked the other way as if she had work to do at the far end of the counter.

Bob felt his warm coffee mug and allowed the hot air to waft into his face. He took a bite of his black pie and washed it down with some cream-enhanced bean brew. He looked down at his friend. 

“What’s wrong? Seat too hard? Don’t want to take a break? I can tell that something is wrong, you know. I'm not dense.” Bob became more concerned with every inquiry, “Can you hear me? Frankie, can you hear me? Can you still talk??”

“Ugh, yes,” Frankie said softly but annoyedly, “I can hear you, I can hear everything you say. Please just give me some time to think.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Goodness. Other than that abysmal REY we just crawled out of, you’re sitting there enjoying yourself eating while I’m trying to make up a plan.”

“Do you want some?” said Bob, gesturing to his plate.

“No, Bob, that's the issue,” she said, laboriously. “I’m trapped in this wrench. I can’t eat, can't sleep, can't be involved in the goings on of sentient life. I can't make a name for myself. All I can do is fix pipes and waste management equipment. Imagine not having any control over your destiny, Bob. Imagine being oppressed by the system of societal constructs that impose a strict order upon life forms such as myself.”

“Uhuh.” 

“Imagine not being able to eat, Bob.”

“Oh, that would be awful.”

“So that's why I've got to find a way to get a body.”

Their conversation went silent for a moment as Frankie’s mind was whisked away into far-fetched plans. Bob’s mind was preoccupied with the bittersweet taste of the black pie in his mouth. 

Bob enjoyed eating. Or, really, he enjoyed fixing problems, and a recurring problem for him was being hungry. That was the whole reason he became a space plumber: to fix problems, although it also tangentially helped him quench his hunger. A plumber's job was always fraught with issues, issues that either no one else knew how to solve, or everyone else was too lazy to fix. These problems were rarely the same. Dealing with a clogged YDOY (Yarovizing Detector of Odorous Yempsites) was much different from connecting an AYS (Automated Yakking Sensor) to an NYW (Neutronide Yak Warning) Device. And there were many challenges with trying to sync up equipment from different companies like BRA (Barovis REY Associates), LLIC (Limited Liability Intergalactic Corporation), and NAMEIS (Neutronide Automated Management for Engineering Integrated Solutions). These variations kept the job interesting and kept Bob solving problems. He was very good at ameliorating the issues that his job threw at him, good enough that he would often bring his problem solving into his off-duty life. He was so good at the game “Florblafls” that he could never win, simply because he would always get bored and tell his opponent exactly how to defeat him, gaining him a ban from tournament play in the ATFL (Amateur Tournament Florblafls League). Bob loved plumbing because the feeling of solving an issue was just as exhilarating as knowing that there would always be another issue to fix on the horizon. This new partner gave him one more very special new problem to help make right.

“Well,” said Bob, “we’ll figure out how to get you your body.” He smiled a little smile. Frankie couldn't tell if the smile was more for the prospect of helping her figure out how to inhabit body or for the fork full of pie he was lifting to his gullet.

“I guess I can sit here and wait for you to finish your pie. It’ll at least give me time to think. Then we’ll get on with your next job.”

“Sounds like a plan. See! We already have a plan, this is gonna be easy.”

Frankie rolled a couple of ball bearings over in their sockets. If she had eyes, she would have rolled them too. 

A little ways down the counter, a psychologist watched Bob speaking to his wrench and took a few notes. She always found it beneficial to take notes whenever she saw something out of the ordinary. More times than one she recognized a patient she had observed “in the wild,” so to speak, before they came knocking at her door. Her reason for being observant was quite simple: crazy rarely exposes itself to a doctor before exposing itself to the world. It is only after the internal mental state has become an external issue do people find it worth seeking a cure. Rule #1 of psychology: there is no cure.

