Disclaimer: if you're sensitive to shit like heavy drug use or suicide or death or just overall depressing shit then I'm just gonna advise you to leave now because that's probably what this story's about lmao
Notes: might have lowkey got inspo for the plot and henry's actions and dialect from the movie henry was in called he never died lol
Glenn entered JFK International Airport, his hopes of leaving growing dimmer and smaller as the snow piled up during his layover. He kept looking out one of the many windows of the airport and watched as the snow grew higher atop the planes and the tarmac, and glanced around as he saw the people around him getting the same feeling that he had as he entered his terminal half an hour ago.
He waited for nearly 2 hours before he reluctantly got up and checked the flight schedules from New York City to Salt Lake City. His flight was canceled. He cursed loudly then kicked the wall violently, leaving a hole in the drywall and his toes hurting from making an impact with the steel at the end of his boot.
As his checked baggage was returned and he retrieved his carry-on, he stormed out of the terminal and out of the airport to hail a taxi. When he asked an employee earlier about how long he wouldn't be able to get back to Los Angeles, she only replied with "a week," which is exactly what Glenn had feared.
It took an exhaustingly long drive from Queens to Manhattan just to be able to get to a local population, and another 45 minutes to get a hotel room just to sleep in. By the time he had fallen onto his bed, it was already 3:35 AM. He decided he couldn't sleep.
He dragged the dresser drawer out and began looking in a single book in the drawer for places to get food. He ran his finger down the list of 7-to-10 restaurants, then finally came across a small diner a few blocks from his hotel that was open 24 hours. That's where he wanted to go.
The diner was dead when he entered. The fluorescent lamps on the ceiling flickered from age and endless use, the teal wallpaper peeled at the corners, and the once cherry red stools at the bar were worn in the seat, exposing the old foam that once cushioned them. He approached a less-worn stool and sat down, only then realizing that he had sat next to the only other patron in the diner.
Glenn sat silently next to the man while an old song from the 70s played on a jukebox that had to be from the same decade. A waitress approached him, took his order, then retreated into the kitchen once more. When Glenn dropped his wallet while trying to get money out of it to tip the waitress later on, the other patron looked at him with irritated brown eyes.
He felt automatically uneasy when he saw the man's eyes and returned his wallet to his pocket once he had retrieved it from the floor. Occasionally, he glanced over and finally spoke once the song had ended. "Are you okay?" Glenn asked quietly as to not make the situation weirder.
"No." The man said in a monotone voice. Glenn raised a brow.
"Why are your eyes so...red?" He asked, lowering his voice.
"I got maced." He responded.
Glenn only stared with concerned and confused eyes. "What? How long ago?" He asked, now raising the volume of his voice as he questioned the lonely patron.
"5 minutes ago." He noticed that the man only spoke short sentences, and rarely looked anywhere but his mug on the counter.
"Jesus, do you need milk or something to help?" Glenn asked with concern for the unusually calm man.
"No." The man mumbled. He took a sip of his tea and returned to staring at the off-white mug.
Glenn couldn't believe how odd this man was. As he inspected him further, he saw an unusual gray patch on the back of his head, and a few tattoos appearing out of the holes in his coat. "So...How many tattoos do you have?" He asked in order to alleviate the silence in the room.
"Thirteen." He closed his eyes for a few long moments before opening them up again. Glenn watched the burning tears spill from his eyes and only stared at the refusal to flinch at his pain.
"Do your eyes even hurt?" Glenn expected another short answer.
"Of course they do, it's mace." The sentence came out with a sarcastic tone.
Glenn was surprised but kept asking questions instead. It took him a moment to think of something to say. "What's with that gray patch on your head when the rest of your hair is brown?"
"Why do you keep asking me questions?" He replied.
"Is it personal?"
"Why do you keep asking me questions?" Glenn was perplexed at the monotonous and repetitive nature of his speech.
He only shook his head and joined the man with staring down at the counter in an awkward silence that felt thick in the air. The waitress brought his order, and he handed her the five dollar bill.
Once he had finished eating, he tried conversing with the man again. "So...What's your name?" He questioned.
"Henry." The short responses filled the air and hovered around uselessly.
Glenn nodded. "Nice name. I'm Glenn." Once he began looking more at Henry, he began getting accustomed to his appearance.
"Are you planning on doing anything tomorrow?" He waited for the short reply.
"Not much. Sleeping. That's it." Henry spoke in a softer voice this time, and a short rasp appeared near the end of his sentence. Glenn nodded.
"Suppose you could show me around the city? I've been here before, but only at JFK and a few of the venues." Glenn explained with a small smile, trying to show Henry that he was friendly. He thought that maybe the reason Henry wasn't talking so much was because he looked intimidating.
Henry stared at the mug for a few long seconds until he grabbed the floating question and answered with, "Okay."
Glenn nodded slowly, then took a napkin and a pen that was rested on the waitress's ticket pad and wrote his hotel's front desk number on it to give to Henry. "I'm in room 1523, ask for Glenn Danzig when you call.
"Okay." Henry took the scrap of the napkin and looked at it, then shoved it in his pocket. He took another sip of his tea. Glenn got off the stool and, as he was walking to the exit, looked back at Henry. He tried exchanging a wave, but only got a small hand raise in return.
With his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head brought closer down to his body to shield himself from the cold winds, he sighed. "What an oddball."
If you're not going to leave feedback or a rec, but you made it down to here,
could you answer this question?
Leave a comment, recommend this story and/or add it to favorites!