Luncheon

* Just a tiny story I wrote for fun.

James Dean stirred his coffee with his finger and licked it. He wore a motorcycle jacket and a red hot cigarette never left his lips.

            “I know you're dying to ask,” he said, smoothing back his perfectly coiffed hair.

            “Did you curse the ‘Little Bastard’?” the man asked referring to James Dean’s car, the one he had wrecked in on the day of his death.

            “Come on, you get up here to ask this schmuck about cars? What about the horse and buggy? What about the Emancipation Proclamation, the one that I put through to affect the lives of thousands of people in America?” Abe Lincoln said, holding his large top hat between his legs. His gunshot wound was still present and looked as fresh as the day it had punctured his flesh.

            “Abe, just because you’re the most requested doesn’t mean you have to rub it in,” Meriwhether Lewis said.

            “Here we go again…” William Clark said, rubbing his throbbing temples.

            “Nobody cares that you freed those damn slaves. People just panic when they first get here and say your name because you’re the most overrated crackpot president to die yet,” Meriwhether said.

            “If you’re looking for a crackpot, there’s Kennedy over on table three!” At a table across the place, John F Kennedy kissed the hand of a sixteen year old girl with knife wounds in her back. There seemed to be a general consensus as everyone nodded and folded their arms.

            “You did mean to ask for me though, didn’t you?” Lincoln quickly said, ignoring how petty he sounded.

            The man nodded fast and begged for the four gentlemen to quiet down.

            “Now James, can I call you James? James D? Jimmy Dean?”

            “Just pick one and stick with it slick,” James said gruffly, taking a long drag on his cigarette, holding it in, then exhaling it through his nose like steam from a boiling kettle.

            “If you want to know the truth, I have had no part in haunting that car. I’d already accepted death and been admitted here before somebody told me what that genius had said to get the piece of junk sold. If I hadn’t had so much on my mind after dying, I would’ve done it myself just for the hell of it.” He leaned back and looked impressed with himself.

            “But people have died, gotten injured in your car!” the man said, pulling down his bloody hospital gown, trying to cover up the open heart surgery being performed on him moments before his death. An exposed chest was not a popular look up here.

            “My hell,” Meriwhether said. “Those people get injured because it’s only drugged up, puffed up, newly rich sleaze balls who would consider wasting money on some Hollywood Highroller’s coffin in the first place.”

            “Okay Meriwhether, you can go next if you’re just going to talk over everyone else anyways.” The man crossed his arms over his aorta and sighed. This luncheon was not going as expected.

            “Do you want to know how me and Clark here fought off an entire mob of squaws and scalped ‘em too? Or the day me and Sacajewea made sweet love under the midnight dusk of a billion shining stars?” He elbowed Clark who looked mighty tired of the whole affair. It seemed to be a sore topic between the two.

            “You mean you didn’t make the first airplane? You didn’t have anything to do with that…” The man said shyly.

            Meriwhether abruptly stood up pulling out his pistol faster than the man could keep the sweat off his brow. As the man was looking down the barrel of Meriwhether’s pistol into his bloodshot eyes, the man realized he was already dead. The pistol was no more than show. However his eyes continued to follow the pistol as Meriwhether erratically pointed it to and fro as he gesticulated in his frustration.

            “You meant,” Meriwhether started, his face growing red, then purple, “to ask for the damn Wright Brothers?”

            The whole place turned silent and everyone turned towards them. Orville and Wilbur Wright, in flight gear and goggles waved from five tables down.

            “Settle down,” Clark whispered, clamping a hand on Meriwhether’s shoulder.

            “He’s a bit cranky, hasn’t been picked in a while. You two’ve made absolutely shattering contributions to history. We may have discovered the frontier, but you two opened up a whole new one. Really excellent.” He gave a thumbs up and everyone began eating lady fingers and biscuits again.

            “I swear I want to hear all about that though Meriwhether. I just didn’t think I wanted to meet you, but now I’m sure I was entirely mistaken.”

            Meriwhether sat down and gave a smirk.

            “I discovered the western half of the US, what can I say. I’m a legend. Perhaps the greatest explorer that ever lived. But I can already tell that my words are wasted on a man like you, interested in only planes and automobiles. Disappointing really.” He huffed, staring angrily into his soup.

            “For the love of!” Lincoln said, throwing his arms up, biscuit crumbs spinning out of his mouth like projectiles upon the table. Embarrassed, Lincoln dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief and quieted down.

            As the luncheon came to a close, Lincoln began to tell his tale, amazing the four gents there with his oratory skills and wit when Clark realized something funny. The fifth seat was empty.

            “I really misjudged you, Lincoln,” Meriwhether said in a private conversation between the two.

            “Who are we missing?” Clark said.

            The man blushed. “I really shouldn’t have requested it, but the registry said her time was about over and they might be able to squeeze her in.”

            “Who did you request from the land of the living?” Clark said, fixing his leather vest and dirty white shirt.

            Suddenly a clatter was heard on the far side of the room—a new arrival. She swaggered over with long red hair and plumped lips, injected with silicon.

            “Hey big man,” she said, sliding her hand across the man’s neck before tacking her seat.

            “Lindsay Lohan, I never thought I’d-”

            “Well here I am big guy,” she said adjusting the big fur scarf wrapped around her neck. A little fox head lay at the end of the furry mass and rested on her abdomen.

            “Anyways, before I published the Emancipation Proclamation I –” Lincoln began.

            “That’s great honest Abe. A penny saved is a penny earned blah blah blah.” Lindsay said rudely cutting him off.

            “Is there some butter in this place? Waiter!” she said, snapping her manicured claws.

            All five men groaned and scooted further out, trying to at least escape her gaudy perfume.

#

            Across the room, past the hundreds of chattering tables a new man arrived. He walked dazedly towards the light of the restaurant. He was outside, in a thick black fog with only the restaurant in view. He grasped for the door handle. Nothing moved. He looked down and yelped. He no longer had a right hand. His shirt sleeve was dried rigid with blood. Veins twisted out of his handless numb like cords twisting out of machinery. He covered the nub and opened the door. The man covered his eyes from the blinding light of the restaurant and allowed someone to drag him to the maître d as black spots still danced across his eyes.  

            “Welcome, Sir, to death. Would you like to begin your stay with the three person package—includes more time and more food to fill it with—or our most popular package, five people and a light luncheon?” He wore a penguin suit and had deep gashes in his neck. His bow tie had been died a purple black with blood.

            “Uh… I'm not sure I grasp the concept of people and packages.”

            “To say it plainly sir, if you could have any five people at one table, who would you choose?”

            The man, still perplexed, looked at the menu of people and began searching through the thousands of names and IDs.

            “Well Marilyn Monroe for starters…”