Professor Jeriyan Niglibab taught the psychologist, along with many other applicable aphorisms and intelligent lessons, that psychology is one half medical, two halves philosophical, and three halves personal. Therefore, in the pursuit of psychological mastery, the psychologist had nearly the entire EDIDIOT (Exciting Directory of Internal Diseases In Order of Terribleness) memorized from top to bottom. And because she made the assumption that being personal simply required one to be a person, her final area for growth in the field of psychology was in philosophical pursuits. A distinction must be made as to what type of philosophy this psychologist was practicing: this was not the high-minded, abstract philosophy of sages locked up in their meteor towers crying alone in their meteor showers. No, this was the common man’s philosophy—“street philosophy,” per se. Her methodology was consistent. She would pair every observation of a condition to some short, simple, overarching philosophical thought. In theory, she tied the reality the patient was experiencing to the reality that exists for everyone else.

Some examples of her methodology in practice: 

• A man converses with his plumbing equipment as if it is a sentient life form; “One’s greatest asset is that which one uses to create.”

• Man is traumatized from watching his coworker at the SAN (Station Acid Neutralization) plant get his face melted off; “A wound to a friend is a wound to the heart.”

• Man has an unsafely high opinion of himself; “Suns keep getting bigger, until they implode.”

• Woman sees her dead husband everywhere; “You said, ‘Until death do us part,’ so leave him alone.”

• Man is depressed from losing his job to a newly automated workforce; “Stability is the casualty of progress.”

• Woman has an irrational phobia of Irkanian Bewrtle Flies; “t is all fun and games until the EATY (Eradication Association of Telros Yeslow) instigates the genocide of your species.”

• Woman mourning the loss of her son who fought valiantly to bring peace to the galaxy; “He is a lot better off dying for the galaxy than if he still had to be living in it.”

• Skunllari patients with IMES (Imaginary Mental Environment of Snell) or ORBL (Obstructive Rendering of the Blevinese Landscape); “The Skunllari mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Blevin of Snell, a Snell of Blevin.”

When they came to her, the psychologist would write down her aphorisms and medical observations in her black, OW (Only Work) journal. While some of the observations were fictional in nature, they were for the purposes of CW (Creative Readiness), a term she coined and attempted to work into every professional conversation she entered. She also had another outlet for her more personal creative ventures. Doubling as a planner, her gray notebook, which she took out after closing her observations on Bob, contained her many ideas for witty short stories. Her most recent title was “Star Brek,” a story about the breakfast musings of the galactic sector’s most renowned psychologist as she looked out the porthole of her favorite early-morning diner. The psychologist knew that she alone was qualified to write this piece of EFO (Entertainment For the Occupation). 

On her planning page for the day, her current break period was sandwiched between a Florblafls night at the station’s BO (Boardgaming Organization) certified gaming club, and the appointment she had seen before coming to Yuri’s. Although she was quite excited to write some more of “Star Brek” in between her Florblafls matches, her mind became preoccupied with her last appointment. She rifled around in her ICOU (Instrument for Containing Objects of Use). The patient she saw earlier that day was a retired officer who had a history of angry outbursts and a deep distrust of the upper echelons of fleet command. He had all sorts of theories about how the command was being taken over, or run by a shadow command, or was controlling both sides of conflicts in order to profit off of the deaths of millions of brave soldiers. He wrote a nonsensical note that she was trying to dig out of her bag. Of course, it did not help his skepticism of fleet command that they were the ones who labeled him a HINK (Hazardous Insane Nutty Kook) and required him to go and see a psychologist. He about threw an ULL (Unusually Large Lamp) at the CKSK (Communications Kiosk for Soldiers or KER [Killers Enlisted or Reserved]) when he heard from IAM (Investigators of the Actively Mental) that they had to take STA (Stationary Treatment Actions). Of course, if he did not comply, the ND (Notorious Despot) of the ARDY (Auxiliary Retiree Divisional Yield) would OUCHT (Obnoxiously Unsubscribe him from his Compensation Hereafter or Temporaneously) his TKI (Thrice Kentanual Income), so by order of the EKA (Emperial King’s Army), he was required to go and see his ENT (Entirely Necessary Therapist). 

The psychologist found his note between a TU (Tissue, Unused) and an LDB (Little Dust Bunny). The patient’s WHA (White Hot Animosity) towards his doctor-captor and the system which she represented caused him to write a message in AZYY (Abbreviations or Zany Yellings like YARBFLUGNOANSAJGIJAJG) which she could not make heads nor tails of. She read it again, looking for clues to its meaning:

“WH YDOY OUT HINK IAM CR AZYY OUT HI CKSK ULL EDIDIOT ICOU LDB EATY OUT ENT HOU SAN DT IMES ATFL ORBL AFLSB EFO REY OUT OUCHT HE BO ARDY OUT INY BRA INED OW LLIC KER WHA TKI ND OFS TU PID NAMEIS STA RBR EKA NYW AYS”

Whether out of practicality or because of subconscious embarrassment, she quickly closed her gray notebook and returned it to her bag, slipping the patient’s nonsensical note inside of it. She looked at the time on her watch and realized it was time for her to leave for her Florblafls game if she was to arrive with her usual level of punctuality. A barely sipped cup of coffee and a tip remained on the counter, but the psychologist did not. 

The waitress pocketed the tip and bussed the coffee mug back to Lacy, the dishwasher. The waitress dropped off the cup and turned to Lacy. “That tentacle-headed man is out there again.”

  “Oh.”

“You remember last week when he was trying to tell me we’re all in a story. Well, whatever story he's in, I don't want any part of it. I'm keeping an eye on him.”

“Here if you need anything.”

“Sure,” said the waitress as she walked back through the kitchen door. 

Through the waitress, Lacy was always gaining parts and pieces of the world outside of her kitchen. She was a part of that far-off world before she entered Yuri’s Diner and after she finished her shift, but for this small segment in time, she was an outsider to the regular world. 

As with anything, there were perks and disadvantages to the job. One perk was that she was mostly alone. The only other person in the kitchen was a very quiet and independent cook, who would constantly step away for smoke breaks, leaving her time and space to think and imagine in the contentment of her own mind. The waitress would occasionally interrupt her thoughts, but there were only a few of these and always in very short bursts. Most of the time, it was just Lacy, some soap bubbles, and her thoughts. A second perk is that the workload was manageable. Lacy was never stressed that she could not finish her assigned work. She would occasionally mop or sweep up somewhere or take out the trash, but most of her duties lay in cleaning up the dishes used by the diner’s patrons. Even on the busiest day, plates trickled in at a manageable pace. She was capable and efficient. A third perk came from her separation from the world outside the kitchen. Whatever was going on outside would not touch Lacy as she worked away at peace in her impenetrable sanctum.

However, there were disadvantages to her position. One disadvantage was that she was deeply alone. The cook did not want to talk to anyone, and the waitress could not care less what she had to say. The swirling thoughts inside her head had no way to escape, her head as inundated as the pruny hands in the soapy water. Her feelings were not freely floating between her soul and another’s; they were trapped, scraping at the walls of her skull. And there was certainly no encouragement or feedback to be heard of, just the lonely feedback loop of her mind into her mind. A second disadvantage is that the workload was manageable, too manageable. The diner was rarely busy, so it took a while for the dishes to pile up sufficiently for a wash. There was only so much sweeping one could do to fill the time. She wanted to bus tables, but the waitress was trying to keep herself busy. She wanted to learn how to cook, but the cook did not want any help. She was caught in a place where she was unstimulated and useless, and the outcome was boredom, and insignificance, and purposelessness. A third disadvantage came from her separation from the world outside the kitchen. From the time she clocked in until she clocked out, her world was narrowed to that dimly lit kitchen with drabby walls and hopeless air. Everything outside was like a faded dream, and all that was inside was the reality of the moment: lonely, meaningless reality. 

During her shift, Lacy’s memory of people on the outside would grow fuzzy. She wondered if it was the same for them, if they would recognize her in this state, or be able to distinguish her from a broken dustpan on the floor of a closet in the back room of Yuri’s Diner.